7. Emilia
EMILIA
The air in the room is too thick, too heavy, like breathing through wet wool.
My chest burns, my ribs squeezing tight around lungs that won't fill.
The file lies open on the table, its contents screaming at me…
pages of lies, of things I never did, never would do.
My fingers dig into my thighs, nails biting crescents into my skin.
The pain is sharp, grounding, but it doesn't stop the tremors wracking my body.
Egor's shadow looms over me, his pewter eyes cold and unyielding. He doesn't believe me. He doesn't even look at me like he knows me. Like he never knew me.
"I didn't do this," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Egor, you have to listen?—"
"Enough." His hand slams down on the table, the sound like a gunshot. My shoulders jerk, my breath hitching in my throat. "I've heard enough of your lies."
Sergei steps forward, his face a mask of cold indifference. "Pakhan, what should we do? We can't let this slide."
Pavel nods, his arms crossed over his chest. "She's a liability. You know what needs to be done."
Dmitry's gaze flicks to me, something like pity flashing in his eyes before it's gone. "We should find out more about her connection with the rival mafias."
My stomach twists, nausea rising in my throat. They're not even giving me a chance. Not even trying to hear me out. My hands shake as I push the file away, the pages crumpling under my palms. "This isn't me. I swear?—"
Egor's jaw tightens, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. For a second, I think he might actually listen. But then his eyes flick to Sergei, to the others, and the moment passes. His expression hardens, his voice dropping to a lethal calm.
"Get out."
The words hit like a physical blow. My breath leaves me in a rush, my vision blurring. "What?"
"You heard me." His voice is ice. "Leave. Now."
The whispers start again.
"What?"
"She should be locked away."
The room spins. This can't be happening. He can't seriously believe I'd betray him. Not after everything. Not after us. My throat tightens, tears burning my eyes. "Egor, please…"
"Go." His voice is a whip crack. "Before I change my mind."
I don't wait for him to say it again. I stumble to my feet, my legs unsteady, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. The Bratva watches me, their gazes heavy, judgmental.
I turn toward the door, my sneakers scuffing against the concrete floor. My hands tremble as I reach for the handle, my fingers slipping on the cold metal. Behind me, Egor doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Doesn't stop me.
The door creaks open, the dim hallway stretching out before me like a tunnel. I step through, my breath hitching as the door clicks shut behind me. The sound is final. Irreversible.
I don't look back.
My feet carry me forward, my steps quickening as I make my way through the maze of hallways. The tears come then, hot and silent, streaking down my cheeks. I swipe at them angrily, my chest aching with every ragged breath. I don't understand. How could he believe this? How could he not believe me?
The exit looms ahead, the late afternoon sun spilling through the glass doors. I push through them, the fresh air hitting my face like a slap. It doesn't help. Nothing helps.
I break into a run.
My sneakers pound against the pavement, my lungs burning as I race down the sidewalk.
The Brighton Beach streets blur around me, the sounds of the neighborhood—laughter, music, the distant crash of waves—muffled by the roaring in my ears.
I don't know where I'm going. I just know I need to get away.
A sob tears from my throat, my vision swimming. I stumble, my knees hitting the concrete, my palms scraping against the rough surface. The pain is nothing compared to the ache in my chest, the hollow emptiness spreading through me like poison.
I press a hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but it's no use. The tears keep coming, my shoulders shaking with the force of my sobs. I don't know how this happened. How everything could fall apart so fast.
I don't know how to fix it.
I don't know if I can.
A Month Later
The morning light spills through the thin curtains of my tiny apartment, painting stripes across the worn floorboards.
My stomach lurches before I'm even fully awake, a wave of nausea rolling through me like a storm surge. I bolt upright, my hand flying to my mouth as my throat burns.
I barely make it to the bathroom, my knees hitting the cold tile as I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
My fingers grip the porcelain, my knuckles white, my body trembling with the effort.
The sour taste lingers, my throat raw, my head spinning.
I flush, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
What the hell did I eat?
I press a hand to my stomach, my mind racing. The leftover dish from yesterday? The coffee I drank on an empty stomach? My fingers drift lower, brushing against the soft fabric of my sleep shorts.
A cold realization slithers through me.
Wait… when was my last period?
I count backward in my head, my pulse quickening with every missed date. Three weeks. Four.
My breath hitches, my stomach twisting, not just from nausea this time, but from something far worse. Panic.
I stumble to my feet, my legs unsteady, and rush to the calendar hanging on the wall. My finger traces the days, my vision blurring as the numbers swim in front of me.
No. No, no, no.
This can't be happening.
Not now. Not after everything.
Maybe I'm counting it wrong.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, my fingers flying over the screen as I pull up the period tracker app. The little red dot is missing. The entire month is missing. My throat tightens, my chest constricting like a vise.
Oh God.
I don't think. I just move.
I yank on the first clothes I find—a faded hoodie, leggings, my sneakers—and grab my wallet from the counter. My hands shake as I shove it into my pocket, my keys jingling in my grip. The door slams behind me as I race down the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The corner store is only a few blocks away, but it feels like miles. My feet pound against the pavement, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The morning air is crisp, but I don't feel it. All I feel is the cold dread coiling in my gut, the weight of the unspoken truth pressing down on me.
The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, the fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of the refrigerators too loud. My fingers tremble as I grab a basket, my eyes scanning the shelves.
Pregnancy tests. Where the hell are the pregnancy tests?
I find them tucked between the condoms and the feminine products, a row of little boxes staring back at me like silent accusers. My stomach churns as I grab one—no, three—and toss them into the basket. I don't look at the cashier as I pay, my cheeks burning, my hands still shaking.
The plastic bag crinkles in my grip as I bolt back to the apartment, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my ears.
Please. Please let me be wrong.
The plastic sticks clatter against the bathroom sink, their little windows glowing with the same damning mark.
Two lines. Positive.
Three times over.
My breath stalls in my lungs, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. The porcelain bites into my palms, cold and unyielding.
No. This isn't happening. Not like this.
Maybe I saw it wrong.
I reach for them again.
The first test blurs as my vision swims, my throat closing around a choked sound. I blink hard, my nails digging into the countertop. Breathe. Just breathe.
But the air feels thick, like I'm drowning in it, my chest too tight to draw in anything real.
I reach for the second test, my hand shaking. The lines are darker this time, the pink stark against the white. My stomach lurches, my knees threatening to give out.
I grab the third one, my pulse roaring in my ears. Please. Please, let this one be different.
It's not.
The world tilts, the edges of my vision darkening.
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, my legs no longer able to hold me.
The tests slip from my fingers, scattering across the floor like fallen dominoes.
My hands fly to my stomach, pressing against the soft fabric of my hoodie.
There's a life in there. A tiny, fragile thing that didn't ask for any of this.
Egor's baby.
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut, my breath leaving me in a sharp gasp. My fingers curl into fists, my nails biting into my palms.
I grab my phone from the counter, my thumb hovering over Egor's name in my contacts. The screen blurs again, my vision swimming.
Should I reach out to him?
No.
He doesn't deserve to know. Not after the way he looked at me, like I was nothing. Like I was dirt. He didn't even let me explain. He just believed the worst. Believed I could betray him.
I delete his number instead, my thumb pressing down hard, like I can erase him from my life just as easily. The screen flashes, the contact disappearing into digital nothingness. My chest aches, but I ignore it.
But my throat burns, my eyes stinging. I swallow hard, my jaw clenching. No. I won't cry over him. Not again. Not when he made it so clear where I stood in his world.
I shove the phone into my pocket and stand abruptly, my legs unsteady, and grab the tests from the floor. My hands don't shake as I shove them into the trash can under the sink.
As I wash my hands, the bathroom mirror reflects a stranger… pale face, wild eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. I splash cold water on my cheeks, my skin tingling under the shock of it.
Get it together, Emilia. I can't afford to fall apart. Not when there's a life depending on me now.
I turn away from the mirror. The apartment feels smaller now, the walls closing in. I need air. Need space to think.
I grab my keys and step into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me. The stairs creak under my feet as I descend, my mind racing.
What now? Doctor's appointments. Prenatal vitamins. A job that won't exhaust me.
The morning sun is too bright as I step outside, the air crisp against my skin. I take a deep breath, my hands pressing against my stomach again.
I'll figure this out. I have to.
Because no one else will.