Chapter 24 – Poppy
“Penny? It’s me?” I pushed the door to her bedroom open.
The blinds were pulled close, but the thick curtains were tied back to let the muted light fill the space. It was surreal, a bad omen. Because lying in the fetal position, on top of the fluffy white quilt, was my radiant cousin, staring across the room at the wall.
I closed the door softly behind me and hurried to her. “Hey you, I’m back.”
Her smile wobbled and fell a moment later. “You didn’t ask on the phone.”
“I didn’t have to.” I brushed her hair off her forehead, feeling the oily strands that were in-between wash day. “I was paying attention when Brady and I were here.”
She shuddered and looked back toward the wall. “Funny, Alessio doesn’t know.”
I tucked my bare feet under me. “You hid it well, I’ll admit.”
“What gave me away?”
Saints, her voice sounded far away. It was like her mouth was a participant, but her mind wasn’t there.
“You kept scooting your booze away.” I rubbed her shoulder. “Does it hurt? Can I get you a hot pad for the cramps?”
Penelope curled tighter, her breath ragged. “That’s just it! There aren’t any this time. I felt completely normal. Almost twelve weeks, Poppy. Twelve weeks, and it was fine!”
I nodded, not that she could see.
“I got up, ate, worked out, and went to shower…and….”
“And you’re bleeding,” I finished, those three words choking me.
“Yup, dark stains.” She uncurled one hand and reached for mine. I gave it to her. “Thank you for coming.”
Leaning down, I kissed her forehead. “I’m here. We don’t have to talk, but if you need anything, tell me.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “I can’t tell Alessio.”
“He won’t be mad,” I said quickly.
Penelope shook her head. “It’s killing me. But it’s worse for him. He feels so…helpless.”
Silence fell around us. The pain was there, brutal and raw.
The bedroom felt like a sanctuary of mourning.
The muted sunlight cast zebra stripes across Penny’s collection of framed photos on the dresser—her and Alessio on their anniversary, the two of them hiking in Yosemite, a group shot of all of us at Christmas.
The room smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser in the corner, a scent that usually brought calm but now seemed to mock the heaviness in the air.
I watched as Penny’s fingers tightened around mine, her knuckles whitening. Her wedding ring caught what little light there was, sending a prism across the ceiling for just a moment.
We sat that way for what felt like hours, but it was just the slow march of the minutes. The soft ticking of the bedside clock marked a half hour, but neither of us acknowledged it.
“You’re lucky to have Brady,” Penelope finally said. “I guess that’s the only way I’ll be a mom at this point. But I was stubborn, you know? I wanted to grow one myself.”
I did too. I still wanted my own.
Not because I loved my son less, but because there was a primal desire deep within me that wanted to feel every aspect of growing life. Of bringing it into the world. To nurse it into those first few blissful days.
I could still have that. Ivan admitted he was interested in having children with me.
That idea sent a little thrill through my chest.
Why was I holding back? Because I was once more in the underworld? This could be the place I found my happily-ever-after.
Or maybe it was the trap that would imprison me for the rest of my days.
The tangle of thoughts twisted through my mind. It seemed wrong to be dwelling on my own problems when my cousin’s hopes and dreams were crashing around her.
“Poppy,” Penelope breathed.
I started realizing that she’d been talking. “Yeah?”
“How are things? You haven’t responded to a single message.” The accusation in her words was another blast of guilt.
“Ivan took my phone. He only gave it back because….” Because why? Pity? Generosity?
“He messages me, you know,” Penelope laughed ruefully. “He gives me updates because I threatened to shoot him.”
I barked a laugh. “You would too.”
“And he knows it.” Penelope rolled onto her back, stretching her legs out. The material of her yoga pants stretched stark black against the white duvet.
“I’ve been cooking traditional Bulgarian foods,” I admitted, “learning about their culture, and even trying to tackle the language.”
Penelope laughed again. “Remember when you burned water!”
“Did not,” I grumbled. “I scorched the dry pot, and your mother was nice about it.”
“And now you’re cooking traditional dishes for the Mad Dog.” The penetrating look my cousin gave me spoke volumes. “Sounds like you’re settling in?”
I met her arched brow, not sure how to answer the question. Eventually I said, “I’m making the best of it.”
The Mad Dog. It wasn’t the first time I heard the term applied to Ivan.
An insult, laced with fear and preconceived notions.
I didn’t think it was a fair assessment.
Ivan was loyal and protective. He might not be as polished as some of the bosses, and his style was more grunge meets biker, but he didn’t need to be refined.
He was perfect the way he was.
Oh, crap. I’m defending him.
Because, deep down, I liked him. Just a little. But not enough.
“Ivan’s not that bad,” I insisted, trying to convince my cousin.
“And? Is it long-term?” While she was focused on me, Penelope reached gently, folding her fingers over her stomach.
Her empty stomach.
“He’s not losing Brady again,” I sighed. “And Brady adores him. Calls him father in Bulgarian.”
Penelope frowned. “So you’re stuck with him.”
“Stuck.” I tasted the word. “That doesn’t sound right, but I guess so.”
“How would you describe it?” She propped herself on an elbow, still holding her belly.
“Co-parenting.”
Her eyes bulged. “Oh, my word, you’re sleeping with him!”
I groaned, flopping down to mirror her. “Not yet. I mean, we did something. But it’s not like that.”
Penelope lifted her head off her hand and began to count on her fingers. “Not yet. Did something. Not like that.”
“Kissing and he went down there.” I waved at my body, icy tongues of embarrassment shooting up my neck and blistering my face. Just because I read some pretty spicy books didn’t mean I could talk about that stuff with a straight face. “He wants me.”
“And you want him.”
Not a question, but I answered, ignoring my blazing cheeks. “If it was just sex, sure. But it’s more complicated.”
“Life is complicated,” Penelope dismissed me. “If you have a connection with him, don’t treat that lightly.”
“Life is complicated,” I insisted.
My cousin sighed. “It is.”
Once again, we were plunged into grief that wasn’t going away. I swallowed hard, fighting back tears.
“Have you been to the doctor?” I asked but had to clear my throat to get the words out.
Penelope shook her head. “I wanted to make it to fourteen weeks. Nothing they can do at this point.”
“Right.”
“But I’ll go tomorrow.” She sat up, a determined set to her jaw.
I pushed myself up, wrapping my arms around her in a hug. “You should rest.”
“Why? It won’t change anything,” she said, and there was a bitter note to her usually sunshiny self.
Tugging her shoulders, I pulled her onto the bed. “Rreesssttt.”
“Fine,” she grumped.
“And you need to tell Alessio.”
My cousin shook her head while a voice from the door asked, “Tell me what?”
We jumped, and I let out an embarrassing squeak.
Looming against the frame was the clean-cut beast, wearing the trappings of sophistication and wealth.
My mind absently calculated the ways he was similar—that lethal aura, the shimmering strength, the hard cut of his jaw.
While he carried power, the don wasn’t Ivan.
Saints above, I’m so screwed.
“Hi, lupo,” Penelope croaked, but further words ended in tears.
I gave her a squeeze as the don crossed the room. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Thanks for coming,” my cousin sobbed.
“Always,” I wheezed, my own chest clogged tight.
Alessandro gave me a clipped nod before turning his whole attention on his wife. His soulmate. The other half that made him whole.
That was what I wanted.
And I wasn’t settling for anything less.
But as I closed the door on the scene, a small voice whispered through my mind.
Maybe it’s in a different package, but what if you found it?
I balled my hands at my side. If I had, I had to make damn sure of it. There was no room for mistakes or second chances when it came to contemplating spending life in the underworld.