Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"Again?" Scarlett stands in the doorway, concern etched across her face, offering a damp washcloth.
I take it with trembling fingers. "It's just stress."
But even as I say it, a cold realization creeps up my spine. Five days since we escaped from the Feretti mansion. Three mornings of sickness.
"Zoe..." Scarlett begins, but I silence her with a look.
"Don't say it." I rinse my mouth at the sink, avoiding my reflection. "Just don't."
Back in the living room, Lucrezia sits cross-legged on the pullout couch that's been her bed, absently scrolling through Scarlett's tablet.
She's adapted to our fugitive status with surprising ease, though I catch her staring out the windows sometimes with a faraway look that tells me she misses her home.
"Still sick?" she asks without looking up.
I collapse next to her. "It's nothing."
"If you say so." Her tone makes it clear she thinks otherwise.
Scarlett joins us, setting down a plate of toast I already know I won't touch. "Day five of our fabulous girls' retreat," she announces with forced cheerfulness.
None of us laugh. The first day, we'd been too terrified to do anything but hide behind drawn curtains. By day three, cabin fever had set in, but Lucrezia had been adamant:
"We need to let him stew," she'd insisted. "Show him he can't just treat us like his puppets."
Following Lucrezia's instructions, Scarlett had thrown away her phone the first night. "They have your phone, which means they can trace all your contacts," Lucrezia had explained. "It won't take them long to find me."
Scarlett had nodded solemnly and dropped her iPhone into a public trash can six blocks away. The next day, she called the hospital asking some days off. She had been working a lot and they gave her ten days in a row.
As nausea twists my stomach again, I press my forehead against the cool glass of Scarlett's living room window.
"Zoe, this isn't normal." Scarlett's voice is firm behind me. "You're throwing up every morning, you're pale as a ghost, and you've barely eaten."
"I'm fine," I mutter automatically, but even I don't believe it anymore.
Lucrezia looks up from her tablet. "She's right, Zoe. You look like shit."
I shoot her a glare, but there's no heat behind it. Truth is, I feel like shit.
"It's just everything catching up with me," I insist. "Finding out about my father, Damiano, Byron's lies—"
"Or you're pregnant," Scarlett says bluntly.
The word hangs in the air like a bomb.
"When's the last time you had your period?" Scarlett asks.
I try to remember, counting back weeks in my head. "Before the wedding, I think."
"We need to know for sure," Scarlett says, grabbing her nurse's bag from the closet. "I'm taking you to the hospital. Today."
"Are you insane?" I spin around. "They'll be watching every hospital in the city!"
"Not if we're smart about it," Scarlett counters. "I work at Mount Sinai, and there's a back entrance staff uses. My colleague Emma owes me about a dozen favors—she can run your bloodwork off the books."
"And what about our faces? Damiano's men will recognize us instantly."
Scarlett gives me a small smile. "Time for makeovers, ladies." She disappears into her bedroom, returning with wigs, and a makeup bag. "Lucrezia, you're going blonde. Zoe, we're making you a redhead. I knew that I would need all these wigs I keep from Halloween every year. "
Lucrezia claps her hands. "I've always wanted to try blonde!"
"And we're not using your real name," Scarlett adds, pulling out a set of scrubs. "You'll be wearing these. Staff barely look twice at other staff."
I hesitate, torn between fear of discovery and the growing certainty that something significant is happening to my body.
"Zoe." Scarlett takes my hands. "The hospital is three blocks away. We'll go in through the service entrance, see Emma, and be out in thirty minutes. But you can't keep ignoring this."
"She's right," Lucrezia says softly. "You look really sick."
I take a deep breath, finally nodding. "Okay. Let's do it."
I follow a nurse through winding hallways that all look the same—sterile white walls, gleaming floors, people in scrubs rushing past. My heart races fast, and I tug at the itchy red wig Scarlett insisted I wear.
The blonde transformation makes Lucrezia almost unrecognizable beside me, especially with the thick-framed glasses completing her disguise.
"You're doing great," Scarlett whispers, dressed in her actual nursing scrubs. "Emma's waiting for us in the lab."
We turn another corner, and I nearly collide with a doctor rushing past. My stomach lurches, but not from nausea this time—from fear. What if Damiano's men are watching? What if Byron knows we're here?
Emma, a petite woman with kind eyes, takes my blood sample efficiently in a small examination room. "Results should be back within twenty minutes," she says, marking the vial with "Jane Smith."
"Thank you," I murmur.
While we wait, I stare at the ceiling, counting tiles to avoid thinking about what the test might show. Lucrezia holds my hand tightly, a silent show of support I never expected from someone I'd known for such a short time.
When Emma returns, her expression tells me everything before she even speaks.
"The results are positive," she says gently. "You're pregnant, about three weeks along. Although morning sickness is used to appear after the 4th week."
The room tilts slightly. I hear Scarlett gasp and feel Lucrezia's grip tighten.
"Are you certain?" I manage.
"Yes. Your hCG levels are quite definitive."
Three weeks. The timing fits perfectly. That day in Chicago in the woods behind Damiano's childhood home.
"Zoe?" Scarlett's voice sounds far away.
I nod mechanically. "The house in Chicago. We didn't use anything." My voice sounds hollow to my own ears. "I didn't even think about it after. My period's always been irregular anyway, and with everything that happened it was something that I just forgot about. Oh God, how stupid."
My hands move instinctively to my stomach. A baby. Damiano's baby. Growing inside me while I was planning to destroy him.
Emma explains some basic information about prenatal care, but her words wash over me like white noise.
"Thank you," I finally manage to say, gathering myself enough to meet her eyes. "I appreciate your discretion."
"Of course," Emma says, handing me some pamphlets. "These might help when you're ready to think about next steps."
Scarlett guides us back through the maze of hospital corridors, keeping her voice low. "We need to get you back home. You need rest and proper food—"
"I just need to process this," I cut her off, tugging at the itchy red wig.
The walk back to Scarlett's apartment feels endless. None of us speak until we're safely inside with the door locked and bolted.
I sink onto the couch, staring blankly at the wall. Scarlett busies herself in the kitchen, the clattering of cups a welcome distraction.
Lucrezia sits beside me, removing her blonde wig and glasses. Her expression is serious, all playfulness gone.
"Zoe," she says quietly, "you need to tell Damiano."
I snap my head toward her, heat rising in my cheeks. "Absolutely not."
"He has a right to know," she insists. "This is his child too."
"His right?" I laugh bitterly. "He locked me in a basement cell! He wouldn't even listen to me!"
"Because he was hurt and angry. You lied to him for months."
"Because Byron lied to me for years!" My voice rises sharply.
Lucrezia reaches for my hand, but I pull away, standing abruptly.
"I won't use this baby to manipulate him," I say, wrapping my arms protectively around my stomach. "I won't be like Byron, using people as pawns."
"That's not what I meant—"
"Isn't it? Tell Damiano so he'll feel sorry for me? So he'll listen? I don't want his pity, Lucrezia." My voice cracks with emotion. "I don't want him to tolerate me because I'm carrying his child. I want him to believe me because it's the truth."
"This isn't about pity, Zoe," Lucrezia says firmly. "This is about family. Damiano values nothing more than family."
"A family built on lies isn't a family at all," I say, blinking back tears. "I would know."
I slam my fist into the man's already broken jaw, blood splattering across the concrete floor of the warehouse. His head lolls to the side, consciousness barely hanging by a thread.
"Where is Byron hiding?" My voice echoes off the metal walls. "One more time before I start breaking fingers."
The man—James or John or whatever the fuck his name is—sobs through shattered teeth. "I swear to God, I don't know. He doesn't tell us anything."
Rage burns through my veins as I grab a pair of pliers from the metal tray beside me. His eyes widen in terror, tears mixing with blood on his swollen face.
"Please," he whimpers. "I'm just security. We get our orders through Diego. I've never even been to his private residence."
I press the cold metal against his pinky finger, watching him squirm against the zip ties binding him to the chair.
"Damiano." Alessio's voice cuts through my fury. "A word."
I step away, following Alessio to the far corner of the warehouse. The metallic scent of blood clings to my clothes, my knuckles raw and torn.
"He doesn't know anything," Alessio says quietly. "We've had him for six hours. Either he's the best trained man in Byron's operation, or he's telling the truth."
"Someone has to know where that bastard is hiding," I snarl. "We've taken out three of his security details and still nothing."
"Killing every one of Byron's men won't bring them back," Alessio says, his eyes scanning my face. "We need a different approach."
I turn away, slamming my palm against the cold metal wall. "What the fuck do you want me to do, Alessio? Every hour they're missing is another hour Byron could be closing in on them."
"I can find and kill any enemy I have," I say, voice dropping to a whisper. "But I'm incapable of finding the only two women I love in this fucking world?"
Alessio's expression softens slightly. "We'll find them. But not like this." He gestures toward the bloodied man. "This isn't working."
I press my forehead against the cool metal, trying to control my breathing, trying to think clearly through the panic and rage clouding my judgment.
"Five fucking days," I say. "Five days they've been gone, and we're no closer than when we started."
The man in the chair has passed out, blood dripping steadily onto the concrete.
"You need to calm down," Alessio says. "You're going to make mistakes if you keep pushing like this."
He's trying to hide it, but I know him too well.
"You're just as unsettled as I am," I say.
"Of course I am. Lucrezia is like a sister to me too." he says, and I know it's true.
"Go home," he says after a moment. "Get some rest. Shower. Eat something that isn't coffee or scotch. I'll handle things here."
A bitter laugh escapes my throat, sounding harsh even to my own ears. "Rest? You think I can fucking rest?"
"You haven't slept in days. You're no good to them like this."
"Every time I close my eyes," I say, my voice barely audible, "I see them. Both of them. Dead, like Bianca."
Alessio steps closer, lowering his voice. "We will find them. But not if you work yourself to death first."