Page 88 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
“Keep laughing, and I’ll tell Dario it’s your fault I got hurt,” I threaten with a smirk.
Paolo groans. “Don’t do that. I don’t want to deal with my nephew’s wrath. He’s become an overprotective asshole since you moved in with him.”
“I’m going to put the second batch of cookies in the oven,” Quinn says, already using her cookie scoop to fill the metal sheet. “Maybe after that, we can go shopping for baby clothes? I’m sure you want to get as much as you can before the babies are born.”
“No way,” Paolo cuts in before I can agree. “I have to go deal with a problem downtown, and I want you to stay here while I’m gone. We don’t have two men available to guard you right now.”
Quinn looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Now, who’s the overprotective one?”
Paolo glares at her, but there’s no heat behind it. He knows we won’t go against what he says.
When the cookies are done, Quinn boxes up half for me and Paolo drives me home on the way to whatever business he has to tend to. We don’t talk in the car, but I’m not as uncomfortable as I expected to be. The silence between us isn’t loaded with tension; it just is.
I stare out the window, my hand instinctively drifting to my belly. I’ve been doing that a lot lately—ever since I started to feel them move. Every little kick feels like a reminder; they’re real. They’re growing. And they’re mine.
I never thought I’d feel this kind of peace. Not with my history. Not with everything I tried to outrun.
But somehow, these tiny lives are rewiring something in me. The way I think about family. About forgiveness. About what it means to let yourself be happy without bracing for the fallout.
I keep circling the same question lately—whether letting go of what happened to my dad means I’m betraying him.
Dario said something a long time ago that I couldn’t stand hearing at the time. That my father wasn’t blameless. That he played a part in what happened to him.
Back then, I pushed that idea away so fast it felt like whiplash.
But now...I don’t know.
I think about these babies, about how I’d doanythingto protect them. And I can’t stop thinking—I wouldn’t have taken the kinds of risks my father did. I wouldn’t steal from dangerous men. I wouldn’t gamble with my life over pride or power or revenge.
And that thought still makes me feel guilty. Just...not as much as it used to.
It’s as if something in me is finally starting to heal. Not all the way. But maybe the wound isn’t bleeding anymore.
“Stay here, and make sure you set the alarm,” Paolo says as he drops me off at the house. “Call me or Luca if you need anything. The others are preoccupied today.”
“Yes, boss,” I mumble as I open the door and step out of the car. His laughter follows me as I walk away, warm and surprisingly genuine.
I go inside and set the alarm to go off if anyone opens a door or window, but the sensors won’t pick up my movements inside. That’s something I only set at night while I’m sleeping. I head to the kitchen and eat another cookie before putting the rest in the cookie jar, a whimsical ceramic thing shaped like a bear that Dario insists is ironic but I think he secretly loves.
“What do you guys think?” I ask my belly. “Should we take a nap or watch some TV?”
Talking to my baby bump is something I’ve been doing for the last couple of days since Dario has been gone. I’ve read that babies can recognize your voice from the womb, and I like the idea of them knowing me before they’re even born, of us building a relationship while they’re still safely tucked inside me.
“Who am I kidding, we’ll do both,” I say, heading toward the living room.
I’m about to kick off my shoes when my phone rings.
I expect it to be Rosa—Dario’s been busy all day—but when I pull it out of my pocket, the screen shows a blocked number.
My thumb hovers over the decline button.
I shouldn’t answer, but curiosity gets the better of me.
“Hello?” I say, picking up the remote as I flop down on the couch.
“Hello, Paige.”
My lungs seize, and my heart skips a beat before launching into a wild sprint, panic thrashing inside the cage of my ribs.
