Page 27 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss
But even as I think that, my mind is filled with a child who looks like my old boss. Markov Lunacharski. The man I gave my virginity to.
My heart does that pulsing thing, like it’s making a point.
I miss him.
I haven’t been able to listen to an audiobook since I left. I’ve told myself it’s because they’re expensive, and I need a job before I can indulge. But it’s not that. Not finishing books is for quitters, so there’s only one book available to me, and I know listening to Solene and Rovaj being happy and in love will make me leak from my eyes.
Again.
The basic testing kit says it takes a few minutes, and though it won’t have worked yet, I glance at the plastic wand as I wash my hands.
The second line has appeared immediately, with the enthusiasm of a toddler with a crayon.
Pregnant.
I scramble with the thin paper of the instructions, re-reading, but unable to see properly past the tears in my eyes. My heart bounces, and sheer joy wars with the urge to heave the contents of my stomach over my lap.
I’m pregnant with Markov Lunacharski’s baby.
Running my hand over my tummy, I can’t feel anything out of the ordinary, but my lips have pulled up and I could float away.
This is a beautiful disaster. The best thing that has ever happened to me, and showers bright sunshine through to my soul, and also a black-as-tar dread.
There was just a one in three chance of getting pregnant. It’s a miracle.
“Emily!” my mother yells again.
I snap a photo of the pregnancy test with my phone, and then stuff it into the box.
My dirty secret. My delicious secret. My hidden joy, and I want to be sure this is real by looking at the result later, when I’m in bed.
“You shouldn’t spend so long on the toilet. It’s not healthy,” she scolds when I go to her.
“Yeah.” But I’m not listening, and when she asks me to bring her a cup of tea, I almost run downstairs to put the kettle on with shaking hands.
I peek at the photo of the two lines on the test as the water boils. It’s still two lines.
I could see the doctor and ask to end the pregnancy, but I won’t, because in the part of myself that I keep under lock and key, hidden from everyone, I can admit that I wanted this.
Desperately.
Three months of spending time with Markov Lunacharski might not make me in love, but… Well. For a girl like me, inexperienced and alone, it feels a lot like love.
We had a connection.
I should let him know about the little life growing inside me.
I dunk the tea bag with unseeing eyes, and imagine going back to London, and my old workplace, somehow getting to see the head of the Mortlake mafia, and telling him I’m having his baby.
Could I email him? Because random emails are totally credible.
Right.
Even if I could get a message to him, what then? He’d think I got pregnant deliberately to trap him. Or maybe he wouldn’t say a word, and just pull his pistol out.
Mm. Death.
Perhaps not.
