Page 99 of Possessive Mafia Vows

“Seriously, that’s what you took from this conversation?” He chuckles, the sound setting my back teeth on edge. “You’re pregnant, Sienna. And your lover has until midnight GMT to save you by handing over the Titan.”

With that, he slams the door shut and locks it behind him.

I lose track of time in the dingy windowless room.

My knee has swollen to twice its size, but the dull throbbing ache is nothing compared to the thoughts swirling around inside my head.

I’m pregnant.

I’m having Kyle’s baby, and he doesn’t even know.

I lay on my side on the cot, shivering beneath the blanket, my arms cradling my belly. I try counting back the days to my last period before the gallery opening and realize that I’m overdue. With all that has happened, it was the last thing on my mind, but I’m never late.

Ever.

I’m still in the fetal position, bloody knees pulled up to my chest to conserve as much body heat as possible when I hear the key in the lock.

I sit upright, clutching the blanket to my chin as the slice of meager light enters the basement.

It isn’t Nick.

I don’t recognize this man. He’s shorter than Nick, his muscles are so pumped that his arms don’t touch his sides, and his legs are bowed. His hair is thick, jet-black. His dark eyes are deep-set beneath protruding eyebrows. He’s wearing a black sweater and black pants. It’s hard to imagine him in any other color.

I start shivering again, although it’s hard to tell if it’s from the rush of icy air on my back when I sat up or this man’s appearance.

He kicks the door closed behind him, shutting him in with me.

“Food.” He comes closer and sets a plastic tray down on the floor next to the cot.

I don’t move. I feel his eyes on me, raking my body through the thin blanket.

“Eat.” He slides the tray closer with the toe of his boot.

“I’m not hungry.” I’m ravenous, but I won’t be able to swallow food in his presence.

“You want me to feed you?”

Something cold and slimy slithers down my spine and makes my heart race. I shuffle backwards along the cot until my spine hits the wall.

“I can feed myself.”

“I’ll wait.” He has a heavy accent. Russian? He seems totally unfazed by the chill in the air.

“Why? What do you think I’m going to do with it?”

He grins. “Why don’t you show me?”

“I told you I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later.” My voice trembles, and I can tell when his mouth lifts in one corner that he heard it too.

“And I told you to eat now.” He crouches beside the bed, picks up a triangular sandwich, curling at the edges, and offers it to me.

“No.” I hold his gaze.

I could make a dash for the door, but my ankle is probably sprained, and my knee is going to hold me back. He’ll reach the door before me, and then he’ll know that I’m afraid.

Without missing a beat, he grabs my hair, tilts my head backwards, and shoves the sandwich into my mouth.

I can’t breathe. I try spitting the food out, but my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth, and my neck is burning. I can’t swallow. I try pulling the food from my mouth, but he slaps my hand away and pushes the food down my throat with his index finger.

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