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She’s not going to be the one that helps me escape, so I don’t need to keep her here.
Emily glances down at my stomach and asks, “How far along are you?”
I lean my head against the wall. “What? How do you know?”
“You keep rubbing your stomach and under your tear soaked face, you’re glowing.”
After several quiet moments, I just give in and tell her. “I just recently found out, but I should be around twelve and a half weeks. Give or take. I haven’t been back to the obstetrician.”
“Congratulations.”
I narrow my eyes at her for a second. She seems genuine, like she doesn’t wish any ill harm to me or the baby.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Footsteps echo down the hallway, getting louder the closer they come. Giuseppe Rossi steps into the room holding a camera. “Look at the camera.”
The flash temporarily blinds me.
He takes several more before saying, “I need an excellent picture of you to send to Arturo and Joseph Marino. You are going to be my bargaining chip.”
I roll my eyes and blurt out, “They don’t care about me or the baby.”
My eyes widen as I register my slip up.
Oops. That wasn’t supposed to come out. If he knows they don’t care about me or the baby, he may kill us just for the hell of it.
A sinister grin stretches across his wrinkled face. “They will when they find out it’s the future heir to the Marino mafia. You are their only hope for an heir because, according to Jax, Francesca is infertile and unable to produce an heir.”
I feel the blood rush from my face. Francesca wants to be a mom so badly she’s already trying to conceive.
How will she feel when, month after month, her tests come back negative? How devastating will it be when I have to tell her she’s infertile?
Will I crush her dream of becoming a mom when I show off my bump? How could I flaunt my pregnancy in her face like that?
How will she ever forgive me?
Chapter Eighteen
JOSEPH
The sweet smellof coffee cake floats downstairs and into the gym where I’m currently running on the treadmill, trying to escape from my problems. My stomach betrays me and growls like a beast.
It’s been years since I’ve smelt fresh coffee cake baking in our house. Mom used to make one every Saturday morning, and the four of us would sit around the table and eat and talk. Mom and Dad would sip on their coffees while Francesca and I would chug our hot cocoas and beg for a second cup.
Dad tried to keep up the tradition after Mom’s death, but it just wasn’t the same without her. By the time we moved to Savannah, it was a long forgotten tradition, never to happen again.
So, who’s baking a coffee cake upstairs right now? And why this late in the day?
My stomach lets out another growl, like it’s begging for a piece of cake and a cup of cocoa. Well, now, I’d drink a cup of coffee, but my stomach can’t distinguish the age difference.
With another growl, I stop the treadmill. I guess my workout is over. Grabbing my bottle of water and towel, I jog upstairs to see who is responsible for my shortened workout.
Francesca is dancing around the kitchen while singing along to the upbeat pop song that’s playing on the local radio station. There are mixing bowls and spatulas piled high in the sink. One coffee cake is cooling on the stove as another one bakes in the oven.
Dad is sitting at the counter reading the newspaper, like he used to when Mom was alive. Well, before her first death.
“What’s the meaning of the coffee cake? Are you trying to bring back happier memories or something?”