Page 87 of Baby for the Bratva King

“...We must learn to forgive ourselves. I’m sure my daughter will come to her senses very soon.”

“Please can you elaborate on this for us, Mr. Brouwer,” asks the journalist, holding out the microphone.

Our father has been stopped on the street. I squint at the screen, trying to work out the exact location. William Street, over in the Financial District. Vesper is wearing a respectable blue and gray tux, little bits of gray hair flying in the wind. He squints into the sun, addressing the rumors.

He has more color to his face today, his skin less waxy, more pasty.

“It’s easy to get tangled up with the wrong people.”

“Who are you referring to here, Mr. Brouwer?”

“Why, Felix Pozharsky, of course,” says my father into the microphone. “Rumors exist for a reason.”

More journalists chip in, sticking microphones in his face, but my father strategically cuts the interview short and walks away.

“Rumors exist for a reason,” repeats Fleur, making sense of his closing statement. “He always has a way with words.”

“He’s talking about the mafia allegations.”

“What?” Fleur chuckles. “He thinks they’re true?”

I sit back into the booth, thanking the server when she brings our food. I spin the plate around, tucking in. Bacon drenched in maple syrup. Crunchy hashbrowns. Two fried eggs, generously seasoned with herbs and spices. Yum.

I grab my silverware, knife and fork at the ready, but I smell the food and suddenly I’m nauseous again.

“What’s wrong?” asks Fleur as I’m cutting into my bacon. “You look white again.”

“My self-tan routine is all over the place.”

“Not that.” Fleur looks up from her pancakes. “You look like you’re gonna throw up.”

“Well, it’s not nice hearing our father talk shit to the world.”

“He basically confirmed the organized crime allegations,” says Fleur, stuffing pancakes in her mouth. “Big fucking statement to make.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Is it true?”

“What?”

“All that mafia shit?”

Nausea falls over me in impossible waves, causing me to retch.

I drop the silverware, a thick sweat breaking out on my forehead.

“Saskia?”

“Be right back.” I rise from the booth, dashing straight into the restroom.

I vomit for the second time today, throwing up mostly coffee and stomach acid. I hold onto the toilet seat for support, dry heaving. Such a pathetic fucking mess.

Is this my father being an absolute jerk or an early sign of pregnancy?

The door bangs as I’m flushing the toilet.

“Saskia?” calls Fleur.