Page 87 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
The house is too quiet, too empty, like a museum after closing hours. So, I find myself in the home of his uncle Paolo. He’s Lorenzo’s brother, and I’m wary of him—of course I am—but his wife is delightful.
Quinn is a smart, vibrant woman who dances through life with the kind of effortless joy that makes you wonder if she knows something about happiness that the rest of us missed. Best of all, she had a baby a few months ago, and I love watching her interact with the little girl. Isabelle is a dark-haired beauty with a gummy smile that lights up like Christmas morning when Quinn plays Peek-A-Boo with her.
“Are you sure you don’t mind teaching me how to do this?” I ask as we stand in Quinn’s kitchen.
“I’m thrilled to do it,” Quinn says, with a bright smile. “I’m still learning to cook, but I swear, this cookie recipe is perfection. I’mhappy to pass it along. Besides, I know Dario loves them. He’s always checking the cookie jar when he comes over to visit.”
“What do I do first?” I ask, surprisingly eager to learn.
Dario might have hired a chef to make us freezer meals every week—a luxury I’m still getting used to—but I like the idea of learning to bake a few sweet treats myself. It seems like a good way to do something special for him. Besides, baking seems like such a “mom” thing to do. I’m hoping that my boys love sweets like their father, that I’ll someday be making these same cookies for small, sticky hands to grab at.
“I’ve written down the recipe. Just put all the dry ingredients into a bowl first,” Quinn says, sliding a handwritten card toward me.
I start to measure two cups of flour, but the sound of footsteps draws my attention to the entrance of the kitchen. Paolo walks in with his daughter in his arms. The man’s eyes are unbelievably soft as he looks down at the squirming baby, like someone has replaced the hardened mafioso with a teddy bear. The only thing sweeter is the way that Quinn’s face lights up at the sight of them, her whole being practically glowing with love.
“Is nap time over already?” she asks.
“Isabelle has decided it is,” Paolo says, placing his little girl into her highchair at the kitchen counter. Quinn coos at the baby while Paolo grabs a bottle from the refrigerator and warms it up with the practiced ease of a man who has done this a hundred times before.
I finish measuring the dry ingredients according to the recipe, but my eyes keep flickering over to the family as they interact. The way that Paolo and Quinn look at each other is special,layered with meaning and memory. I can practically see the love they share shimmering in the air between them, and it makes me look at Paolo differently.
It’s so easy to lump all of Dario’s relatives into one group of people that I can never trust, to place the blame for my father’s death on each of their shoulders. But it gets harder to do the more time I spend around them, the more I see them as individuals rather than a faceless mob.
Alessio is funny and easy to talk to, with a ready laugh and an arsenal of terrible jokes. Luca has been respectful, other than the night when he saw me talking to that FBI agent. Even then, he didn’t confront or threaten me; he took the information to Dario instead. I’ve only recently started spending time with Paolo, but he seems dedicated to his wife and child in a way that makes it hard to picture him ordering a hit or breaking someone’s kneecaps.
There’s more to these men than their sins, and I’m not sure how I feel about that realization. It’s been easier to hate all Andrettis over the years than to think of them as real people with lives and loved ones of their own. Hatred is simple. It doesn’t ask questions or demand nuance. It just burns, hot and clean.
The only one I haven’t spent any time with is Lorenzo. No matter what, he’s the one that’s truly guilty of my father’s murder. Whether he did it himself or ordered it, Lorenzo is the one in charge, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see him in a different light. Some wounds are too deep to heal, some bridges permanently burned.
“Are you ready to use the stand mixer?” Quinn asks, pulling my attention back to what we’re doing.
“Sure,” I say, even though I’ve never used one before. It turns out to be easy enough, except that I turn it on way too high and flour comes flying out onto the counter like a snowstorm. Quinn laughs, the sound musical and warm.
“Don’t worry, I’ve made much worse mistakes in the kitchen. You should’ve seen my first attempt to cook. I burned the chicken until it was black.”
Paolo chuckles, “Let’s not forget the smell. We opened the windows, but I swear it lingered for days.”
Quinn playfully slaps his shoulder, and Isabelle laughs from her highchair, a delighted burble that makes my heart squeeze. Her chubby little hands open and close as she reaches out for Paolo, and he bends down so that she can grab at his face, making him laugh again. It’s hard to reconcile this man with the image I’ve carried in my head of Andretti men—cold-eyed killers in expensive suits.
“So, have you heard anything from Dario?” Quinn asks as she helps me measure vanilla extract.
“He checked in last night. He’s busy during the day, but he calls before he goes to sleep each night.” His voice is the last thing I hear before I drift off, a balm to the loneliness that creeps in when darkness falls.
“Did he tell you what he’s doing in LA?”
Paolo is still playing with the baby, but I don’t miss the way his head tilts to the side in interest.
“He didn’t tell me much, but I know he’s working with the Irish mafia there. He told me there’s an alliance between the two groups.”
“I have a little something to do with that,” Quinn says, a shadow passing over her face. “My father was the head of the Irish mafia a year ago. But then...let’s just say he betrayed me. Now, my cousin runs things there.”
“You don’t have to talk about that, Bellezza,” Paolo says, coming to her side and pulling her into his arms. “I’m sure Paige doesn’t want you to relive your pain.”
“I’m fine,” she says, giving him a soft smile. “Honestly, everything worked out for the best.”
Her eyes go to Isabelle, and I find myself longing to meet my own children. I’m getting close to the end of my pregnancy, only eight weeks left, and I can’t wait. I want to hold them, count their tiny fingers and toes, see whose eyes they have. I want to know them.
We continue to make the cookies, and twenty minutes later, we’re pulling the first batch from the oven. The scent of melted chocolate and sugar in the air makes my stomach growl like an angry bear, and I can’t wait for the cookies to cool enough to try one. Quinn laughs when I bite into a hot one and rush to the refrigerator to grab a glass of milk for my burnt tongue.
