Secret Baby For The Italian Mafia Don

Part 20

AVA POV:

"It's just because of the hormones" has become my new favorite phrase, and I
keep thinking it over and over and over, because ever since Friday night, I
have only been able to think about two things: the baby in my belly and the
man who put it there.
Nico has slipped into my heart like a blade, straight through my ribs.
But it' s just because of the hormones.
My thoughts begin to turn against themselves, all my agony toward the past
slowly shifting into dread for the future. If I had just stayed miserable and
numb over Vinny, if I had mourned him like I should have, this wouldn't have
happened. I thought I was getting better, but is this better? Is this worse? I
don't know.
I haven't made a decision. That's what I keep telling myself, even when I
continue to spend day after day taking care of Emma, frantically trying to
learn the little tips and tricks of motherhood. I watch Tessa like a hawk,
studying her every move. It always leaves me with the same doubtful
question: do I have it in me to be like her?
She makes it look so effortless, but then, she's hardly alone. Salvatore drifts
in and out through the day, shares every sleepless night, and she has me to
help with anything extra she might need. She never asks for much, but maybe
that she has the option is comfort enough.
Only a few months into motherhood and Tessa is already taking meetings and
making visits with the women of the family. Sometimes, it's as simple as
sharing brunch. Other times, I am asked to leave the room—private business.
Divorces, abuse, out-of-wedlock children. Whatever troubles the family has,
they are all brought to the heads of the household. Police and lawyers are
afterthoughts. The highest law in our land is the family.
It would be so easy to tell her my secret. I am supposed to tell her. More than
once, the words are right there on my lips, scratching at the back of my teeth,
dying to get out. I don't let them.
Eventually, deciding and not deciding will be one and the same. There is a
line drawn somewhere in time where there will be no going back, and every
hour that I wait, the line inches closer.
I'm dazed with inexplicable exhaustion, feeling off, and brewing a much-
needed morning coffee when the scent hits my nose. My gag reflex revolts.
Nausea comes in waves, wavering in my stomach. I go half-sprinting into the
nearest bathroom. I hold myself together for a few seconds, working through
panic and denial. I negotiate with my body, my baby, and God—and end up
heaving up last night's dinner into the toilet anyway.
I have never had the problem of needing to throw up discreetly before. I beg
my stomach to stop lurching as I flush the toilet over the sound of my dry
heaving. My stomach has nothing left to give, but the nausea doesn't care.
My every breath sounds too loud, as if everyone in the house can hear it. I
heave again.
After several long minutes and anxious half-efforts, my stomach settles.
I wait, anxious that the feeling might sneak up and come back stronger. I
don't feel much better, but at least I'm not actively puking. I take a mouthful
of cold water and spit the taste of bile into the sink.
I drag my feet to the bathroom door, then lean my head against it for a few
long moments, working myself up to facing the day. I feel weak and tired
already, and the day has barely started. I want to go whining to Nico. I want
to curl up in his arms and have him comfort me and tease me until I fall
asleep and not wake up until long after noon, and let him call me lazy as he
kisses me awake.
I shake the thought away.
It' s just because of the hormones.
I inch my way out of the bathroom, checking that the coast is clear. I walk
quieter now, as if I've just committed a crime. I tiptoe past Salvatore's office,
hoping no one heard what just happened a few doors down, but the voices
inside are low and unassuming.
And I am almost out of earshot when a familiar, raised voice draws my
attention.
Nico?
I veer a little closer to Salvatore's office. I would have never come down this
way if I wasn't fast-tracking it to a bathroom, but I overhear the voices
clearly. Nico doesn't know how to be quiet, his voice all rough, booming
projection, too much confidence for his own good.
I long to see him, to wait him out and surprise him on the other side of the
door...but he just caught me eavesdropping on him the other night. And
besides...it's just the hormones. I keep moving, forcing myself to keep
walking even if it feels like a tiny piece of me is caught on him, unraveling
more and more the farther away I walk.
Hormones, hormones, hormones.
"I just got out of the fucking pen, Sal. Jesus Christ. The last thing I'm trying
to do is get tied down to some domestic bullshit."
My feet go still.
I'm too far away now, and I can't hear what Salvatore says, but Nico answers,
"Don't get you and me mixed up. Hell, you don't even know me like that.
You've got your dream life, and I've got mine, and kids aren't in my picture
—"
Kids?
I can't feel my limbs as I stand here, longing to run but unable to, my feet
suddenly numb and my stomach lurching again.
"Because it's just not for me. None of it."
His voice draws closer to the door, and suddenly I remember how to walk,
how to run, hurrying through the foyer and up the stairs, two at a time.
Somewhere on the floor below me, a door closes hard. I pause on the landing,
my knees trembling.
It feels like a trick, a magician making you think the gold coin is in one hand
and whisking it away into nothing. I'm left reeling by the sudden reversal of
all the relief I just found the other night. I hovered on a stairwell just like this
and I heard Nico say my wife, and I was riding the high of those two little
words for days.
Now, it's just the opposite.
Nico doesn't want kids?
It doesn't even make sense! All those low, threatening promises of knocking
me up and putting a baby in me—was it just another way to own me, so that I
have to carry this little piece of him with me everywhere I go?
Or is Marcel right, and this is all just Nico's plan to break up my marriage to
Thaddeus? It seems so obvious suddenly, a flash of anger and betrayal cutting
me to the bone.
My wife, he said.
More like my gullible, hormonal, pregnant little chess piece!
I'm in a daze, so I don't even notice Tessa already sitting in the nursery when
I first walk in, my thoughts flying Mach speed. I jump when I notice her. She
scribbles something on a drawing pad while her foot nudges the bassinet,
keeping it rocking slowly back and forth. She glances up at me, her eyes
devious as I notice her there.
"Good morning," I force myself to mutter.
Tessa returns the greeting, watching me carefully. Emma is sound asleep in
the bassinet, and it is probably the constant nudging of Tessa's foot that keeps
her that way.
"Do you need anything?" I ask. I skim the room for tiny laundry or blankets
that need changing or trash that needs taking out. Anything to get out from
under the gaze of another person, where I can go have a proper breakdown.
Tessa doesn't answer me, her expression strange. As if she knows something
that I don't.
"Did you really think you were going to get away with it?" she asks suddenly.
The air chills between us.
A new kind of nausea tugs at the back of my throat. A voiceless what tries and
fails to leave my lips. I'm going to just start sobbing at this rate. Does she
know? Did she overhear me throwing up, three floors down? Did Cecilia tell
her? Or does she just know, the way Cecilia knew, able to see the changes in
me that she so recently went through herself? Panic swarms in my head, a
hundred excuses and denials and apologies all throwing themselves into
motion, and I reach for whichever one is closest, most convenient.
"I..."
"I appreciate how attentive you've been lately, Ava, but I'm not letting you
work on your birthday," she chides me gently. The world rights itself like a
near-miss car crash, all four wheels suddenly back on the road as Tessa
finishes, "I think I can manage on my own for just one day."
Oh. My birthday?
My legs solidify again, air returning to my aching lungs.
Right.
I'm stunned that I forgot. Vinny always did something first thing—a
ridiculous, multi-course breakfast in bed, or blindfolding me before I was
even up, or covering the whole room in streamers and confetti overnight with
a present already on the pillow. It was always something with him, always an
event. From the first moment I woke up, my birthday was in full swing,
impossible to forget or ignore, even when all the attention just made me want
to blush and hide.
Today felt like just another morning. Nothing special. It didn't even cross my
mind.
The nausea tickles the back of my throat again.
"I just...I didn't have any plans," I admit through the tightness in my mouth.
"And we both know this isn't working as much as it's just hanging out. That
doesn't sound like such a bad birthday to me."
Wrong answer, Tessa says with her expression, not even bothering with
words.
"You're going to do whatever you like today, Ava. Birthday girls don't change
diapers. Not on my watch, anyway. Isn't there something you'd like to do?"
she insists. "We could make a day of it, if you want. Lunch, shopping, going
to a resort or seeing a show—you know I could have Sal fly you out
somewhere, if you wanted. A spontaneous day trip. You could take Frankie,
and if you leave now, you'd be in London by three."
I resist the urge to tell her I mostly want a nap and a glass of cold, tasteless
water.
"I really hadn't thought about it..."
Tessa frowns. Like everyone else, she has tried to be patient with my
recovery. She's begged and rationalized and bribed, but she hasn't pushed me
too much. She tries another gentle suggestion: "Did you tell Thaddeus, at
least? He might want to do something."
"If he finds out he gave me a car a week before my birthday, he might lose his
mind."
Tessa smiles mirthlessly. "I've seen the man's bank statements," she says,
chillingly matter-of-fact. "I see no reason why that should be a problem at
all."
I decide not to ask how she has those or when she started taking on Sal's
mannerisms. "I thought you didn't approve of him," I say.
"I don't. Not yet. But seeing what he does for your birthday will give me
some more insight, which I think is invaluable." When my hesitation lingers
too long, Tessa suddenly asks, "What about Nico?"
The question catches me like a stray bullet."What about Nico?" I ask, careful
to keep my voice neutral.
I don't know what sense there is in still being subtle about it when the man
practically burned my name into the front yard, but confessing one truth feels
like confessing them all, so I play dumb.
"They're brothers, you know," Tessa says softly, "and they're not as different
from each other as they'd like to believe. I see the way he looks at you, Ava. I
know that look."
Heat crawls slowly up my spine.
They are more different than she knows. Sal adores Emma.
"He can look at me all he likes," I say firmly, "but I'm engaged. For the
family."
Tessa doesn't seem convinced one way or the other.
"Then maybe you should act like you're engaged," she nudges gently, but it
stings regardless. My throat works. I know she's right. "It's not my call to
decide who you want to spend your birthday with, but I think you should do
something nice. My treat, whatever it is. Just use the family card and don't
skimp. I'll know if you do."
I am sent back downstairs with Tessa's gentle advice weighing over me and
Nico's words circulating through my whole body. They weigh heavily in my
chest, clench in my heart, sting in my eyes. I can't escape it. I just feel so, so
stupid.
I take my phone out of my back pocket, my fingers hesitating between the list
of names. I scroll straight past Nico, landing instead on Thaddeus. We still
have no message history between us, so I fire the first shot:
Dinner tonight?
With the family?
No. Something low-key? It's my birthday and they'll make a big
fuss.
It's twenty minutes before I'm given a wishy-washy:
We'll see.
I'm not exactly disappointed, but it is frustrating.
In front of the family, Thaddeus was overly attentive, lavishing me in interest
and gifts. Away from their judgmental stares, I hardly feel worth his time.
Some part of me knows that it's fine, that I don't want his attention and the
less he cares, the easier this will be, but the tiny little backbone I have grown
over the past few months stiffens up and insists that I deserve better than this.
Nico would never, something in me insists, before the rational part of me
interjects: You have no idea what Nico would do.
I force myself to close the phone screen without messaging him. Exhausted
and queasy and feeling particularly pregnant for the first time, I decide the
first present I am going to give myself is a few more hours of sleep where I
don't have to be conscious for any of this, and I can cry into my pillow until
the world disappears.
My second present is scheduling a doctor's appointment, but I haven't made a
decision.
A little after noon, Frankie comes sashaying through my deep, empty dreams.
"Oh, Ava," she calls, singsong, right at the place where sleep and wakefulness
met. I crack open my sleep-crusted eyes and find the room full of bright
daylight. Frankie is one of those people who knock at the same time as they
open the door, rending the whole gesture pointless, and I barely manage to
look half-awake as she lets herself into my room.
"Lookie what I've got for you, sweetheart," she croons. "Someone's been a
good girl this year."
The words activate me like a sleeper agent: back straight and face doe-eyed
and oblivious, ready to play stupid and innocent, like I've never heard anyone
use the words good and girl back-to-back before. No, sir, not me.
It takes my half-awake brain a few seconds to realize she has two packages
under her arms, white boxes tied with dark, satiny ribbon.
"Spoiler alert: it's not coal that's in here," she adds, tossing them down. "But
it might just get you some by Christmas."
By the way her pierced eyebrows wiggle, I know it must be something bad.
She hands the packages to me, the ribbons holding them together already
crinkled and skewed from tampering. I'm already blushing and annoyed,
wondering what it is she might have seen as I scoop them away from her.
"You know tampering with someone else's mail is a felony."
"This didn't come by mail. It came by sweaty-faced delivery boy. And is that
really any way to talk to the lady who would take an anthrax hit for you?" she
asks, all faux innocence. I give her a look, because we both know no one is
coming after me with anthrax.
I peel open the box. Frankie watching my face makes it all the worse. I check
the note. To my surprise, the gift is from Thaddeus. Inside, I unfurl a
shimmery silver cocktail dress with a modest cut-out top and a high slit up to
the hip. He's left instructions to wear it tonight, 8:00 P.M., at an address in
Manhattan that I don't recognize.
His text was so unenthused, I had taken it as a no. I feel a little bad for
doubting him.
Simply the brand name on the minimalist tag gives me a hint of the value I'm
holding in my hands. This isn't bad at all. Just as I'm about to breathe with
relief, I open the final package: a discreet, brand-name box, textured and
silken to the touch. Inside, I find what made Frankie grin like a middle
schooler:
A set of white lingerie.
The full set rests against the gift paper, all sheer lace and straps and tiny
bows. It feels sinfully bridal.
Frankie sighs dramatically. "My little girl, all grown up. I remember when
you used to wear long sleeves in the summer. Those big, oversized sweaters
—"
"Stop," I groan, forcing her out of my room as she laughs.
"Well, hey, just know—if some guy got that for you, he didn't get it for you.
He got it for him."
The door closes between us.
And she's probably right. Thaddeus did get this for himself, but my first
thought is of Nico—how he would feel if I put this on for another man, and
how he would rip it off of me.
And then what would he do? Whisper dark little promises of knocking you up,
and then bail on you when it actually happens?
I toss the lingerie down with a disgusted sound. Sleep hasn't made the pain of
that revelation any better.
I trace the subtle, intricate design on the lingerie, and a second idea bubbles at
the back of my thoughts—a way out. I see it as clearly as if it is stitched into
the lace. This is the small miracle I have been begging for night and day. This
is an invitation. If I sleep with Thaddeus tonight, it would be only a few
weeks' difference.
Sometimes, babies come early.
It's all so neatly explainable. It also makes me want to throw up for the
second time today. I don't want to pass off Nico's baby as another man's. But
then, what I want doesn't really matter. Nico is the one who doesn't want
kids. If this baby will just be a burden to him, or worse, just a pawn in some
fucked up game he's playing, then...
What I want to do isn't even in the equation. In my heart, I believe what I
should do is whatever is best for the baby. And right now, what's best for the
baby is being born into this family, to me and Thaddeus Mori.
And then Nico can go be as non-domestic as he wants, with whoever he
wants.
With intricate lingerie hidden under my dress and a new nausea in my
stomach, I arrive at my birthday dinner. Or so I think. Thaddeus has not
invited me to a restaurant after all. I arrive at an upscale bar—the only bar
I've ever been in that took my name at the door before they would let me
enter. All eyes in the room turn on me as I step inside, as if I am the odd one
out. The dim, smoky room is discreet and intimate, the men mingling together
in loose groups. It feels like a company dinner, or an old-school London club,
so many men boasting name-brand suits, imported watches, and thinning hair.
Thaddeus greets me, beckoning me over to the bar where he sits with another
man. The woman on the stranger's arm—too young and too pretty for him,
with her cleavage about as precariously placed as her posture—tilts
dangerously off the edge of her barstool. She stares forward without
acknowledging us as we are introduced, coming alive only when the
bartender replaces her gin and tonic.
I get the sense she is paid by the hour.
We get through the tedious introduction of the man beside him. It's pointless
information that I tune out like a weather broadcast for the West Coast. Mind-
numbing business credentials that have literally nothing to do with me but
make the men at the bar give snakelike grins to each other.
"What is this place?" I mutter to Thaddeus.
"This is the only place that matters."
He gestures around the room, pointing out some middling politicians or
business owners or real estate moguls. Instead of a happy birthday, I am given
a subtle tour of New York's wannabe elites and their second-rank little social
circle club. I sigh under my breath, breathing in the distinct smell of election
fraud and insider trading.
Thaddeus offers to get me a drink.
Suddenly, it dawns on me that I am sitting at a bar and I cannot drink.
I should, I think, too fondly, after what the little brat did to me this morning.
Of course, I don't, and I cut that line of thinking off quickly. It's too personal,
too real for a split second. Something about having symptoms has made this
far more tangible than a little line on a pregnancy test ever could.
I order a glass of water.
I'm bored and disappointed and this lingerie itches. With one glance around
the room, I have identified why we're here, and my birthday has nothing to
do with it. My job is the same as most of the other women here: to sit, smile,
and be pleasant, decked in expensive jewelry and dresses like we are
accessories in our own right. Something men can gesture to and say, "Look
what I have," comparing us like their luxury cars and private jets.
I've never been much for drinking, but suddenly, I'm mourning alcohol.
Thaddeus introduces me to a revolving door of important somebodies. I am
preened over by men more than twice my age. Some hold my hand a little too
long or make subtle, suggestive remarks about my looks. A Mr. Godfrey tells
me that if Thaddeus ever gets tired of me, he has a private plane he'd like to
show me. He and Thaddeus laugh as if it's all good fun, but what disturbs me
most is the woman on his arm with a diamond on her finger, who giggles
along too. I force a smile and look longingly for a fire exit or even just an
alarm that I can pull to escape.
Thaddeus preoccupies himself with talking business, and it might just be the
only language he knows. Romance certainly isn't. He sits at the bar and faces
away from me most of the time. I scroll through my phone, bored and a little
bitter that this is how I chose to spend my birthday. Not celebrating was the
right choice after all.
My stomach complains loudly about the neglect. I've only had water while
the men drink and laugh. I sigh and decide to play my hand. There's no point
in holding cards if you're not going to use them. I slide my fingers into the
crook of Thaddeus's arm, leaning into him until I really have his attention.
"Thaddeus, come on. When are we getting to the dinner part of the evening?"
I tease him, nudging my foot against his leg. "I'm starving."
"That's what the alcohol is for," he says, trying to match my teasing tone. He
pushes his own glass of clear liquor toward me and steals my water. "Who
needs dinner when you can drink your calories?"
"Me, actually," I insist, pushing the glass back at him. "You said we were
going to dinner. This isn't dinner."
"We won't be able to get in on short notice. You should have told me sooner.
Day-of doesn't work."
"I don't need some place with a reservation, I just want something—"
"You're not even trying to enjoy yourself. You haven't even given it a chance.
We could have some fun; you're just not playing along." He slides the drink
toward me again, more forward this time as he gets closer. His long fingers
skirt up my dress, finding the garter strap hidden under the shimmering
fabric.
"You wore your present, so I know you want to."
Some rational part of me understands that it isn't his fault—he doesn't know
that I can't play along and drink myself numb and indifferent until this all
becomes tolerable. But the much louder part of my brain just says: fuck this.
I stand, more than happy to take off and find my own meal for the evening.
His hand lands on my wrist, holding me there, catching me in an awkward
stalemate that he tries to keep hidden from the others in the room. He draws
me back down into the seat.
"You're going to have to get used to this," he says, speaking low under the
clink of glasses and conversations. "And the next time these men compliment
you, you smile more and act flattered. They aren't easily impressed, and the
more interested they are in you, the more interested they are in cutting deals
with me. This helps us both, Ava. From how Salvatore described you, I
thought you were interested in climbing the ladder. If you weren't, you
wouldn't have made this deal."
I know how to stay quiet and suffer in silence. I have years and years of
practice, sucking it up and dealing with whatever inconvenience comes my
way. But God, I don't have it in me tonight. I am one tiny spark away from
full nuclear meltdown.
"Just invite someone to dinner with us then! I don't care, I just want—"
"Keep your voice down!"
I pull away from him and snatch my bag off the chair, my pissed-off exit
tirade hovering on my lips, when the door shudders again and the entire room
falls into a hush. Those with their backs turned catch on and look toward the
exit, quiet recognition running around the room.
I know who it is in my chest before I even look. I recognize the hush, the
surprise, the air tinted with the slightest taste of fear. I bite down on my smile
as the footsteps creak across the wooden floor. A warm, familiar hand grazes
across the bare skin on my back, over the crisscrossed straps of my dress, as
he comes to stand beside me.
"Nico," Thaddeus says, fear bleaching the color straight out of his face,
leaving only the ruddiness of the alcohol behind. They shake hands, and I
watch the lines on his face tense, his smile dissolving into a grimace as those
bony fingers are crushed in Nico's grip.
The sight of Nico has shocked the old-money cretins into a wary, muttering
quiet. Seven years behind bars, and every person in this place still knows who
he is, his reputation a dark shadow filling up the room and blacking out the
friendly chatter. Maybe some of them are ancient enough to remember the old
days, when a known mob man walking into a place like this could bring
bloodshed with him. For most people, even the mob, those days of outward,
unrepentant violence are long behind them, just a story told about the family
ancestors and their legacy. But not Nico. Nico has already done it once.
"What brings you here?" Thaddeus asks him.
I glance up to him as well, wondering something similar—not what, but how.
How did Nico know that I was here? How did he follow me? It is no longer
coincidence and happenstance. Nico is following me, stalking me, watching
my every step even when he's nowhere nearby. I didn't see him when I left
the house. His car didn't shadow me through the streets. I am parked a couple
blocks away, nowhere near the front of this particular building. So how?
I realize too late that the answer is clutched in my palm, the slick, expensive
phone that he bought me. I should have put it together sooner. It's not a gift—
it's a leash.
"Family," Nico says, looming like the literal devil on my shoulder. "I already
missed the dinner. I wasn't going to let that happen a second time."
Thaddeus smiles tightly. "Oh, you don't have to go out of your way. I'm sure
you and I will be seeing plenty of each other in the coming months—"
"You?" Nico interrupts, his laugh low and dangerous, and those fingers on the
back of my dress trail a little lower down my spine. "I'm not here for you,
Thaddeus. I'm here for Ava's birthday."
I go very still.
I didn't tell him, so how could he possibly know it's my birthday?
I avoid Nico's gaze by studying my glass. I wonder if it's possible to drown
yourself on land with only a single cup of water to work with. Maybe if I
inhale at the right time...
"Is that right?" Thaddeus asks lowly. "I didn't realize there was a guest list."
He gazes at me intently, silently urging me to tell Nico to fuck off, and when I
don't, Thaddeus leans in close to whisper to me. "Didn't we have plans,
darling?" His hand finds the slit in my dress, his fingers scraping
meaningfully on the lingerie.
Nico notices. He takes half a step forward, and I swear he's going to sling
Thaddeus right over the bar if he gets his hands on him. I smoothly intercept
him, turning to stand face to face with Nico.
"You made it just in time. Thaddeus and I were just about to go to dinner," I
say. "Do you want to join us? Thaddeus says we won't be able to get in
anywhere, but maybe we can find something."
"That won't be a problem," Nico says immediately, his eyes never leaving my
fiancé's face.
"Oh, isn't that lucky?"
Thaddeus is forced to smile back at me and agree.
"So lucky."

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