“Shut up!” I snap at him.
“Twins, huh? Do I need to worry that the father is going to come after us?” He glances over at me as we sit in traffic, taking a long look at my left hand.
“Yes,” I brazenly lie.
Is he looking for a wedding band?
I cover my hand. Not that he hasn’t already seen the absence of a ring.
“Well, he certainly didn’t do the honorable thing and marry you.”
I shift in my seat, staring at him. He has no idea that he’s the father? Can he not do the math? Or maybe he thinks that his swimmers can’t produce one, let alone two kids.
It’s safer if he thinks the twins aren’t his, isn’t it?
But would the threats against us diminish if he realized he was their father?
No, I can’t tell him the truth. I don’t want him in their lives. There’s enough danger with Mikhail and the bratva. I don’t need to add the Italian Mafia to fuck up their lives further.
“What do you want, Antonio?”
He smirks and glances at me. “You still remember my name.”
His attention returns to the road as traffic begins to move at a snail’s pace before picking up speed through the traffic light as we cross-traffic and veer a hard left.
“You haven’t answered my question,” I say. He has a way of avoiding giving me answers.
“Where’s your bodyguard?” he asks and pulls over on the side of the road.
He reveals his gun, pointing it at me as it lies across his lap.
I glance at the kids in the backseat. He child-locked the doors. It won’t do much good if I shout for them to run. I’d have to get out first, open their door, and hope that he doesn’t shoot one of us.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Antonio says. He raises the gun slightly but keeps it out of sight of the twins. “A bratva princess never goes without her bodyguard.”
I hate that he refers to me as a princess. There’s nothing luxurious about having my brother run the bratva.
He stares, waiting for my answer, the gun making me uncomfortable. Not because he could hurt me, but because no one can protect the twins from him. “Mikhail called him in on an assignment.”
“What assignment took precedence over you?” Antonio asks.
“He didn’t say.” It’s not a lie. I may have overheard a few things, but I don’t know where they were heading, only that it involved the Italians, which isn’t a surprise.
My answer must be enough to satisfy him because he darts back into traffic.
Antonio reaches for his phone and voice dials Ardian, whoever he is.
“Be on the lookout,” Antonio warns. “It’s possible you have the bratva coming.” The conversation is short, and he ends the call abruptly.
“Where are we heading?” I’m growing tired of his lack of answers and explanations.
“I’m the one with the gun,” Antonio says, reminding me that he’s in charge.
I fold my arms across my chest. “You were nicer the last time I saw you.”
“When I handed over your kid?” he quips, glancing at me. “You’re welcome.”