Page 35 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

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Logical ones.

I remind myself that I’ve had more on my plate than usual.

The quarterly reviews.

The unexpected audit.

The rerouting of cargo through Trieste.

And Dante.

Always, Dante.

But logic can only carry so far.

And today, it limps.

My hand shakes just slightly as I reach for my calendar.

The dates don’t lie.

I count again, slower this time.

The math holds.

I sit on the edge of the tub, the porcelain cool through the thin silk of my robe, and stare at the tile.

A long moment passes.

Then another.

Outside the window, the city moves on.

A truck backs into a delivery bay down the block. Someone yells at a cab driver.

A dog barks twice and then falls silent again.

And amidst all this busy activity, I sit perfectly still, panicking because the problem isn’t a missed period, it’s why I’ve missed it.

And the only answer that makes sense—terrifying, electric, inevitable—is the one that brings the taste of copper to my mouth.

I’m pregnant.

The word doesn’t feel real yet.

It sits like a coin on my tongue, cold and strange.

I don’t say it aloud.

I don’t reach for my phone.

I just sit there, robe loose around my thighs, heartbeat unsteady.

Dante has always been a dangerous game.

But this...this changes everything.

Because if it’s true—if the life growing inside me is his—then there is no going back.

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