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The persistent buzz of my phone finally forces me to move. Three messages from Kira light up the screen:
>> Girl, where are you??? Matteo said you're sick?
>> These stomach bugs going around are the worst. Half the girls thought they were knocked up last month lol. At least you know you're not pregnant!
The last message hits me like a bucket of ice water.
>> Pregnant.
The word echoes in my mind, setting off alarms I've been trying to silence all day.
"No," I say out loud to the empty room. "No, it was just bad pasta. Just stress. Just…"
I close my eyes, a single, shaky breath escaping my lips. There's no point in pretending anymore.
Deep down, I already know.
* * *
I don't remember getting dressed or leaving the penthouse. One moment, I was staring at Kira's text, the next, I’m in the car Stefano gave me, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as I navigate Chicago's streets.
The 24-hour Walgreens glows like a beacon, a harsh fluorescent truth waiting to shatter my carefully constructed lies.
I park in the back, habit making me check sight lines and escape routes even now. Especially now.
Inside, the store is empty except for a bored cashier scrolling through his phone. The family planning aisle might as well be marked with neon arrows and alarm bells for how conspicuous I feel walking down it.
Keeping my face neutral, my movements casual, I grab three different brands of pregnancy tests. Always verify intel from multiple sources. That's what my father had taught me, though I doubt this is what he had in mind.
I add random items to my basket as well: shampoo, magazines, candy bars. Anything to make this look like a regular late-night shopping trip.
The cashier barely glances up as he rings me through, probably assuming I'm just another dancer from one of the nearby clubs.
If he only knew.
I consider going to the motel, to my brother.
He refused to come with me to the penthouse, and while it made me uneasy to let him live there on his own, Stefano assured me of his safety. And it’s for the best. My new living arrangement is part of the con, I can’t risk getting Tony more involved than he already is.
So I go home instead. To Stefano’s home.
The drive back feels endless. Every red light is an opportunity for panic to creep in. Every turn brings new possibilities I'm not ready to face.
My thoughts are a mess by the time I’m finally in the bathroom. Three tests are lined up on the counter like soldiers facing execution. Three chances to prove this is all just paranoia.
Three minutes that feel like three years.
I pace the small space, mind racing. If I am... What then? Run anyway? Stay? Tell Stefano? The Fioris?
The timer on my phone chimes, soft but devastating in the quiet bathroom.
Time to face the music.
I turn toward the counter and there they are.
Three tests.
Three positive lines.