Page 143 of Mafia and Gold Digger

“Found out?”

“About the baby.” I look down at where my arms are wrapped around a pillow.

She rests her chin on my shoulder. “If he’s too stupid to see how amazing you are, that’s on him. You deserve someone better.”

I give a noncommittal hum. I just thought Saint was it.

“Is that why you ran?”

“No. I mean, maybe.”

“Girl, you are the talk of all the gossips. I thought that Marjorie Martinelli was going to have a cardiac arrest.”

A small chuckle leaves me as I imagine Marjorie’s reaction. “I’m happy that I provided some entertainment.”

She sighs and leans closer to me, hugging me tight. “Are you going back?”

I shake my head. The thought of seeing him right now makes my heart clench and bile crawl up my throat.

“You can stay here if you want.”

“Thanks. I don’t want to be a bother, though.”

“Uh, excuse you? We haven’t had enough girl time. So, you’re staying.”

I nod. “Do you think I can…just be alone for a bit?”

Jacquetta nods. “Sure. I’ll go get some blankets and sneak some cookies and something else for us.”

I give her hand a small squeeze. “Thanks. Really. I don’t know what I’d be like without you here.”

“You’d be utterly lost and sad without my amazingness in your life,” she quips.

This time, my laugh is a little stronger and less filled with tears.

“I’ll go see about the food situation and check on the rugrats.”

My fingers drift over my stomach beneath the pillow I’m clutching. Everything is a mess. I let Saint pull me in with pretty words and amazing sex. I let him fool me into wanting something with him. And thinking I had it with him, I had the rug pulled out from under me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stem the tears.

How could I be so damn stupid?

Every time I think the tears are going to stop, that I’m done crying, something else pops into my head and makes it start all over again.

He said it was real.

I grip the pillow tighter yet. It was just another lie from Saint. I should have seen it coming.

You come after peopleyou love. You fight for people you love to stay. You don’t let them walk out a door and hope they come back eventually. You tell them to sit down and talk. You do whatever you can to make things right.

A soft knock at the door draws my attention. I try to muster a smile, but I don’t quite make it as I feel another fresh sting of tears.

“Em?”

“I’ll be down in a bit,” I call out before burrowing my face into the pillow. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to say anything else. I want this hole that’s opened up in my chest to close up and stop leaking the life out of me.

I want to go back in time and tell myself to stop before I get too far into things with Saint. That those pretty words, those soft moments, and those feelings of butterflies in my stomach are going to be my ruin.

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