I rush toward the bathroom Sandro and I share, shutting the door for privacy. My hands are trembling as I fumble with the hem of my dress, the panic rising faster than I can control it. And then I see the blood.
The sight knocks the air from my lungs.
The disappointment shouldn’t hurt this much—but it does. A sob catches in my throat before I can swallow it down, and I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady myself.
I knew this could happen. I knew getting pregnant wasn’t likely in the cards for me. But a small, foolish part of me had hoped that maybe—just maybe—with how much sex Sandro and I had since our wedding night, it might have changed something. Maybe the doctors were wrong. Maybe I could be normal.
Even though I knew the odds, somewhere along the line, I’d started to hope I could give Sandro the one thing every mafia wife is supposed to give her husband.
Tears blur my reflection in the mirror. I look pathetic—eyes red, cheeks streaked, breath hitching. I can’t let Sandro see me like this. If he does, he’ll know something’s wrong. Because girls don’t normally fall apart over a period.
I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water over my face, but it does nothing to wash away the despair clawing up my chest. My stomach cramps again, and I press a hand to it, biting down a sob.
I try to compose myself, forcing my breathing to even out. I fix my hair, blot my eyes, but the tears keep coming. My reflection wavers, breaking apart through the water that still drips down the mirror.
My heart stutters when the door creaks open behind me. I’m out of time, and I still haven’t managed to pull myself together.
“Evi?” Sandro’s voice fills the space—rough, familiar, concerned.
I freeze as he steps closer, his reflection appearing behind mine in the mirror—towering, solid, impossibly steady compared to the trembling mess I’ve become.
His brows draw together, and his tone softens. “Hey. Why are you crying?”
My throat closes, and for one terrifying moment, I can’t speak.
How do I tell him that I’ve already failed him? That the secret my family begged me to keep will tear us apart before we’ve truly begun?
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
The tears spill faster, and a sob wrenches from my chest.
21
SANDRO
The bathroom door is shut when I step into our room, ready to wash off a day’s worth of hard work and sweat. Evi wasn’t at the front door like she usually is to greet me, and as light creeps through the narrow crack beneath the door, I know why.
She must be in there.
But even with the soft burble of the faucet, it’s too quiet. Usually, I can hear Evi humming to herself, that soft, tuneless sound that somehow makes even this hollow, echoing house feel less like a tomb. But right now, there’s nothing. Just the sound of running water and the faint hitch of someone trying not to sob.
I stop outside the bathroom, every instinct in me snapping to attention at the broken sound.
“Evi?” My voice comes out low, quiet, cautious, as I worry if I speak too loud, she’ll shatter.
She doesn’t answer. Just another muffled sound, and something tightens in my chest as I push the door open.
She’s leaning over the sink, her back to me, but I can see her reflection clearly. Her face drips water she must have splashed on it, but her hands are braced on the counter, her shoulders hunched in a look of utter defeat.
She’s been crying. I can tell from her red-rimmed eyes, pink-tipped nose, and blotchy cheeks. I barely recognize the woman in the mirror—Evi, who always smiles, whose laugh fills a room, now crumbling in silence.
“Hey,” I say softly, stepping inside as her tears tug at my heartstrings. “Why are you crying?”
She straightens, swiping quickly at her face, and her lips part as if to answer me. But instead, a horrible, agonized sob wrenches from her.
And it positively guts me.
I’ve crossed the space between us in three long strides to grasp her shoulders and turn her, pulling her in against my chest. She doesn’t fight me, though her hands lift to cover her face as she buries herself against my chest.
