Chapter Twenty Seven
Victoria
I sit on my couch with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and try not to look toward the cracked bathroom door.
Which is stupid.
I cannot see the test from here.
I put it on the counter, then immediately decided I could not look at it any longer, so I slid it behind the little basket of extra hand towels, like that somehow changes what it says.
It does not.
One line would have fixed everything.
Well, almost. It would have let me breathe.
But two lines are sitting in my bathroom.
Not one. Two.
I pull the blanket tighter around myself and stare at the blank television screen
My reflection stares back at me, pale and hollow-eyed and wrapped in fleece like a woman recovering from the flu instead of a woman whose entire life has just changed because she had the best sex of her life with Mario Conti.
I press my hand against my mouth.
The word still feels impossible.
Too big for me to process.
Too big for a Monday afternoon when I am supposed to be reviewing operations documents and taking notes and pretending I am not professionally entangled with a man who can ruin me.
Not ruin me.
That is dramatic.
Mario is not going to ruin me.
Probably.
My stomach twists.
I close my eyes.
Do not start again.
I cannot do Mario, and Anna, and pregnancy all at once. My brain keeps trying to line them up into one terrible, unsolvable equation, and I cannot let it. I cannot keep asking questions that make me feel like I am falling through the floor.
First, I need more facts.
I have one fact now.
A positive test.
Which is not enough.
False positives happen.
Rarely.
I know that. I looked it up already. Of course I looked it up already, standing barefoot on the bathroom tile with my phone in one hand and the test on the counter.
False positives are uncommon.
Evaporation lines are possible.
User error is possible.
Expired tests are possible.
I checked the expiration date twice.
It is not expired.
I took another one.
Also positive.
That one is in the trash, wrapped in toilet paper.
The third is next to it.
I laugh once.
It comes out thin and ugly, bordering on crazy.
I press my fingers to my eyes until I see sparks.
Okay.
Okay.
Think like a lawyer.
Facts.
Positive home pregnancy test. Possible early pregnancy. Need medical confirmation. Need an appointment. Need to know timing. Need to know options. Need to know what I am legally, medically, emotionally supposed to do next.
Need to stop shaking.
I lower my hands and reach for my phone on the coffee table.
There are messages.
Ainsley, again.
Benjamin, confirming he covered the 10:30.
One missed call from my mother that has nothing to do with any of this and somehow makes me want to burst into tears.
And Mario.
My entire body goes still.
One message.
You left the office sick. Are you all right?
I stare at it for so long the screen dims.
Then I tap it awake again.
Of course he knows I left.
He knows everything that happens under his roof.
It does not mean anything.
It does not mean he knows why.
He cannot know why.
Unless—
No. Stop.
He knows I was sick. That is all.
I sit there, thumb hovering over the screen, trying to decide what a normal person would send.
A normal woman who had eaten something bad.
A normal outside counsel attorney who needed to work from home.
A normal person who did not have a positive pregnancy test hidden behind hand towels, two more in the trash, and a search history full of his dead wife.
I type:
Yes. Home now. I’m fine.
I stare at it, then I delete it.
I type:
Yes. I think I ate something that disagreed with me.
That sounds ridiculous. Weak. Too casual.
I delete it.
I type nothing.
The screen dims again.
Coward.
I am a coward.
I slept in his bed. I let him inside me. I let him feed me breakfast in his garden. I let myself feel seen by him, wanted by him, claimed by him in a way that should have terrified me long before now.
And now I cannot answer a text.
Because what if answering opens the door?
What if he calls?
What if he hears my voice and knows?
What if he comes here?
My gaze snaps toward the door.
He would not.
Would he?
I do not know.
That is the problem.
I do not know what he does when he is worried.
I do not know what he does when he feels ignored.
I do not know what he does when a woman carries something of his and does not tell him.
My hand moves to my stomach again.
There is nothing to feel.
It is too early. Barely anything.
Still, my palm stays there.
And something in me breaks. A small, silent fracture deep inside me.
Because for one second, under all the fear and panic and horror and uncertainty, there is something else.
Something soft and so dangerous, I almost shove it away before it can finish forming.
A baby.
His baby.
My baby.
No.
I cannot afford softness.
Not until I know what I am dealing with.
Not until I know who I am dealing with.
Mario.
Anna.
The way he touched me.
The way he looked at me when I said I was his.
I stand too fast, and the room sways.
I grip the back of the couch until it settles.
Water.
I need water. Food. A doctor. A plan.
I walk to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and take small, careful sips, not keen on vomiting it all up again.
I walk back to the couch and eye my phone. I set the water down with care and pick the phone up.
Then I type before I can lose my nerve.
I’m home. Not feeling well. I’m going to rest and work later if I can.
I read it once.
It gives him something without really giving him anything.
I hit send.
The reply comes so quickly, I stop breathing.
Mario: Do you need a doctor?
My eyes burn.
It’s a practical question, and it should not make me want to cry.
Do I need a doctor? Yes.
But not the one he thinks I need.
I type:
No. I’m okay. Just need sleep.
Lie.
Lie.
Lie.
I send it anyway.
Then I turn the phone face down on the couch.
For five seconds, I feel almost in control.
Then it buzzes again.
I do not touch it.
I cannot.
Instead, I stand and walk toward the bathroom.
My feet stop at the doorway.
The test is still there.
Hidden, but not gone.
I step inside and move the basket.
Yup, still two lines.
I sit down on the closed toilet lid and stare at it.
“What am I going to do?” I whisper.
No one answers.
Because the only person who would have an answer is the one person I cannot ask.
I sit there until the silence starts to feel worse than the fear.
There are two lines staring back at me. I need to see a doctor, yes. But the test knows it, the two in the trash know it, and so does my body. I don’t think a doctor is going to tell me any different.
It’s about time I did something about it.
I can’t keep sitting here and staring at it because I am going to lose whatever small grip I have left.
And the fact is, this is not who I am.
I stand, take the test off the counter, and put it in the drawer beneath the sink.
I wash my hands.
This isn’t me. I’m not the moping type.
I’m the get-shit-done type. The time for moping and wallowing is over.
I go back to the couch, pick up my laptop, and pull it onto my lap.
My phone is still face down beside me.
I do not look.
Not yet.
I need answers first. Real answers.
Not medical-site panic. Not anonymous message board speculation. Not translated fragments of Italian articles that may or may not be accurate. Real information, from somewhere I can verify.
I open my browser again.
All the tabs are still there, but there’s one specific one I keep returning to. Maybe because it’s one of the few that’s local and in English.
It was written not long after Mario took over what used to be Hawthorne Investments.
A profile, mostly. It’s not as business-toned as I wish it were.
It’s a bit tabloid-y, but nothing too focused on the business mentions his wife or anything personal beyond the vague “he came from Italy,” so this is really the only choice I have.
I skim past the paragraphs about the business and zero in on the background paragraphs.
Widowed father of twin sons.
The late Anna Conti, who died in Naples roughly a decade earlier under circumstances that were never fully publicly clarified.
Never fully publicly clarified.
I stare at those words until they blur.
There it is again—that careful way of saying something without actually saying anything.
It’s not an accusation. That would be an open-and-shut libel case.
This is more like a door left cracked.
I scroll to the byline.
Cindy Sullivan.
I click her name.
Nothing.
I copy it and open a new search.
Cindy Sullivan, journalist, Chicago
A LinkedIn site comes up, and I click that first.
A picture of a pretty middle-aged woman with a chic brown bob is revealed. Under it, she describes herself as an Independent Journalist. Long-form reporting. Investigative profiles. Chicago business, philanthropy, political donors, and private wealth.
I read through her profile and see that she’s written a few pieces for a business magazine, some random newspapers here and there. It’s not hard-hitting journalism or anything.
But I wasn’t expecting that. No one who wanted to keep a career at the Chicago Tribune or Forbes would ever speculate on the mysterious death of a wealthy man like Mario Conti. So, I have to settle for an independent journalist who sometimes writes for…
I suppress a sigh.
For Chicago After Dark.
I need to do this.
I open my email—not my work email. Nothing connected to Murray Legal or with my name in it. This is an email I created in middle school that I keep around purely to give to stores to catch all the spam.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before I start typing.
Then delete it.
Start again.
Delete that too.
Everything I write sounds stupid and silly.
I press my lips together and finally start typing again, not giving myself time to overthink.
Subject: Follow-up on Mario Conti profile
Ms. Sullivan,
I read your article on Mario Conti and the acquisition of Hawthorne Investments.
I’m trying to find additional background on Mr. Conti, particularly regarding references to his late wife, Anna Conti, and the circumstances surrounding her death.
I understand you may not be able to share source information, but if there are additional articles, records, or public materials you relied on, I would appreciate being pointed in the right direction.
Thank you,V.
I stare at it.
It is too lawyerly.
Too formal.
Too obviously someone trying very hard not to sound involved.
Stop overthinking this!
I send it before I can lose my nerve.
The second it is gone, I nearly slam the laptop shut, but manage to maintain my composure.
I set the computer on the coffee table and stand, because sitting still makes everything worse.
I walk to the kitchen.
Take two crackers from a sleeve in the cabinet.
Nibble one corner. Regret it instantly.
Take another sip of water.
Walk back to the couch and finally check my phone.
Rest. Work can wait.
I soften before I can stop myself.
I cannot bring myself to answer.
My laptop dings.
I freeze.
No.
There is no way.
It has been maybe half an hour.
I sit down too fast, grab the laptop, and open my email.
It’s a response from Cindy Sullivan.
My heart starts pounding again.
Ms. V,
Thanks for reaching out. Most of what I relied on for that piece is either linked below or came from archived reporting in Italy around the time of Anna Conti’s death. I’ve included a few English-language references and translated summaries that may be helpful.
Best,Cindy
Below the email are links.
I click the first one.
Seen it.
Second.
Seen it.
Third… Fourth…
My hope deflates so quickly it almost makes me dizzy.
Absolutely nothing new.
I reply before I can overthink it.
Thank you for sending these. I’ve come across most of them already.
I’m sorry to ask directly, but did you find anything that was not available online?
Any public record, archived source, or reporting note that pointed you toward the wording in your article about the circumstances not being fully clarified?
I hit send.
Then I wait.
This time, the answer comes much quicker.
There was more, but not the kind of thing I want to put in writing.
Too easy to misconstrue, and I am careful about leaving a trail when discussing people with Conti-level legal resources.
May I ask the reason you’re inquiring? If you have a legitimate reason for asking, I’d be open to speaking in person.
My skin goes cold.
There is more.
But not the kind of thing she wants to put in writing?
I read it again.
Then again.
My hands start shaking.
A legitimate reason. What qualifies as legitimate?
I am pregnant with his child and trying to decide whether I may be carrying the baby of a man who killed his wife?
I get the feeling Cindy Sullivan would have a field day with that one.
I set the laptop down on the couch and walk away from it.
I make it three steps.
Then stop.
Can I do this?
Can I really meet a journalist and ask questions about Mario?
A woman who writes about Chicago’s elite. A woman who may have sources, notes, suspicions. A woman who could misunderstand my interest, trace me, expose me, or… realize I am part of a story.
And if she tells me something terrible?
What then?
Can I live with knowing?
Can I live with not knowing?
My stomach turns again.
I press my hand over it.
This time, the gesture stops me cold.
“My baby.” The words come out quietly but determined.
They’re not wrapped in fantasy or fear.
They’re fact.
There is something inside me now that did not exist before.
I can no longer make decisions the way I would if it were only me.
I have to know.
For my own sake, yes, but not only mine. Not anymore.
If there is a chance Mario is dangerous in the way those articles suggest, then I have to find out before I tell him anything. Before he has time to decide what happens next. Before I put myself and this baby directly in the center of his world with no idea what that world truly is.
I sit back down.
My hands are still shaking when I pull the laptop closer.
I type one line.
When and where?