Page 26 of Wicked Sinner

brIDGET

Iwake up to the sound of voices in the hallway outside my room—Caesar's deep rumble and another voice I don't recognize. A woman's voice, professional and clipped. My stomach clenches as I remember what Caesar said yesterday about a doctor coming for my first prenatal appointment.

Maybe this is my chance.

The thought jolts me fully awake. A doctor would be bound by patient confidentiality, wouldn't they? Even if Caesar is paying them, they'd have to report a kidnapping if I told them what was happening. It's worth a try, at least.

The worst-case scenario is that the doctor is paid off, like Caesar claims the police are—something that I still don’t entirely believe, although I’m not so naive as to think that the Miami police aren’t at least a little corrupt.

The best-case scenario is that she helps me.

The fact that the doctor is a woman bolsters my hopes—surely another woman will feel more inclined to side with me and help me figure out how to get out of here.

I quickly throw on the silk robe that came with the pajamas Caesar had delivered and run my fingers through my hair, trying to look presentable.

When the knock comes at my door, I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, my hands folded in my lap, trying to appear calm but not so pleasant that it sets off alarm bells. Caesar is going to expect me to be snappish, like always, so I need to make sure that he doesn’t think there’s anything unusual going on.

"Bridget?" Caesar's voice through the door. "Dr. Ackley is here to see you."

The door opens, and Caesar steps aside to let a woman enter.

She's middle-aged, with silver-streaked brown hair pulled back in a neat bun and tortoiseshell glasses.

She's carrying a black medical bag and wearing slim black pants and an emerald button-up blouse, under a white coat that makes her look every inch the professional physician.

That same hope flares in my chest again. This woman doesn’t look like someone who works for the mob. She looks like a genuine doctor, like someone I might be seeing if I went to a normal OB/GYN. Surely she’ll help me. Surely—

"Miss Lewis," she says with a warm smile, extending her hand. "I'm Dr. Elizabeth Ackley. I understand congratulations are in order."

I swallow hard and shake her hand, noticing her professionally firm grip and the way her eyes assess me with what seems like genuine medical interest. Everything seems normal.

She seems legitimate. It’s going to be okay.

I know I shouldn’t let myself get too far ahead, but it’s difficult not to.

All I’ve wanted for a week was to get out of here, and now it seems like I’m going to have a shot.

“Thank you,” I manage. “It was… unplanned. I’m still adjusting to the idea.”

I see a flicker of something that I can’t read on Caesar’s face, and he looks at me for a long moment, as if assessing whether I’m really planning to be as cooperative as I look right now.

"I'll leave you two to talk," he says finally.

"Doctor, if you need anything at all, just let Marco know.

I have to step out, but you have my number as well. "

He closes the door behind him, and I hear the lock click. Dr. Ackley doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn't comment on it. Instead, she sets her bag down on the bedside table and pulls out a tablet.

"Well then," she says, settling into the chair by the window. "Why don't we start with some basic information? When was your last menstrual period?"

I answer her questions mechanically—dates, symptoms, medical history—while studying her face for any sign that she might be receptive to what I'm about to tell her.

She seems professional enough, taking notes on her tablet and asking follow-up questions that suggest she actually knows what she's doing.

She asks me about the pregnancy tests I took—how many, how far apart, what times of day—and writes everything down.

Finally, when she pauses to review her notes, I take a deep breath.

"Dr. Ackley," I say carefully, my heart pounding in my chest. I can feel my pulse fluttering wildly in my throat—if she checked it now, it would probably be alarmingly high. "I need to tell you something important. I'm being held here against my will."

She looks up from her tablet, her expression unchanged. "I see. Can you elaborate on that?"

The lack of shock or concern in her voice makes my stomach drop, but I press on. "Caesar Genovese kidnapped me from my home a week ago. He's keeping me locked in this room. I haven't been allowed to leave or contact anyone."

Dr. Ackley nods thoughtfully, as if I've just told her about a mild headache. "And how are you feeling about the pregnancy? Any nausea, fatigue, mood changes?"

The casual dismissal of what I just said hits me like a slap. "Did you hear what I said? I've been kidnapped. I'm being held prisoner."

"I heard you," she says calmly, still looking at her tablet. "You seem to be under some stress, which is perfectly normal during early pregnancy. Hormonal changes can cause emotional volatility and paranoia. It’s perfectly normal. We’ll need to monitor you for postpartum symptoms, definitely, with these kinds of issues—”

Paranoia. The word hits me like ice water. "I'm not delusional. I'm telling you the truth." Panic claws at my throat, making the words come out slightly strangled, and I know I’m not helping my case. Why did I think this would work?

"Of course you are, dear," she says, in the kind of patronizing tone usually reserved for hysterical patients. "Pregnancy can be overwhelming, especially when it's unplanned. It's natural to feel trapped or out of control."

I stare at her, understanding flooding through me with sickening clarity as I feel my stomach drop to my toes, a feeling of helplessness washing over me so strongly that tears prick at the backs of my eyes.

She knows exactly what's happening here. She knows, and she doesn't care. She’s either been paid off this once, or she’s deep in the mafia’s pockets already, and wouldn’t say a word no matter what I told her.

Help isn’t going to come from outside. In fact, I have no idea where it could come from now.

But I can’t just give in.

"I need to examine you now," she continues, pulling medical supplies from her bag. "If you could change into this gown..."

The examination is thorough and professional, but by the end of it, I feel numb.

Every question she asks feels like another nail in the coffin of my hope for rescue.

I try once more to tell her that Caesar brought me here against my will, that I want to leave, and she clicks her tongue before discussing calming exercises that can be used in lieu of medications while pregnant.

I don’t want to calm down. I want to strangle her. But I sit frozen at the end of the bed, realizing with every passing moment that I’m not getting out of here.

When she's finished, she snaps off her gloves and packs up her equipment with efficient movements. "Everything looks normal," she announces. "You're approximately a month along, which matches your dates. I'll want to see you again in four weeks for a follow-up."

“It’s not like I get a choice in the matter,” I mutter, sitting up and wrapping my arms around myself. “Sure. Whatever.”

She looks at me with what might be sympathy, if I didn't know better. "Miss Lewis, I understand this situation feels overwhelming. But you're carrying the child of a very powerful man who cares about your well-being. Many women would consider themselves fortunate."

"Fortunate," I repeat flatly.

"Mr. Genovese has arranged for the finest prenatal care, the best nutrition, a safe environment for you and your baby. You could do much worse." She pauses. “I’ve seen much worse. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt you.”

I want to scream at her, to shake her until she understands what she's saying. Instead, I just nod and watch her pack up her things.

"I'll send my report to Mr. Genovese," she says, heading for the door. "And I'll see you in a month."

The door closes behind her with a soft click, and I hear the lock engage. I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling more alone than I have since this nightmare began.

Even the doctor—someone who's supposed to help people, to "do no harm"—is working for him. How many people in this city are on Caesar's payroll? How many potential sources of help have already been bought and paid for?

I'm still sitting there, feeling numb and defeated, when Caesar returns about an hour later. He's carrying a takeout container and two bottles of water, which he sets down on the dresser. In his other hand are two large shopping bags, which I eye with distaste. I don’t need more clothes; he’s already bought me more than I could possibly wear.

But I suppose excess is a normal way of life for him.

“I brought you a club sandwich and fries from a bistro down the street,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Their food is excellent. How did the appointment go?"

"Fine," I say flatly, not looking at him. I’m not going to volunteer any details that I don’t have to. I have no interest in discussing this with him.

"Dr. Ackley said everything looks normal." He's clearly pleased about something, and it makes me want to throw something at his head.

"She told you everything, didn't she?" I ask flatly, unable to summon any real emotion. "Even though it's supposed to be confidential."

"Doctor-patient confidentiality is a luxury," he says calmly, a sound that’s rapidly becoming maddening to me. "When it comes to my child, there are no secrets."

I laugh then, a sharp, snorting sound. “The truth comes out. You’ve been so careful to call the baby our child, but you slipped, Caesar. You said your child.”

His lips press together, and I see a flash of irritation in his gaze. "Of course it's ours. But I'm the one responsible for protecting them."

“From what?” I shake my head. “Basic human rights?”