Page 113 of I Would Beg For You

The first thing thathits me when I wake up is that my hands aren’t on my belly.

Why not?

Panic grabs me, and I scramble to reach down, to settle my palms over the rounded curve, to feel something, anything. When the tiny flutter inside registers, growing stronger against my touch, I breathe out a sigh of relief and fall back onto…soft pillows and a cool mattress?

My eyes pop open, and I sit up with a start. This is a room I don’t know. The walls are pale blue striped wallpaper, the furniture and décor the kind to grace a Pinterest board dedicated to cottage-core interiors.

There’s a tug on my left hand, and I glimpse the IV going into my vein. Horror floods me, and I want to retch. Not again! If they’ve put a line in, that means they’re feeding me drugs. I might still be in that dank basement behind the vault doors, only my mind is playing tricks on me, making me see this well-appointed bedroom, and—

The flutter against my belly deepens, growing more hectic. More agitated.

No… I gulp down hard. Something bad isn’t happening to my baby. It can’t be happening. I have to protect her, look out for her. I force myself to breathe in deep and think. When did this increased activity start? When I noticed the plastic tube going from the cannula stuck in the back of my hand. I panicked, and this in turn made the baby panic.

Okay, note to self when expecting: think of the baby first.

I force deep breaths in, trying to calm myself and sharpen my focus. When I open my eyes after my breathing has quietened, I glance around the room again and pinch myself on the arm. It hurts, so not dreaming. I am indeed here. Next, I train my gaze onto the pouch of clear liquid hanging from a metal pole. It seems to read Glutathione on the label. That’s not something harmful. In fact, I was reading about this a while back—it’s a master antioxidant, useful for healing, and there’s nothing it can’t do to help the body work at its peak. It was all the rage on health blogs and in women’s mags not long ago.

Not a poison, not a drug, not a hallucination. And I’m not in that basement, though I don’t recognize this place. I’m not in the Short Hills house, nor at home. Is this another of Valentino’s safe houses?

I jerk upright. Val! Where is he? What happened to him? I haven’t seen him since we were separated in that hotel room. Me being here, it must mean he got me out. A burst of warmth surges in my chest. He came for me. He saved me. Just like I knew he would.

“Val?” I call out.

When no one comes, I frown a little. Wait, IV in my hand. Last time, Renata put it in and got it out. Maybe she’s around.

“Renata?” I call a little louder.

A few moments later, the small woman bustles into the room, coming over to me in a cloud of rambling Italian.

“Ah, piccola. You are awake.” She takes my face in both her palms and kisses me on the cheeks. “You want this out, I assume,” she continues, waving at the IV. “You were so severely dehydrated, and Victor suggested the glutathione will help you recover…”

She rambles on, but I’m not really listening anymore.Victorsuggested the drip? Not a doctor? Valentino would’ve had a doctor here before we’d even reached the house. As it stands, it appears I’ve been looked over by a nurse and my brother-in-law.

Something’s not computing…

“Where’s Valentino?” I ask.

Silence meets me. There’s movement in the doorway of the bedroom, and I look up to find the wall of muscle that is Victor there, and I do a double-take when I see another man next to him. He looks so much like Luciano, but it’s not him. This one is prettier, like a male model.

“Franco?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

He smiles widely and strolls into the room to come hug me on the bed. I wince a little when his arms close around me, and I guess he felt that because he moves away abruptly all while making sure not to jerk me in the process.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Everyone’s got to meet you already except me,” he replies. “I was getting impatient, decided to pop on a plane and come back. London was getting boring, too. About to go into its yearly two weeks of heatwave.”

I can’t help but think he’s telling the truth, yet he also sounds too glib. Valentino was right—Franco is indeed a playboy now, and he has the suave manner and easy touch and speech to charm people in a snap.

I won’t get any answer from him—suddenly, I know there’s something they’re not telling me. A round of flutters in my belly starts anew, and I place a hand over it as I turn to Victor, who’s come into the room and is standing a few paces away.

“Where Val?” I ask him.

His rough-hewn face grows tense, a tightening evident at the corner of his lips.

I swallow, hard. Dread is flooding me, but I recall Serafina, my daughter—I’ve already started calling her by this name in my mind. I force myself to breathe, thinking of her.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask, looking at all three of them in turn.

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