I pull the drawer open.
My brow furrows.
A small box, wrapped with a bright green bow, rests inside. My name is scrawled on the front in her delicate, familiar handwriting.
I shouldn’t open it.
But I do.
Carefully, I untie the bow. Lift the lid.
Inside is a blue and white pregnancy test.
Positive.
My breath catches.
I reach deeper into the box and pull out a tiny baby sleeper. White cotton. The lettering on the front reads:“Mafia Daddy.”
Any other time, I would’ve rolled my eyes at her dramatics.
Now?
“Iz…” I whisper. It’s only when I taste the salt on my lips that I realize my eyes are wet, tears slipping down my cheeks.
She’s pregnant.
My wife is pregnant.
And she’s gone.
Marcus Whitfield hasn’t just taken Izzy.
He’s taken my unborn child.
47
It’s All Going To Be Fine
I’m learning to fight. It’s not like our play fights. This is real. I wish I didn’t have to. —Enzo
Izzy
Myheadthrobs.Mybody aches.
The cuff around my ankle digs painfully into my flesh with the tiniest movement.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
That noise, that steady beat of water hitting thedamp stone floor below has been the only sound since I woke. That, and my erratic heart beating—thumping—in my ears. Like a drum, preparing me for whatever’s next.
I don’t know how long it’s been. A few hours? More?
It’s dark here—wherever here is. Some sort of basement? There are lines of cages on the other side of the room, all with bars large enough to keep a human from getting out. Yet, each one is empty.
