“Is there any food you don’t eat?” I ask.

“Not really.” He stares at his phone that’s lying on his lap.

“Not a fussy eater?”

“I didn’t have that luxury when I was growing up.”

I recall what he said about his mother being a mistress who killed his stepmother. That she was a villain.

“Were you poor?”

He chews slowly and swallows. I think he uses that time to consider his reply before speaking it aloud. “Not really. My mother was a doctor, but she didn’t like cooking, so I had to fix my own food.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. It’s better that way.” His gaze slides from the phone to me. “Are you a fussy eater?”

“I hate seafood.”

“Really?”

“I can’t stand it. I feel like I’m eating the sea’s cockroaches.”

That makes a small smile crack on his beautiful face. I love it when I’m the reason behind his smile. Could be because they’re as rare as hell or that he looks lethally attractive.

“No cockroaches. Noted.”

We fall into easy conversation about food and different cultures and I’m impressed by how much Adrian knows. He’s definitely more well-traveled than me.

After we finish eating, he takes the empty containers to the kitchen, disposing of them while still watching his phone. It finally rings and he picks up after a few seconds, his tone firm. “Volkov.”

He listens for a beat and his face relaxes as he answers with a thick Russian accent, “Name a time and place, Don.”

Don?

As in, the Italian mafia?

“I’ll see you then,” he says, hanging up.

When he returns to the living room, he appears less tense than he did earlier.

“You have to go somewhere?” I ask.

“Not today.” He pauses. “But starting tomorrow, I might not come over for a few days.”

“Why?” My voice is spooked.

“Business.”

“Are you sure it’s not because of your fiancée?”

He frowns. “I told you she’s no longer my fiancée.”

“Is it as easy as you make it seem?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Tell me, Adrian. Am I your mistress?”

“Why? What are you going to do about it?”

“I begged you not to put me in that position.”

His eyes darken, and I can see him wanting to put me in my place using his domineering power like the other times. I brace myself for it, but he just releases a long sigh. “You’re not.”

“How can I be sure?”

“You’ll have to trust me.”

“Yeah, right.” I stand up abruptly and the world spins. A strong sense of nausea hits me and I clutch my stomach from the force of it.

Adrian is by my side in a second, grabbing me by the arm. “Lia? What is it…?”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” I manage between gritted teeth.

Adrian lifts me in his arms and hurries to the bathroom, then carefully helps me lower myself in front of the toilet. I grab it and empty my dinner in violent heaves.

Strong hands stroke my back in soothing circles as my stomach releases ugly sounds.

By the time I finish, Adrian is crouching by my side and says with utter calm, “Let’s get you to the doctor.”

“Why?”

“I think you’re pregnant.”

25

Lia

I stare at the small gray dot on the ultrasound monitor, my lips parting.

Adrian was right. I am pregnant. Five weeks.

First, the OB-GYN confirmed it through a blood test, and she’s now showing us the baby.

I’ve been shocked, numb, like the day I got out of surgery to learn I could no longer be a ballerina.

But the moment I see that life? Something inside me shifts.

At first, I wanted to demand an abortion because of ballet. But I don’t have ballet anymore, and whether I have children or not will have no effect on my ended career.

But now, as I watch the tiny figure on the screen, strong feelings like I haven’t had since the day my career ended invade me all at once.

That baby is mine. Something I conceived.

A tenacious life which survived all the stress I’ve been through up until now.

I stare up at Adrian, who’s standing next to my hospital bed, also observing what will soon grow into a fetus, in his utter calm. He’s been like a rock during this entire night—carrying me, taking care of procedures, and being the anchor anyone would hope for.

However, he hasn’t shown a single reaction since the doctor confirmed his suspicion. Although it wasn’t really a suspicion since he announced it before the doctor did.

My eyes widen. Did he…do this on purpose?

The thought thunders through the rest of me like wildfire. When I told the doctor that I’m on birth control pills, she mentioned that the pill isn’t one hundred percent effective, especially if I didn’t take it at the same time every day.

But pregnancy would’ve been so much more probable if he actually switched my pills out.

The feelings I was basking in only a few seconds ago slowly evaporate as I focus on the man standing beside me. And not just any man, a killer and a mobster. I can’t let someone like him father my children. How the hell did I allow myself to be even the slightest bit happy about the idea?

The doctor offers me the sonogram picture, but I don’t take it, afraid to look at that life one more time. Adrian thanks her, pulling it from her hand. I go through the motions as I cover myself and grab my crutch to stand up.

Adrian tries to help me, but I squirm free. He gives me a look and grabs me by the elbow, forbidding me from getting away from him until he helps me into a chair in front of the doctor’s desk.

Instead of taking his own seat, he remains standing by my side. “Is her injury going to cause a problem with the pregnancy?”

The doctor, a middle-aged lady with soft features and her white hair done in a pixie cut, says in a melodious voice, “Not at all. Thankfully, the injury didn’t happen during one of her late trimesters. When do you get the cast off, Ms. Morelli?”

“In three weeks,” I murmur.