My eyes flutter open as nausea crashes into my chest. A cold sweat breaks out across my face, the back of my neck, and down my back, my heart racing like it’s been set on fire. Burying my head in the crook of my arm, I sit up slowly and clutch my mouth. What feels like the world’s worst episode of vertigo slams into my head, but I force myself to throw back the covers and leap out of bed. I stumble to the bathroom, flipping on the harsh overhead light as I stagger across the floor toward the toilet. My hands shake as I crash to my knees just in time for a bolt of heat to shoot through me before I retch, my back arching as I heave, every muscle in my stomach contracting painfully.
When the spasms finally subside, I slump against the cool tiled wall, my chest heaving as a rancid taste burns the back of my throat. God, I feel like shit. It’s like someone poured a gallon of bile down my throat and now it’s poisoning me from the inside.
Pushing myself up on my feet, I grab my toothbrush, smothering it in mint toothpaste, and scrub my mouth and tongue until it feels raw. I try to reach the back of my mouth, but the risk of making myself gag is too big, and the last thing I want is to throw up again.
I rinse and spit, then throw the toothbrush into the trash before pawing with trembling fingers through the cabinet, grabbing a new one. That’s when I notice the box of tampons tucked away in the back, and an ice-cold wave of panic crashes over me.
“Shit.” I grab the box, trying to remember when my last period was, but I can’t recall. I count up the days, the weeks, but it’s like my memory won’t go back that far. Did I skip a period?
Oh, my God.
No. No. No.
I stumble back, the box slipping from my hand, and tampons roll across the bathroom floor. I haven’t had my period since…since…
“Jesus Christ, no,” I gasp as dread floods my system. My back hits the wall, and I sink to the cold floor, unable to breathe. How did I miss this? It’s been almost two months. How the fuck did I miss this? It didn’t cross my mind once. Not once did I think about my period or the possibility that I might…oh, God…be pregnant.
Nausea rises again, and I launch forward just in time to not vomit on the tiled floor. My thoughts scatter into chaos as I heave and retch, my stomach gripped with painful spasms as it forces more bile up my throat and out my mouth. Everything hurts. Every muscle is pulled taut, my bones aching as if they’re being crushed. My head throbs, threatening to explode, and I just want it to stop. I want everything to stop. I want this nightmare to end and just have my goddamn life back.
The violent projectile vomit turns into dry heaving. There’s nothing left to get rid of, and I finally sit back, sweat beading around my face as I struggle to catch my breath.
Dear God, this can’t be happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening right now.
My gaze falls on a tampon on the floor in the middle of the bathroom like it’s the universe’s version of a goddamn middle finger.
Am I…can I be…surely I can’t be pregnant?
Nicoli.
Nunzio.
Oh, God…
Revulsion rushes over me as memories threaten to engulf me. Memories of him. His evil face. His vile touch. His slimy, arrogant fucking voice. My whole body starts to shiver, and the scar he left on my inner thigh burns as if he just sliced it two seconds ago. My mind is bombarded with flashes of his malicious grin as he wipes at the blood, using it as lubricant to fuck me while I’m lying there refusing to fight because I know that’s what he wants. He wants me to fight. He gets off on my cries and my screams, and I would rather die than give him what he wants. Even my thoughts run through the memories in present tense, like it’s happening right now. Like I’m still trapped in that room and never got saved.
But it’s not happening. He’s not here. Nicoli did save me.
Breathe, Mirabella. In. Out. In. Out.
“You are mine now, birdie. I will fucking touch you when I want to.”
“No one is here to stop me. No one is here to save you from me.”
“That’s it, birdie. Scream for me.”
Tears well up in the corners of my eyes as I desperately try to force the memories away, to lock them in a box in the farthest corner of my mind. With a broken sob, I wrap my arms around my body and tremble until all that’s left of me are tears and fear so crippling I can’t move from the bathroom floor. If there were ever a moment when giving up was an option for me, it would be now. The thought of him…of his baby…growing inside me, it’s too much. I won’t be able to live with that. How could I?
I close my eyes, lean my head back, and try to breathe through the panic, trying to focus my mind on Nicoli—his face, his voice, his warmth, our connection that’s always managed to pull us together.
Slowly, I stand and make my way to the sink, the hard ceramic edges pressing into my forearms as I splash cold water onto my face in an attempt to ground myself and get control. As the cold filters through my pores, I’m suddenly frozen, unable to move. It’s like the world slowly encircles me, fading in from shadows to darkness as I watch tiny droplets of water drip down the side of the faucet, leaving crooked trails behind them. I’m scared to move. I can’t think straight. I can’t breathe. Every thought in my head mixes together, and it feels like the walls are closing in on me, so close I can smell the familiar stench of death and despair clinging to the suffocating air.
“You will not lose your shit now,” I say to myself, straightening so I can look at my reflection, but it’s a stranger staring back at me. Eyes red-rimmed and glassy, hair sticking up in all directions, and skin pale as death. I hardly recognize myself. At that moment, I realize I’m not just scared of being pregnant or having Nunzio’s child inside me. I’m scared of what it all means. Of how it will change everything. Of never being free from him.
Forcing my eyes shut, I try to calm the fear pumping through my veins and to stop a scream from ripping out of my throat.
If I’m pregnant, there’s a chance that it might be Nicoli’s. Of course, there’s a chance, and that allows a sliver of hope to seep through the panic like a gentle wave of calm that floods the chaos.
I have to fight. I have to pick myself off this bathroom floor. I have to face this. It’s the only way.
“You will not lose your shit now,” I repeat. “Not now. You have to face the truth, even if it’s fucking terrifying.” I wipe at the tears under my eyes, inhaling sharply through my nose, desperately clawing at every last drop of strength. I need answers. And fast. But I have to be smart about this. No one can know, not until I know for sure. I can’t let the doctor do a house call; that’s the quickest way for alarm bells to sound all around this goddamn place. And if I leave the estate, Nicoli will know by the time I’m out the gates. I can tell Leandra, ask her for help, but there’s nothing she can do that Alexius won’t find out about.
Fuck. I have to try something. I have to know.
I rush back into the bedroom and grab my phone, hoping like hell I can pull this off. I call the pharmacy and order a delivery of nausea medication and a pregnancy test, instructing them to send it immediately.
I quickly pull on a pair of jeans, slipping on a white blouse and shoes before heading out of the room. Security will search any packages before allowing them through the front gate, and the only way I can stop that from happening is if I’m at the gate in time for the delivery so I can accept the package in person. It’ll be less than two minutes before Nicoli finds out about the pregnancy test should security search the contents.
With every step I take, I hope like hell I don’t run into anyone on my way out. Luckily, there’s not a Del Rossa in sight when I walk through the halls, down the stairs, and out the front door. It’s an overcast spring morning with a slight chill in the air, and I’m praying to God that this isn’t the universe dishing out some ominous sign that things are about to get much worse.
The cold breeze hits my cheeks, and I wrap my arms tighter around myself as I walk down the driveway toward the gates. It’s a long walk, but my mind is too much of a mess to notice. I’m putting one foot in front of the other on autopilot, focused on nothing but the chaos inside my head. There are so many what-ifs it’s terrifying. It’s like a wave threatening to crash down over me, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive it.
As I approach the gates, my heart starts racing. The security team is strict and thorough. Any packages coming in or out of this estate must go through them first, but if they see what’s inside the package, every Del Rossa in this goddamn city will know.
I try to act casual as I wave at our security guard who looks up from his post with a bored expression before he recognizes me and quickly stands at attention like a soldier. “Mrs. Del Rossa,” he greets. “I have strict instructions that you’re not allowed to leave the estate.”
I muster a smile. “Believe me, no one is more aware that I’m a prisoner here than I am.” It’s meant to come across as mild sarcasm, but by the stern look on this guy’s face, it failed.
I clear my throat. “I have a package arriving, so I’m just here to sign for it.”
“I can sign for it, ma’am. I’ll make sure it gets to you safely.”
“It’s, um…” I search around us, trying my best to hide how nervous I am. “It’s kind of private, so I’d prefer to sign for it myself.”
A look of discomfort settles on his brow. “Ma’am, we have strict orders to search through every package that gets delivered.”
Shit. “I know. But this is really private.”
“Those are our instructions, Mrs. Del Rossa.”
Seriously? I shift from one leg to the other. “Fine,” I huff. “But I’d still prefer to sign for it myself.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind bringing it up to the house for you.”
“I’m sure,” I say, shooting him a half-smile.
“Okay, then.” He tips his hat at me, and I hold my breath as I watch him return to his post. The last thing I need is a nosy guard to make this situation worse than it already is.
The minutes crawl by as I pace in front of the gate, biting my thumbnail, my pulse racing and stomach churning. What will I do if the test is positive? I’ll have to tell Nicoli, but how would I even start that conversation? ‘I’m pregnant. It might be yours, or it can be the man who raped me who’s the father, the one you’re hunting like he’s game.’ No version of that conversation will turn out remotely close to okay.
How would Nicoli react? Would he want me to keep the child? Get rid of it? Would I want to keep it or get rid of it? But what if it’s Nicoli’s baby, and we end up terminating the pregnancy?
Oh, God. There are so many variables, and the best outcome I could hope for right now is that I’m not pregnant and my nausea is just some nasty bug going around.
A car turns onto the private driveway, pharmacy logo on its side, and I sag in relief, but it’s short-lived when I notice the guard walking up to the gate.
The delivery man steps out of the car clutching a small white bag. “Delivery for Mira Del Rossa.”
I snatch the bag from him, muttering a hasty thanks as I dig through its contents. Tampons, check. Nausea meds, check. Pregnancy—
“Ma’am.”
My heart leaps to my throat as I pull out the box of tampons, showing it to him. “I told you it was private.”
Embarrassment flares across his cheeks, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Just following orders, ma’am.”
“Mira?”
I glance up and see Maximo striding toward me, brows furrowed. “What are you doing out here?”
Panic rises in my chest, and I crumple the bag in my fist, hiding its contents from view. “Oh, I had some nausea meds delivered,” I say, aiming for a casual tone and failing miserably. “I haven’t been feeling well.”
Maximo’s gaze sharpens. “You look like hell. Is everything okay?”
“Gee, thanks, brother. That’s exactly what a woman likes to hear when she’s not feeling great.”
“I didn’t mean.” He sighs. “I’m just concerned.”
I inhale deeply. “I’m fine. Just a little nausea. Something I ate. I should, um…I should head back in, take a nap or something.”
Before I can move, Maximo steps forward and wraps me in his arms. “I know,” he says softly, and I tense for a moment. “I know that you remember.”
Marco.
I swallow hard as he places his chin on my head, clutching me tight to his chest. “And I’m sorry we kept it from you.”
Emotion clogs my throat, and I cling to him, allowing my brother’s familiar presence to envelop me. “It’s okay,” I say. “I get it.”
He leans back, his eyes searching my face. “You’re not pissed at me?”
“How can I be pissed at you when I know you were only trying to protect me?”
“I know, but still.”
“How did you…deal with it? You know, the truth about Marco being behind everything?”
Maximo lets go of me and steps back. “I was pissed that I didn’t get to kill him first,” he replies with raw honesty. “I knew our brother wasn’t right in the head, but I never once suspected that he was behind it all.”
“How could you have known? We all thought he was dead.”
“I just—” he places his hands on his hips, staring down at the asphalt “—I knew something was wrong with him. I knew he was sick when I caught him with you that day.” Revulsion snakes around his words. “You were so small, and what he tried to do to you. Jesus.”
“Maximo, don’t.” I step closer and place a hand on his elbow, the leather of his jacket smooth against my palm. “There’s no use torturing yourself over it. It’s in the past and not worth thinking about.” I smile warmly. “I’m not.”
“How do you do it? You’ve been to hell and back. How are you so…strong?”
“Being strong is the only way I know how to be.” I shrug. “I grew up with five boys who didn’t allow me a moment of weakness.” I smile warmly, rubbing my hand up and down his arm. “I have you to thank for my survival skills.” With a wink, I step back, and my brother gives me a half-smile.
“I love you, Mirabella. You know that, right?”
“I love you, too.” The breeze picks up, and I swipe strands of hair behind my ear. “I’m going to go medicate and take a nap. I’ll see you tonight at dinner?”
“Yup. You’ll let me know if you need anything?”
“I will.” On my way past him, I lift on my toes and place a peck on his cheek before continuing up the long driveway. A part of me wanted to tell him, let him know what kind of hell is storming through my insides. But telling someone means I’ll have to say the words out loud, and right now, I’m not sure that’s something I can do.
As I walk back to the mansion, my mind is still reeling with everything that has happened. The closer I get to the house, the heavier the bag becomes in my hands. I know that it’s not just the contents but the burden of having to keep this secret that is weighing me down. I have trouble keeping my feet moving, but there is a dread that keeps me from stopping, so I try to focus on the breeze caressing my face and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, but my thoughts won’t leave me alone.
I make it to my bedroom and slump onto the edge of the bed, staring at the paper bag on my nightstand. It seems like hours of me just sitting there before finally mustering the courage to open it.
With shaking hands, I spill the contents out on the bed, panic rolling over me in a sickening wave when the pregnancy test falls on the silk sheets. A piece of paper falls out of the bag, and I grab it expecting it to be the receipt. Only, it’s not. It’s a handwritten note, and it sends a sheet of ice slicing through my bones.
“Is it mine?”
Nunzio.
“Jesus,” I gasp, the paper slipping through my fingers as if it can burn my flesh. I’m breathing, but the air doesn’t reach my lungs as I stare at the note in horror. It’s like he’s right here breathing against my neck, his presence squeezing my throat shut, suffocating me.
“No.” A tear slips free, and I’m back with Nunzio again—the smell of his sweat and cologne mixed with liquor. The feel of his hands all over me, his teeth biting at my flesh, his cock spearing into me with a brutal thrust. God, he’s everywhere.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my palms into them until tears leak from the corners, leaving a stinging in their path down my face. I draw deep breaths, holding them as long as possible so the nausea can pass, but nothing works. Nothing makes the savage thoughts easier to bear.
Realization slams into me like a freight train. Nunzio is watching. Even in hiding, he’s watching. How?
I launch up and pull my phone from my jeans pocket. Jesus Christ, is he…my phone?
“This is not happening,” I mutter to myself as I start to pace, glancing at the devil’s note lying on the bed—the bed I share with my husband. The fear and the panic that tiny piece of paper stirs is like having a ticking time bomb lodged in my gut, about to explode at any moment.
A clammy chill spreads across my skin, my mind spinning with a million thoughts. To think I was worried about Nicoli finding out before I got a chance to do the test, yet Nunzio knew the moment I hung up my phone. It’s like my life has become a sinking bridge of irony, and the more I try to keep it from collapsing, the heavier it gets—the more cracks threaten to bring the entire foundation down in one heap of destruction. Just when things finally seem to return to normal between Nicoli and me, Nunzio manages to fuck it up from the cave he’s hiding in.
Anger replaces fear, white-hot and violent. He’s not close, yet he finds a way to screw with my head. It’s like he’s everywhere, like he’s in my blood and there’s no way I can escape him.
With a snarl, I grab the paper and crumple the note in my fist. The urge to destroy something, anything, is overwhelming, and every emotion slams together in one giant explosion of chaos. I’m panting, my heart pounding when I weave my fingers through my hair, trying to fight the mayhem threatening to possess me. Not once did it cross my mind that Nunzio would make contact, that he’d be stupid enough.
I let out a bitter laugh that’s replaced with a cry of rage as I grab a vase of roses from the side table and hurl it at the wall. It shatters on impact, water and porcelain shards exploding across the room, red roses smashing into chaos around it. A sharp pain slices through the anger and I glance down to find a jagged piece of porcelain embedded in my forearm, blood welling around it.
I just stare at the wound for a second, mesmerized by the crimson droplets sliding down my arm, triggering flashes of my hands covered in blood. Then the sting registers and I grit my teeth against it.
I sink down on the edge of my bed, yanking the porcelain from my arm with a hiss. Blood drips onto the floor, the bright red tears escaping my flesh oddly satisfying. The pain seems to help ground me in the present, chasing away the ghosts that haunt my mind.
The bedroom door is flung open, and Leandra appears with a worried frown. “Are you okay? I heard a commotion—” She sees the bleeding wound on my arm. “Oh, my God, Mira. What happened?”
That’s the moment I can no longer keep myself from breaking as I let go of all my strength and allow the fear to consume me.
Leandra’s expression softens as she rushes over, kneeling beside me and grabbing a handful of tissues from the side table. She presses it gently against my arm, careful not to hurt me further.
“It’s okay,” she whispers soothingly. “I’ll get the first-aid kit, and we’ll get this cleaned up. Okay?”
“It’s not okay,” I choke out as I shake my head. “Nothing is going to be okay.”
“Mira, no,” she murmurs. “It’ll be okay. I swear.”
“No.” I let out a shaky breath as the tears flow freely down my face. It’s as if a dam has broken inside me, and all the emotions I’ve been holding back come crashing out.
I look up and into her eyes, seeing the sadness and worry reflect from her eyes, and I say the only thing I can say.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
