Page 140 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Chapter Twenty
Maya
Ibuy the test at a pharmacy six blocks from the café because I cannot bear the thought of walking into the one near the apartment and running into someone who knows me.
The cashier does not look up when she scans it. The box disappears into a paper bag with a receipt and a packet of cough drops I do not need but buy anyway because standing at the register with only a pregnancy test feels too much like an announcement.
Outside, the cold has sharpened.
I stand beneath the awning for nearly a minute, staring at the bag in my hand while rain gathers at the curb. There are a hundred reasons this could be nothing. Stress. Travel. A body that has spent too long running on adrenaline and coffee. A month blurred at the edges because Leon died, Stefano disappeared, and I have been building a life for two children who have already lost too much.
Then I remember the cinnamon rolls.
The sudden nausea.
The way my jeans have felt tighter for three days.
My hand clutches the paper bag.
“Jesus.”
No one answers.
By the time I get home, Alex’s car is parked outside. I can hear Erin before I reach the door, her voice escalating in outrage over something unfair, which could mean anything from homework to the existence of peas.
“I am not eating that,” she says as I step inside.
“You have not even looked at it,” Alex replies.
“I can smell it.”
“That is how food works.”
Heath sits at the table with his math worksheet spread in front of him, pencil held too tightly in one hand. He looks up when I enter. The glance is quick, but it lasts long enough for him to notice the way I close the front door behind me.
Alex turns from the stove. “You look pale.”
“I had coffee with Victor.”
“That is not generally a medical emergency.”
“Depends on the coffee.”
Erin narrows her eyes at me. “You’re being weird.”
“I am always weird.”
“No,” Heath says. “Different weird.”
The accuracy of it almost makes me laugh.
Instead, I tuck the paper bag behind my hip. “I am going to lie down for a minute. Alex, please make sure no one burns the apartment down.”
Erin lifts her spoon. “That happened one time.”
“Twice,” Heath says.
“It was the toaster’s fault.”
