“No, no. Of course not.” She’s already untying her apron. “Don’t worry. I’ll go now, while Mr. Moretti is in his meeting. I’ll tell Oscar I need supplies from the market.”
“Maria—” My voice cracks, and I hate how small and weak I sound. “You can’t tell Oscar about this. You can’t tell anyone. Please.”
“Nessuno.” She shakes her head firmly. “Nobody. This stays between us,capisce? This is women’s business.”
I exhale.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She squeezes my hands, then releases them. “Now, go to your room. Rest. I’ll be back within the hour.”
It’s the longest hour of my life.
I don’t rest at all—I do the opposite, in fact. I spend the time in my room pacing, twelve steps to the window, twelve steps back,until I force myself to sit on the edge of the bed. It works for a few minutes, but then I can’t sit still, so I start pacing again.
My mind won’t stop.
What if it’s positive? What do I do? How do I tell him? Do I tell him?
We’ve been sleeping together for almost two months. No protection. I’d told him I was on birth control, and that wasn’t a lie. But the truth of the matter is that I’d already been inconsistent in the weeks before the auction. And here at the mansion, I’d been even worse about it.
Stupid. So stupid.
I stop pacing and press my hand flat against my stomach.
My body has always been too much. Too soft, too visible. But now, it’s doing something miraculous.
The thought arrives without permission, quiet and certain. And despite everything—the danger, the bad timing, the impossibility of it all—I feel a flicker of something that isn’t terror or worry.
But then the terror comes roaring back, drowning it out.
I’m in the middle of a goddamn mob war. I’m the target of a psychopath who wants me dead. I’m living in a billionaire’s mansion, and I’m not allowed to leave—for good reason. I barely know who I am, or what my future looks like.
This can’t be happening.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
“SignorinaThea?”
Maria’s back.
I rush over and open the door. She slips inside quickly, her coat still on, a small pharmacy bag in her hands. She passes it to me without a word.
I look inside and see two tests.
“Two, just to be sure.”
“Grazie. Thank you so much.”
She reaches up and cups my face briefly—a gesture so warm, instinctive, and maternal that my eyes sting with tears.
“Coraggio,” she says. “Whatever happens, you have the courage to handle it.”
Then she’s gone.
I take the first test, then sit on the bathroom floor, my back against the tub.
I count the tiles. I think about my mother, about the dream I had of her weeks ago—her hands on my face, her voice saying, “You are loved, you are wanted, you are mine.”