Page 127 of Mafia and Gold Digger

I pray Saint doesn’t come home just yet. I don’t know if I can face him right now. I get that Saint’s not good with emotions—maybe that’s why he doesn’t understand what I’m going through. I mean, Ronnie’sdead. He was one of my best friends. Yeah, we didn’t work out as a couple because he was truly shit as a boyfriend, but we were best friends before that, and we eventually managed to go back to being best friends after that as well. It’s like Saint doesn’t get that guys and girls can just be friends. I know we have history, but I was one hundred percent over all of that.

I know I’d also be this upset if Jacquetta and Nicki, my other best friends, died. I would be just as distraught. Would Saint show such a lack of understanding then as well?

I sigh and head into the bathroom. “Okay. Just pee on the stick. It’s not hard,” I murmur to my reflection in the mirror, trying to psych myself up. If the mental gymnastics I did are right, I’m almost two weeks late.It’s just stress.

The timer is set, and I lean against the wall, tapping my foot up and down. Every little noise in the house makes me jump.

Three minutes is an eternity when the only thing you can think of is how it better not be positive. Because I don’t even know if I’m ready for a baby. I mean, one day, but not now when I have my siblings to look out for and when my relationship with Saint is so up and down. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. When did it even happen? I’m on the shot, so it seems impossible, right?

I’d say it was an Immaculate Conception, but I’m not the religious type, and Saint’s not a god even if he thinks himself one. Gnawing my lip, I try to think back. We’ve been fairly active—perhaps a little excessively—but it’s hard not to give in when he knows just how to play my body.

The buzzer of my phone fills the space, and I scramble to shut it off quickly. Holding my breath, I wait to hear if anyone heard it blaring. My chest heaves. One second. Then two. I relax slightly and close my eyes.

“Okay, it’s gonna be fine,” I whisper, trying to will my eyes to open. I lift an eyelid a millimeter at a time.

The room spins.

“Oh, come on!” I grip the vanity edge.

Two little blue lines stare up at me, and I think I’m going to be sick again.

My hands shake as I toss the test, box, and instructions into the trash, tying up the bag. I gnaw my lip as I go downstairs and dump the bag into the bin outside. I need something to take the edge off. To keep me from going crazy. And I know exactly what’s going to help. I can’t drink. I can’t sneak a cigarette. But I can do the next best thing.

I grab my purse from inside and tell Dario that we need to go out again. And as we drive, I let my mind race over what my life has turned into—something I have absolutely no control over.

I let out a shaky breath. The good thing about New York is that there’s always a store with late hours. This outlet mall is no different, and people are still milling about. I slip into the crowd of evening shoppers, Dario and another one of Saint’s men tailing me.

I’m like a junkie in need of a fix. I watch as people move in and out of the stores with their purchases. Off the bat, I know exactly which stores will make good marks. The security is slow here, too busy trying to stay awake or looking at their cells.

It’s like riding a bike. I lick my lips and slip into a store after telling the guys to wait outside. This place mostly sells women’s clothing, but I head toward the small area off to one side. It has a sign with building block icons and the word ‘Baby’ splayed across it, making my heart rate triple.

But I’m just here to browse.

I’m just here to get that adrenaline rush.

I’m not going to steal anything—because I’ve stopped that.

I start browsing, eyeing the cameras and reflective mirror in the corner. A lot of stuff has no security tags, which would make it easier if I was going to steal something.But I’m not going to steal.

My fingers brush the soft onesies in pastel colors. They’re cute. Little giraffes, bears, and elephants decorate a lot of them. My hand skims past them. I stop when there’s a onesie with chess pieces and puzzle pieces decorating it.

Should I buy it?

Probably…

But I’m not buying it.

I dart a look over each shoulder before picking up the onesie. Then I turn toward the entrance like I’m looking at the other racks. My fingers smoothly slide the outfit from its hangers, I slip the onesie into my spacious purse, and the hanger is discarded by hooking it onto a messy sales rack.

My body is thrumming to life as I move out of the store.

I keep an eye on the security as I make my way down to the fancy boutiques, but they don’t even pay me any mind. Easy.And I feel alive.

I know what I’m doing is completely wrong. But the only thing I can think is that the anxiety bubbling and boiling over in my stomach has settled. And for the first time since I woke up today, I feel like myself.

Well, myselfplus one.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT

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