Page 38 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

His gaze doesn’t shift right away.

For a second, I wonder if he didn’t hear me.

But then he speaks, slow and without ceremony.

"That’s a hell of a question to ask over drinks."

I smile, soft and unreadable.

"It’s just conversation."

He eyes me now, sharp and steady, but the smirk doesn’t reach his mouth.

"No. I don’t."

"Never?"

"Not once," he says. "Not for lack of opportunities, if that’s what you’re asking."

"It wasn’t," I say lightly, though something has already begun to twist low in my chest.

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking to the ceiling like the whole question bores him.

"I know who I am, Gianna. I enjoy what I enjoy. I burn hot, I move fast, and I don’t pretend to be built for stability. A kid deserves someone who can sit still, who knows how to make space for things that aren’t about him."

"And you can’t?" I ask.

"I won’t," he replies. "Because I’d ruin them. Just like I ruin everything else I touch when I let it get too close. And," he rakes his eyes over me then, "if it’s a problem, I expect the person involved to handle it, discreetly and efficiently."

He’s asking me to get rid of my baby.

"Good to know," I murmur, and let the subject fall like a stone into water.

"Is there a reason you’re asking me this?" His tone doesn’t change, but I see the faint shift in his posture, the way the line of his mouth tightens, not in suspicion, but in the awareness that he may have said too much or spoken too bluntly.

"No reason that concerns you," I answer. I stand before he can respond further. "I just needed clarity. Thank you for your honesty."

He doesn’t stop me as I leave, and I don't look back.

The sun outside has shifted behind the rooftops, the light thinner, colder, but the city keeps moving as if no one has lost anything.

I press my hand to my abdomen through the silk of my blouse, not as a gesture of tenderness, but out of the calculated realization that I am now responsible for more than my own survival.

At home, I slip in through the side entrance and move quickly through the gallery, hoping to reach the stairs before anyone notices.

My shoes are soundless against the tiled corridor, but Rafa is standing by the base of the stairs with a glass in his hand and an expression that never bodes well.

"You’ve been out a lot lately," he says, not quite accusing, but close.

"There’s a lot to handle. Logistics, scheduling, the Venetians are dragging their feet on customs."

"You’re pale."

"I didn’t sleep."

He steps closer, and I feel the question before he asks it. "Are you sick?"

"I’m tired," I say again, with a little more edge.