Page 109 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
“Who are they?” I managed, trying to keep my voice steady. “The Trinity?”
Megan looked at me with disbelief. “Seriously? Everyone knows the Trinity. They’re like, the most dangerous mafia clan in the city. Built their organization from nothing—no family connections, no inherited territory. Just pure ruthlessness and ambition.” She leaned closer, dropping her voice. “They say Anders Knight once killed a man for looking at his coffee wrong. And Conall O’Reilly? He can charm you into giving him your life savings and you’ll thank him for the privilege. Wyatt Slater’s the quiet one, but that just makes him scarier. Rumor is he can hit a target at a thousand yards without breaking a sweat.”
My mouth had gone dry. These were the men who’d been with me in that dungeon? The men who might be the father of the child I wasn’t pregnant with?
“When?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “When is this happening?”
“The raid on De Luca? Soon, from what Diego says. His cousin overheard something about a two- to three-week timeline.” She shrugged. “Not that it matters to us little people. One mafia boss or another, what’s the difference, right?”
The difference was that my father was still being held in De Luca’s compound. The difference was that if the Trinity—if Anders, Conall, and Wyatt—were planning an assault, there would be chaos. The perfect cover for a rescue attempt. The perfect chance to save my father before De Luca killed him out of spite or he got caught in the crossfire.
“Right,” I agreed absently, my mind already racing with possibilities. “No difference at all.”
By the time my shift ended, my head was a war zone of conflicting thoughts. The pregnancy test in my pocket felt like a live grenade; Megan’s words about the Trinity kept replaying on loop, and the revelation about De Luca’s impending downfall sent my strategic planning into overdrive.
I needed to think clearly. To plan carefully. To figure out what the hell I was going to do if?—
No. Not if. There was no if. I wasn’t pregnant. Couldn’t be. The universe might hate me, but it couldn’t possibly hate me that much.
The bus ride home was a special kind of torture. Every pothole felt like a personal attack, each sharp turn threatening to reintroduce me to my lunch. By the time I reached my stop, I was clammy and dizzy, clinging to the handrail as I dragged myself up the stairs to my apartment.
Mrs. Patel’s door opened as I passed, her face appearing with that uncanny sixth sense she had for distress. “Tyberius? You look dreadful, my dear.”
“Just tired,” I lied, forcing my face into what probably resembled a grimace more than a smile. “Long day of professional dish sanitization.”
“You look feverish.” She stepped into the hallway, pressing a cool hand to my forehead with the authority only grandmothers possess. “Come in. I’ll make you some tea.”
I wanted to refuse, to retreat to my apartment and face my potential crisis alone, but her kindness was so genuine I followed her inside like a stray puppy. Her apartment smelledof cardamom and ginger—scents that miraculously didn’t trigger my nausea.
“Sit, sit,” she insisted, guiding me to her worn armchair. “You’re working too hard, dear. Not eating properly. A young omega needs proper nutrition.”
I didn’t bother pretending with Mrs. Patel. She’d known what I was from the moment I showed up at her door, though she was kind enough to never mention it directly. One of the few people who saw me as a person first, omega second.
She bustled about her kitchen, preparing tea and arranging cookies on a plate. I watched her with a tightness in my throat, remembering my mother doing the same when I was a child. Before she got sick. Before cancer took her, leaving my father and me to navigate the world alone.
“Drink,” Mrs. Patel said, pressing a steaming cup into my hands. “Ginger tea. Good for upset stomach.”
I took a cautious sip. “Thank you.”
She beamed, settling into the chair opposite mine. “So thin,” she clucked, eyeing me critically. “But glowing, despite it all. Your mother had the same glow when she was carrying you.”
I nearly dropped the cup. “What?”
“Such a beautiful pregnant woman, your mother. Radiant.” Mrs. Patel smiled at the memory. “You have the same look now. The same glow.”
“I’m not— I can’t—” I stammered, setting the cup down with unsteady hands. “Mrs. Patel, I’m not pregnant.”
She looked surprised, then embarrassed. “Oh! Of course not. My mistake. Old eyes playing tricks.” She laughed nervously, waving a dismissive hand. “Forgive an old woman’s foolishness.”
But the damage was done. First Megan, now Mrs. Patel. Two people who had no reason to suspect, both seeing the same thing. It was like the universe was holding up a neon signflashing PREGNANT while I desperately pretended I couldn’t read.
“I should go,” I said, standing abruptly. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Tyberius,” she called as I reached the door. “If you were… in a delicate condition… you would have support. You know that, yes? Your friends, they would want to know.”
Friends. The word made me pause with my hand on the doorknob. “What friends, Mrs. Patel?”
“The ones who care for you,” she said vaguely, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on her sleeve. “The ones who make sure you’re provided for.”
