Page 140 of Mafia and Gold Digger

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he grits out. He stands, tossing the onesie onto the bed.

“I needed time to process…”

His laugh is hard. Bitter and cold. “Why didn’t you tell me, Emerald?” he repeats, enunciating each word carefully.

“Would it have mattered?”

“And what the hell was up with Jaspar? Stopping the wedding and calling me a cereal thief like that?”

I close my eyes briefly, suddenly remembering what was far from Jaspar’s finest moment. “Oh God, now everyone's going to think that my thieving ways have rubbed off on you, Saint,” I groan.

“I don't care what anyone thinks,” he clips.

I shake my head. “This baby doesn’t stand a chance. Not with us as parents.”

He blinks at me, and for a split second, I see something flicker across his face. Not anger, not rage, not disappointment. Something like…hurt. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean, Saint. With a thieving gold digger for a mother and a lying assassin for a father, this kid is doomed to be just as messed up as we are,” I wail. The words spill from me before I can stop them. Because they’re true. Saint and I are both messed up in a big way, and I can’t believe we’re bringing a baby into this world.

“Being a kleptomaniac isn't a hereditary condition,” he says dryly before his gaze softens ever so slightly. “And I keep telling you, life isn't so black and white. You have to stop thinking in such absolutes. When I look at you, all I see is how intelligent and caring you are.”

I shake my head.

“Em, the baby will be strong like you, ruthless like me, and smart like both of us.”

“If it's a girl, she might not be ruthless.”

“If it's a girl, she can be compassionate like you.”

I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. “Just look at how I’ve done with Milena, for Christ’s sake. If that’s not proof that I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what is.”

“That’s why you ran?”

“No.”

His eyes harden again. “Don’t lie to me, Emerald.”

“You said yourself that you can’t offer me what I need, so why do you care if I ran or not? We both know this was just some…some mistake. Something we took too far.”

He steps closer, and I step back.

“Why did you run, Emerald?”

The soft edge of his demand is laced with something I don’t want to face right now, I don’t want to acknowledge. “Stop pretending you care, Saint.” My arms cross over my chest. “I don’t belong here with you. And you don’t belong with me either.”

I stare at him as my chest labors. The words that have been burning inside me these last few weeks have come surging to the surface.

Saint stares at me, but I shake my head. His jaw tightens, and he just stares, his dark eyes stormy and unreadable.

For a moment, I brace myself, waiting for him to fire back.

To show some kind of emotion that’ll crack all the walls between us.

To show me he can love me.

My stomach twists, and I wrap my arms around myself, barely holding in all the emotions that are fighting to burst out of me. I search for something to keep myself grounded, but I can’t fight it. The sight of that tiny onesie on the bed does the opposite, sending a wave of nausea through me. I should say something. Reach out to him—do anything—to break this tension. But the longer the silence stretches between us, the smaller and smaller I feel.

“I need to get some air,” I mutter. The words are hollow even to my ears, brittle and fragile as they tumble out.

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