Page 93 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
Because Gabriel was right about one thing—we need a plan. And sitting through this funeral, watching Patrick play the grieving friend while he plots to destroy everything Seamus built, I realize that whatever plan we come up with needs to happen fast.
The reception is held back at the estate, and by the time we arrive I have thrown up twice more—once in the car, which mortified me until Dante just calmly handed me a bottle of water and told the driver to pull over, and once in the bushes outside the front door, which Erin held my hair for while making soothing sounds.
"You need to see a doctor," she says as I wipe my mouth with a tissue Gabriel silently hands me. "This is not just stress, Rosie. Something is wrong."
"I’m fine," I mutter, even though I very clearly am not fine.
"You are not fine. You have thrown up five times today."
"Three," I correct weakly.
"Five," she insists. "I have been counting. Come on." She loops her arm through mine. "We are going to my room. You need to lie down."
"Erin, I should stay?—"
"You should lie down before you pass out," she says firmly, already pulling me toward the stairs. "The boys will understand."
I glance back at Dante, Gabriel, and Luca, who are all watching with identical expressions of concern.
"Go," Dante mouths. "We will be fine."
I let Erin pull me upstairs, down the familiar hallway to her bedroom—the room where this all started, where she tried on wedding dresses and begged me to spy on Dante, where I found Dolan and Erin together and my whole world shifted.
She closes the door behind us and immediately points to the bed. "Sit."
I sit, sinking into the mattress that still smells faintly like her perfume, and watch as she disappears into her bathroom. She returns with a damp cloth, which she presses gently to my forehead.
"Better?" she asks.
"A little." I close my eyes, letting the cool cloth soothe my overheated skin. "Thank you."
"When did this start?" She sits beside me, her hand finding mine. "The throwing up?"
"This morning."
"Just this morning?"
I hesitate. "I have felt nauseous for about a week, but today is the first time I have actually thrown up."
Erin goes very still beside me. "Rosie."
"What?"
"When was your last period?"
The question catches me so off guard that my eyes fly open. "What?"
"Your period," she repeats, and there is something in her voice now—excitement? Fear? Both? "When was your last one?"
I try to remember, my brain sluggish and overwhelmed. "I—I do not know. A month ago? Maybe more? I haven’t exactly been keeping track with everything?—"
"Rosie." She grips my hand tighter. "I think you might be pregnant."
The words land like a bomb, and for a moment I can’t process them, cannot make them make sense in the context of everything else happening.
"No," I say automatically. "That is—no, it is just stress. You said it yourself, stress can?—"
"I said that because I didn’t want to freak you out in front of everyone," Erin interrupts. "But Rosie, I have felt exactly like this for the last month. The nausea, the throwing up, not being able to keep anything down." She takes a deep breath. "I am pregnant."
