Chapter 14
HANNAH
The nausea hits me like a freight train before I even open my eyes.
I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before my empty stomach tries to turn itself inside out. Dry heaves rack my body as I kneel on the cold marble floor, one hand pressed to my mouth, the other clutching the porcelain like an anchor.
This is getting worse.
When the worst of it passes, I sit back on my heels and press my palms against my face.
The reality settles over me like a weight I can't shrug off.
There's a tiny person growing inside me—half me, half Dante Sokolov.
A baby conceived during one night of passion that was supposed to be meaningless.
I was foolish enough to believe it would be consequence-free.
Nothing more than two strangers finding solace in each other's bodies.
Except it wasn't meaningless, and there are definitely going to be consequences.
I force myself to stand. I splash cold water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. I look pale, hollow-eyed, like I haven't been sleeping well. Which I haven't. Between the morning sickness and the constant anxiety about my situation, rest has become a luxury I can't afford.
My hope that I would sleep through all of this was officially dashed. Yes, I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. Not like that first night.
I stare at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman I was two months ago.
My breasts are tender, fuller than usual. My jeans have been feeling tighter around the waist, though I've been telling myself it's because they’re new. They’re not my old, worn ones. I just need to break them in.
But I know better.
Soon, I won't be able to hide this anymore.
I turn on the shower, letting the water heat while I strip off my pajamas. Steam fills the bathroom, clouding the mirrors. I step under the spray like I'm entering a confessional.
The water is too hot, but I don't adjust it. I scrub my skin with a washcloth until it's red and raw, trying to wash away the guilt and fear that seem to have taken up permanent residence under my skin.
Guilty for lying to Dante about something this important.
Guilty for enjoying his touch when I should hate him for what he's doing to me.
Guilty for the way my heart skips when he looks at me like I matter.
Guilty for wanting this baby even though bringing a child into this world—his world—is the most selfish thing I could do.
But the guilt clings to me like the steam in the bathroom. It’s impossible to scrub away no matter how hard I try.
By the time I emerge from the shower, my skin is pink and sensitive, but I don't feel any cleaner.
I dress carefully, choosing clothes that don't cling to my changing body, and make my way downstairs.
The house feels different this morning—quieter, more tense somehow. I notice additional security personnel at their posts, and everyone seems more alert than usual.
Something happened last night.
Dante had left in the afternoon and hadn’t returned by the time I went to bed. And for some stupid reason, I was actually worried about the asshole.
The kitchen is empty when I arrive except for Maria who's been nothing but kind to me since I arrived. She looks up from the stove when I enter, and her dark eyes take in my pale face with the kind of knowing look that makes my blood run cold.
"Good morning, Miss Hannah," she says. "I’ll make your tea."
I want to protest that I can make my own tea, but my legs feel shaky, and the kitchen smells like bacon and coffee and other things that make my stomach churn. I sink onto a stool at the breakfast bar and watch as Maria moves efficiently around the kitchen.
She sets a cup of ginger tea in front of me without being asked, the steam carrying that blessed scent that settles my nauseous stomach. Then she adds two slices of dry toast to a plate and places that beside the tea.
I stare at her, my heart pounding. Ginger tea and dry toast—the classic remedy for morning sickness. She knows. Somehow, she knows.
"Mr. Sokolov had to leave early this morning," Maria says conversationally, like she didn't just reveal my deepest secret with breakfast foods. "Business meeting. He said to tell you he'll be back this afternoon."
I nod, not trusting my voice. The tea is helping already, the ginger working its magic on my rebelling stomach.
Maria bustles around the kitchen, cleaning things that are already clean, humming softly under her breath. She doesn't say anything else about my condition, doesn't ask questions or offer advice. But I can feel her awareness like a presence in the room.
It should terrify me that someone else knows. Should make me panic about how I'm going to handle this secret spreading through the household staff.
But somehow, Maria's quiet understanding feels more like support than threat.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
She pauses in her cleaning to look at me. Her smile is warm with the kind of maternal kindness I haven't experienced since my own mother died.
"It’s nothing.”
Like providing exactly what a pregnant woman needs is the most natural thing in the world.
After breakfast, I wander through the house like a restless spirit.
The beautiful rooms that once felt like a luxury prison now feel like a trap closing in around me.
Every piece of expensive furniture, every priceless work of art, every perfectly arranged flower reminds me that this world operates by rules I don't understand.
What happens to women who get pregnant by Bratva leaders? Do they become permanent fixtures and kept like expensive pets for the sake of their children? Do they disappear quietly, sent away to some distant location where they can raise their babies in exile?
Or do they simply... disappear?
The thought makes me sick all over again.
I find myself in the garden, pacing the winding paths like a caged animal. The flowers are beautiful, the landscaping perfect, but all I can see are the fences that keep me trapped and the guards who watch my every move.
"Hannah!"
Mila's voice carries across the garden. I look up to see her running toward me with a book clutched in her hands. Her face is bright with excitement, dark hair flying behind her like silk ribbons.
"I finished the story you started yesterday," she announces, throwing herself against my legs for a hug. "The princess escapes from the tower and finds her own kingdom!"
Despite everything, I smile. "Did she now? What kind of kingdom?"
"One with lots of horses and ice cream trees and libraries in every room." Mila looks up at me with Dante's blue eyes, shining with imagination. "And no mean kings to lock her up."
The innocence in her voice makes me smile. Here I am, trapped in her father's house, carrying his child, and she's spinning fairy tales about princesses who escape their prisons.
"That sounds like a wonderful kingdom," I manage to say.
"Will you help me draw pictures of it?"
I look down at this beautiful little girl who has no idea her father is a dangerous criminal. She sees me as a friend instead of a prisoner and trusts me with her stories and her dreams. If only she knew I would leave her if Dante allowed me to.
In a few months, I’ll be giving birth to her half-sibling.
The thought is both wonderful and terrifying.
"Of course I'll help you draw it," I say, taking her small hand in mine. "Let's go get some paper."
We spend the afternoon creating Mila's perfect kingdom, drawing elaborate castles and magical creatures with her extensive art supplies.
She chatters constantly, telling me stories about the people who live in her imaginary world, describing adventures and happy endings with the confidence of someone who's never doubted that good always triumphs.
I want to protect that innocence. I want to make sure she never has to learn that sometimes the king really is mean. And the tower is nothing more than a pretty prison. Sometimes there are no happy endings, no matter how hard you fight for them.
But as I watch her color a picture of a princess riding a unicorn through a forest where nothing bad ever happens, I can't help but think about the baby growing inside me.
Will this child grow up in Mila's innocent world, shielded from the violence and cruelty that pays for their privileged life?
Or will they inherit the darker legacy of their father's world, learning too young that power comes from fear and love is just another form of weakness?
If it’s a boy, will he be expected to learn and participate in the violence?
The thought almost makes me sick. I would never wish Dante’s world on another person, let alone my own child. If I didn’t agree with his ways, would he take my son?
As the afternoon wears on and Dante still doesn't return, my anxiety builds. Maria brings us snacks and drinks, her eyes lingering on me with that same knowing concern. Mila continues her artistic projects, blissfully unaware of the tension radiating from every adult around her.
I sit there, coloring inside the lines of a fantasy kingdom, while inside me a tiny heart beats with the rhythm of a future I can't control.
Soon, I'll have to tell Dante the truth.
Soon, I'll have to face whatever consequences come with carrying the child of Chicago's most dangerous man.
But for now, I focus on Mila's bright chatter and try not to think about how quickly fairy tales can turn into nightmares.