Page 15 of Mafia Don's Secret Twins

I’ve spent my whole adult life trying to forget Dino De Luca.

And I’ve spent the past seventy-two hours trying to find him.

My whole body hurts. I blink, my eyes feeling thick and heavy, as I struggle to wake up.

One thought, however, wakes me right up.

The twins.

Angie and Maia. My babies.

“Where are my babies?” I slur.

I’m not even really sure where the question is going. I have no idea where I am. I vaguely remember the sounds of a party,and screaming Dino’s name— but after that—I must have passed out.

“They’re safe,” a familiar voice soothes me. “They’re currently stuffing themselves with pizza and trying to keep Luna from eating an entire chocolate cake by herself.”

“Luna?” I croak.

“My daughter,” a different voice says. While Gia Rossi is all brass and confidence, this voice is softer. Milder.

This must be Caterina.

My eyes are still struggling to focus, but slowly I can see shapes crystalizing into people. It seems like I’m surrounded by so many faces, for a second my brain clicks and whirrs, trying to place all of them.

Then, I do.

Elio Rossi.

Caterina De Luca, now Rossi.

Gia Rossi, who waves at me and smiles.

Sal De Luca, glowering in the back.

And, an old man with a stethoscope.

“This is Doctor Cutrali,” Elio says, his voice heavily accented.Grew up in Italy,I remember from his file. It’s a credit to Gia’s language skills that, while she also grew up with Elio in Italy, her accent is as American as apple pie.

It’s even better than mine, and I worked hard to make sure no one knows my first language is Portuguese.

I look at the older man.Doctor Cutrali.The name clicks with the face, and my memory registers them.

Now, I’ll never forget him.

The doctor smiles. “Hello madam.” His accent is thick too, and also definitely Italian. I wonder if Elio brought him from home… “I have been the Rossi family doctor since these two were just small babies,” he adds.

That explains that. “Thank you,” I whisper.

My throat hurts.

I’m sure I know why, but at the moment, I’d rather not remember.

Because I’m sure it’s bad.

“You’ve had quite a hard time, no?” the doctor leans forward. He nods to my stomach. “Luckily, that knife did not go deeper than your skin. You’ll have a nasty scar across the rib, but you know sometimes a scar is just a chance to tell a good story.”

I bark a small laugh at that. “I don’t want to tell that type of story.”

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