I’m pregnant.
I shower to try and do something normal, focusing on the steam and water instead of the thousand thoughts rushing through my head. My fingers tremble as I dry off, and I wonder if Ben will notice right away or if I can buy myself some time.
Time to… I don’t know.
Accept it?
I wasn’t ready to become pregnant with the next heir of a crime mob, and the more I think about it, the more I want to run away again.
What kind of future is this for a child?
A knock comes a few minutes later.
Two quick taps, one short.
Him.
That’s his rhythm. The warning bell that I’m about to face off with him again about something.
“Come in.” I try to sound casual.
He opens the door and then steps inside, black shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his muscled forearms.
He looking like he just walked out of a bad meeting. There’s tension in his shoulders and exhaustion behind his eyes.
It changes the second his gaze lands on me. I can feel the heat of his stare and the way it drifts down my body and back up again.
My pulse jumps as he soaks in my shorts and white crop top, taking his sweet time with his assessment before he offers, “Bad time?”
“Depends,” I answer. “Are you bringing good news?”
“Depends,” he echoes, his voice low. “I want to talk about Italy.”
No.
Through the sudden drop in my stomach, I still say, “We already talked about this.”
“No,” he says, evenly. “You yelled, and I listened. That’s not the same thing.”
My shoulders tighten. “Ben?—”
“You almost died, Sienna. You were run off the road. You think they’re going to stop because you’re back to painting walls at the bakery and making cookies?”
He doesn’t mean to be an asshole about it, but something must’ve happened to make him second-guess his stance.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” he responds.
“Bullshit, Benedikt. Why are you trying to drag me across the world?”
“I want to protect you.”
“I’m not leaving.”
He flexes the muscles in his jaw. “Then you’ll be forcing my hand.”
“Meaning what?”
