Page 113 of Mafia King of Lies

When my eyes open, I meet his raging pupils that stare into the deepest parts of my soul. “You should get to work.”

His eyes flick over me once more before he finally nods.

I watch as he rises from bed, the muscles in his back flexing as he moves toward the closet. Matteo is not a man who missesanything, and I know that even though he’s letting this go for now, it won’t be for long.

So I do what I have to.

I fake another smile. I kiss him goodbye. I let him think that everything is fine. And then, as soon as the door closes behind him, I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

I fall back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it’s even worth looking at the flash drive—or if it’ll just bring new battles we’ll have to face.

The house is quiet as I make my way to the kitchen. A few of Matteo’s men nod in greeting, but I barely acknowledge them—my mind too tangled in itself. At first, the extra security bugged me, especially with the fact that they were now inside the house.

But as the days moved on, I got used to them. Now, I barely notice their presence unless they speak.

I brew a cup of tea, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic, hoping it will steady me. It doesn’t.

My stomach churns, and for a moment, I think it’s just the stress—the weight of everything piling onto my shoulders. But then a sharp nausea rolls through me, and I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, retching into the toilet.

I gasp for air, my forehead pressing against the cool porcelain as my body betrays me. My mind runs with wild ideas of what could have possibly upset me this bad. Is it that drive? Or is it the fact that I’m hiding something from my husband?

The flash of my ring against the light makes me pause. I flush the toilet and get myself back on my feet. My ribs scream in agony from the force they just underwent. I can’t remember the last time I got sick like this. Maybe it was what I ate yesterday—barely anything at all.

“Stress, it has to be stress,” I say to myself.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the edge of the sink, my hair curtains my face as I blink back the moisture. My reflectionin the mirror is pale, my lips slightly parted as I take slow, measured breaths.

The wave of nausea passes, but my mind won’t quiet. Could I be…?

I shake my head, the blaring of my phone breaking my internal freak-out. I grab it with unsteady hands and see Ginny’s name flashing on the screen.

I hesitate for only a second. “Hey.”

The moment she hears my voice, she knows something isn’t right. “What is it?” This woman has begun to know me all too well now.

I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temple. “I just don’t… I don’t feel well.”

Ginny is silent for a moment. “Are you sick?”

“A lot on my mind, I guess… and I just threw up, so maybe it was the tea? Or something I ate last night. I don’t know.”

Ginny remains silent on the other side of the line. I remove my ear from my phone to see if maybe she hung up. No, she’s still there.

“Ginny?”

She clears her throat but says nothing at first. Then she finally speaks, “Maria… when was your last period?”

The question lands like a punch to the stomach.

I blink. My mouth suddenly feels dry. It was the same thought I’d had just before she called—but one I refused to believe.

“I… I don’t remember.” I try to think back. I count back the weeks, and then I pause. “Oh, shit. Almost eight weeks ago, I think.”

“Oh my God,” Ginny breathes. “You need to take a test.”

A heavy, sinking weight settles in my chest. “No,” I say quickly. “It’s just stress. It’s?—”

“Maria,” Ginny cuts me off, her voice firm but gentle. “Just take the test. I can bring one to your house right now if you want me to and?—”

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