24. Aria
Chapter twenty-four
Aria
On my way home from work, as I’m about to respond to the taxi driver’s joke, my brain takes a sudden pause as a violent wave of nausea suddenly seizes me. My hands reach to clutch my stomach as my mouth becomes void of moisture, and my vision becomes slightly blurry. I can feel the old man’s eyes on me now.
“Miss? What’s wrong?”
I wave a hand weakly. “Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull the car over, hurry!” I yell.
He swerves to the side of the road just as I shove the door open and stumble out. My stomach revolts against me, and everything pours out at once, acid burning my throat.
The cheeseburger I had for lunch is all over the place as the sour taste lingers on my tongue. The world feels unsteady, like someone is trying to tilt it from under my feet.
I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m not. I’ve been feeling nauseous since this morning, but I thought the urge would be next to nothing once I closed from work.
My hands reach for my bag still slung over my shoulder, taking out a tissue to clean up the mess on my mouth as I climb back into the car, legs trembling.
The driver doesn’t ask anything, but the curious gaze he holds me in says more than enough. I’m sure it’s not what he’s thinking.
“I think it’s something I ate,” I mumble, not meeting his eyes. “Stop at the next pharmacy. I need to get some medicine.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A few minutes later, he pulls into a small parking lot. I get out without a word, the chilly evening air biting into my skin as I make my way into the store, scanning the aisles until I find what I’m looking for: a pregnancy test kit.
My eyes hover around the box for a few minutes, my heart thundering in my chest. “It’s just precautionary,” I say aloud to myself, just to rule it out. Nothing more.
When I climb back in, the driver wastes no time in starting the engine.
“Thanks.” It comes out as a squeak.
***
His hulking frame greets my sight as I enter the Donatelli premises.
Elio is standing by the door, intense eyes peering into something one of his men is showing him on an iPad. His gaze roams my face like a child ogling over sweets. A delighted expression crosses his face momentarily before a frown takes over.
“Aria,” his smooth voice calls out, “You look pale.”
I force a small smile. “Just tired from work. Long day.”
His brows pull together, a flicker of concern breaking through his previously tense expression. “Come, sit down.” He gestures toward the living room with one hand, placing his hand on the small of my back with the other to guide me in.
The plush couch I sink into feels like it might swallow me as I lay myself back to relax.
Elio crosses the room over to the kitchen, taking out a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator and holding it up for me to vet. My throat tightens as I nod, directing him to bring it over to me.
“Drink slowly,” he says, unscrewing the cap and handing the bottle over, the faint hiss of escaping air interrupting the silence in the room.
“Why do you push yourself to work so hard?” Elio asks, leaning against the back of a chair, arms crossed. His tone is softer now, and his dark eyes are fixed on my face. “When this is all over, things could be different. No work, no stress. Just you and the good life,” he continues.
“You don’t understand,” I begin, the tone of my voice betraying the perfect front I’m trying to portray. “When I was little, my mom…she…” My throat tightens, but I push the words through, “She died of cancer. It was just me, my dad, and my brother after that.”
Elio doesn’t move, but his gaze sharpens, his jaw tightening like he already knows where this is going.
“My brother,” I continue, “used to act all tough, like nothing could touch him. But he wasn’t. He was… soft. Sweet, even. He was an investigative journalist.” The words stick in my throat, causing a momentary pause. “Hardworking to the core but power-driven. He wanted to always be the one in charge. My dad always said he lived his whole life with an unhealthy gush of adrenaline. Just before he died, he got his hands on something, something big, about a politician. He told me it was dangerous, but he never got the chance to explain.”
The words no longer find free flow as my hands grip the couch like it might steady me. “He got mugged. At least that’s what they said, but it wasn’t random. I know it wasn’t. And now the case is sealed. Shoved under a rug like it never happened. No one talks about it. Not the cops, not the press. No one.”
Elio moves closer in soft steps. He kneels in front of me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“You are the strongest woman I know,” he says, reducing his voice to a whisper, “ Non permettere mai a nessuno di spezzarti (Never let anyone break you).”
His unexpected show of sweetness throws me a little off-balance. When I first met Elio, I thought he was just some arrogant, entitled jerk who was putting up a front, pretending to be a saint before everyone, while being the utter opposite.
But listening to him say those words to me with that genuine glint in his eyes, especially opening up to me earlier about how he was deprived of his mother at a very young age and how he missed his father’s love, made me realize that deep under his cold, ruthless facade, there is a part of him that could feel, hurt, understand and …even love.
His childhood has made him into the man he is today. I can imagine how lonely it must have been for him, how he always had to pretend to be okay even when he wasn’t. The thought of him having laid out in the cold or gotten scorched in the sun without an idea of where his next meal would come from… it was all too much for a child to bear. It all begins to make sense.
No wonder he’s so uptight and tense. Growing up, he only learned how to survive. He never learned how to live and love.
For a moment, I let myself lean into him as I let the warmth of his words settle the raging storm inside me. He pulls me away from him, steps forward a little to glare at one of his security personnel lurking around, then pulls me back into his arms a little more tightly than before. I’m about to ask what the issue with the security guy is, but then my stomach churns again, the nausea hitting me with great magnitude. I pull away immediately.
“I just… need to rest,” I croak when he eyes me wearily, schooling my features. He arches his brow even higher and looks like he’s about to say something, but I don’t wait to make sense of his reply. Hurriedly, I ascend the stairs and make a beeline to the bathroom in my room before the contents of my stomach begin to spill out of my mouth.
***
My heart is pounding in my chest like a wild animal trying to escape its cage. My eyes hold the two red lines staring back at me from the strip in utter shock.
Pregnant. I’m pregnant with Elio Donatelli’s child.
Well, congratulations on such a great fuck up, Aria Abruzzi!
The words resound consistently in my mind, yet I cannot fully grasp the reality of it. My palms roam my abdomen, as if by doing so, I can somehow reach for the unborn baby and check the validity of this pregnancy test.
“Arrrgh!”
A loud sound of guttural groaning fills the air while the shock from it causes the test strip to clatter to the ground.
What just happened? Could it be Elio? Is he hurt?
The sound comes again, louder this time. I doubt that it’s Elio; his baritone voice is lighter, but I pick up the strip, tuck it into my waistband, and head back into the living room quickly.
My feet stop in their tracks. There’s blood everywhere.
Elio has the collar of one of his men in his hands. The man’s face is barely recognizable and slick with red; his facial features have been punched into misalignment.
Elio’s eyes are darker than a fearsome storm about to devour the earth.
“Nobody. Looks. At. My. Woman!” Each of his words is punctuated with blows to the guy’s face. He stops for a moment, only to scream like an angry bull, “Nobody even breathes in her direction!” Still holding him by his collar, Elio’s nose is now almost touching his, “BECAUSE SHE’S MINE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
When he lets go of him, the guy’s body goes limp, flattening on the floor. To my shock, Elio still doesn’t let go. He puts his right foot on the guard’s chest, pressing, making him groan and mumble incoherent words. With his foot still in place, he bends down over him and roars into his face, “MINE ONLY!”
My breath catches as the realization hits me; I don’t know who this man is or what he’s capable of. But right now, he’s here, soaked in someone else’s blood, primal fury enveloping him like an animal from the wild.
“Stop!” The word tears from my throat as loudly as possible.
Elio’s fist freezes mid-air, his head snapping toward me. His eyes find mine, and in that moment, I can see everything. The rabid anger, the possessiveness, the dominance. The only emotion I cannot find is guilt.
He doesn’t feel that what he’s just done is not only wrong but inhumane.
The man between us writhes on the ground, moaning weakly. Elio’s fists knead, then hang limp at his sides, dripping with blood that pools at his feet.
My hands move instinctively to my stomach. It’s as if the reality of this?the marriage, our relationship, whatever it is?just now fully dawned on me.
This man standing before me, covered in blood, would forever be bound to the tiny life growing within me. The irony is not lost on me. I have always been a firm advocate for law and justice. But turns out my child’s father is a criminal mastermind, a murderer.
But one that would kill for YOU!
At the realization, I don’t know whether to scream, cry, or run. The air around me feels too thick to breathe. My chest is thudding wildly, especially from fear.
He takes a step toward me, and I flinch, taking two steps backwards to keep the distance between us.
“Elio,” I whisper, my voice trembling, breaking, “what have you done?”
His mouth opens, but no words come out. Just silence that stretches across the room, wide and endless, threatening to swallow us all.