Salvatore

30. Ivy

30

IVY

I keep the shock bottled… Not that it’s actual shock. It’s something else. Blindingly terrifying confirmation, maybe.

I’m pretty sure I knew the truth. Self-preservation made me ignore it.

I haven’t had a period since before my abduction—since before I slept with Salvatore. I convinced myself the absence was justifiable due to high stress, locked the traumatic thoughts into a box, and shoved that tightly closed bastard to the back of my mind with all the other trauma.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Spectacular.” I swallow against the emotional grit lining my throat. “Can I go inside now?”

It’s rude, I know. He just learned of his impending parenthood too. But I’m one sideways glance away from losing grip of my composure, and I’m not entirely sure where the impending train wreck will end up. Breakdown? Eruption? Delirium?

“Not yet. I can assume a lot of things but I’ve got questions.” He grips the steering wheel, double-fisted, white-knuckled. “Was this planned?”

I shoot him a death stare. “Excuse me.”

His eyes harden. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” My tone is high-pitched with incredulity.

“Forgive me for not being a Hallmark card of sensitivity,” he grates. “I’m asking if the sex was consensual. Did you hook up with one of Gabriel’s men on your own terms or was this forced upon you?”

Oh… of course he’d think the squatter currently taking residence in my uterus arrived due to abuse.

“Did I already kill the man responsible?” He speaks through clenched teeth. “Or do I need to make plans to return to Baltimore?”

Shit.

“Um…” I look away, dragging a hand through my tangled hair. “There’s no need to go back to Baltimore.”

How the hell do I put this— Hey, champ, you know how the pull-out method isn’t foolproof? Well, it’s even less effective when you’re in mourning over your boss’s death and forget to take the pill.

“Was it consensual?” he repeats, his anger unchecked.

I lower my head and chance a glance at him from the corner of my eye. “Yes.”

His mouth snaps shut. His nostrils flare. “Good. That’s all I need to know.”

Before I can clarify his peen was the consensual wand of deliverance, he shoves from the car, rounds the hood far too quickly for me to figure out a way to backpedal, then yanks open my door.

I’m scooped into his arms, the movement brisk but considerate. Forceful yet controlled.

Is he… jealous?

His reaction could just as easily be disgust.

All I know is that he’s clearly pissed because he’s glaring at the world as if it castrated him without anesthetic.

Blubbering words of admission poise on the tip of my tongue. Then I’m carried inside the house and the sight of my blood splattered and smudged along the hallway tile has last night’s trauma freight-training its way back to the forefront.

Salvatore remains stiff as he treks around the carnage, jaw locked, eyes cold. He takes me to my room and places me on my feet beside the bed. “I’ve arranged for Lorenzo’s private physician to be your in-home doctor. He’ll be here soon.”

I nod, attempting to acclimatize to… everything , and failing miserably.

I need space. To take my first breath of necessary isolation since being stabbed multiple times, while pregnant, and on the run from the cartel.

I deserve a double-point score for the trauma trifecta.

“I’ll help you get under the covers.” He reaches for the quilt.

“I want to freshen up first.” I shuffle sideways, gaining distance between us. “I have to get out of this gown and wash off the lingering antiseptic.”

“I’ll carry you.” He attempts to scoop me up again.

“No.” I hold up a hand, keeping him at bay. “I’m allowed to move. Didn’t the doctor say?—”

“You can walk later.”

I sigh, so goddamn wrecked, worn to my marrow, and fraying at the edges. “I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the hormonal tendencies of pregnant women, Sally, but standing in my way doesn’t bode well for you.”

Predatory eyes meet mine, the subtle warning not to taunt him coming through loud and clear. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

I scrunch my nose, appreciating his stupid, surly kindness, and carefully move around him. “I’m okay. The local anesthetic is still working its magic. I can’t feel a thing.” I hobble to the adjoining bathroom, the heat of his gaze scorching the back of my neck while a similar sensation takes over my eyes. “I’ll yell down the hall if I need anything.”

I don’t look back before closing the door behind me, then have to fight tooth and nail not to burst into uncontrollable tears as soon as I’m alone.

I stumble to the vanity, gripping the edge in shaky hands while I squeeze my eyes shut.

I almost died last night. My body has been invaded by a tiny tenant. And the father of said uterus inhabitant is the son to the woman who tried to kill me, and the enemy to the man who brought me into this world.

I sniff against the inundation of stupid hormones, my week of on-again-off-again tears making so much more sense now. Problem is, the pressure building in my chest doesn’t feel like a casual tear-and-sniff situation. What’s approaching is incoherent sobs.

I open my eyes to the bleak woman reflected in the mirror, her brown irises swimming in moisture, her lower lip trembling.

How did I get here? In this mess? Feeling these feelings?

I glare, attempting to intimidate the frailty under control.

I’ll figure something out. I always do.

“You’ve got this,” I whisper.

But I don’t. I’ve got nothing. Not a single trace of anything.

I’m poised on the brink of saying goodbye to my Baltimore life—to Allison and Olivia, to my job and my apartment.

Pain builds in my lungs, the agony squeezing and stabbing.

I suck in a shuddering inhale, the threat of meltdown that much closer.

“Don’t do it.” I glower at the woman in the mirror, the weak one, the pathetic fool.

I yank at the ties on my gown, pulling and tugging until the material slides to the floor.

My breaths still at the state of my naked body, my cotton panties and the crisp white bandages a sordid patchwork in a sea of pink antiseptic watercolor.

Scratches mark my shoulder. My abdomen is swollen and distended.

I’m a mottled, macabre art piece I refuse to look away from, punishing myself with the blurring visual as my nose tingles.

I snatch at the vanity drawers and grab a washcloth, slightly dampening it under the faucet before adding a pump of hand soap. I wipe at my body, first my forearm, then around the bandages on my hip, my movements getting harder, faster.

The more I fight the impending collapse of composure, the harder I clean, scrubbing and scouring my skin until it changes from antiseptic pink to raw and worrying red.

If only I wasn’t drowning in local anesthetic I could focus on the physical pain instead of all the emotional. But those internal girlie feels keep yapping at me like rabid dogs, their sharp teeth snapping, their dedication to downfall resolute.

You’re in too deep.

Look what state you’re in.

I turn my attention to my flank wound—which is just a technical term for the side of my goddamn ass—and scrub, scrub, scrub . I grit my teeth. Sniff faster. Glare harder. I grow nauseous from the high-intensity workout. Then again, it probably isn’t the workout at all, the queasy feeling coming from my inability to look away from the part of my body a bare inch below my abdomen wound—the place where a tiny child grows.

One I can’t protect.

I raise my gaze to the ceiling and blink incessantly, refusing to succumb to tears.

But I’ve always wanted a family. A proper one. With children, and in-laws, and momentous holidays.

I’ve yearned for someone to love unconditionally. To nurture and adore. Yet what I currently have is a baby I need to emotionally distance myself from.

Being a mother isn’t an option.

There’s no stubborn little girl with pigtails in my future. Or a rambunctious boy with a surly attitude like his father.

The only semblance of family Gabriel has allowed me since my emancipation are Olivia and Allison. And I suspect that’s only because he sees them as work colleagues, not soul sisters.

If he found out I was pregnant he’d have the child killed. And if he discovered Salvatore was responsible our fate would be much worse than death.

I suck in another shuddering breath, this one escaping my lungs on a sob.

I’d done so well. I’d convinced myself living within the confines of my current lifestyle was good enough. That I’d figured out Gabriel’s boundaries and could exist happily inside them.

But I want this.

I sniff.

I want this baby.

“Ivy?” Salvatore raps gently on the door. “Make yourself decent. I’m coming in.”

I can’t make myself do anything. Not stop wildly scrubbing. Not pull myself together for the sake of him seeing me half-naked and looking like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a grizzly.

The door opens and he pauses a foot inside the small bathroom, the weight of his attention raking over me in my manic state.

It’s too much—his silence, his presence.

“Hey.” His tone is etched with caution.

I tilt my chin skyward, blinking frantically at the ceiling while I continue buffing another layer of skin from my waist. There’s no sense of vulnerability. No shame of bodily exposure. Just pain and sadness.

“Stop,” he warns, stalking closer.

I don’t listen. The exertion is good. Cathartic. It helps distract me from the agonizing ache in my chest.

“Ivy, stop .” He closes in behind me, grabbing my hand.

I gasp in a deep breath, holding it tight in my throbbing lungs.

“Let it out,” he demands.

I keep blinking, frantically fighting to stop the threatening avalanche, but it’s so much worse now because his gaze is on me.

“Let it out, mi reina .”

I choke on the lump in my throat. It’s that endearment. Those stupid words that make me feel a certain way.

The air releases from my lungs in a torrent. My tears break free.

I cover my face with the washcloth as sobs escape. One after another after another.

“It’s going to be okay.” He shucks his jacket, drapes if over my shoulders, then turns me toward him, holding me to his chest where I cry, and cry, and cry.

He doesn’t say a word as I rest my face to his shoulder, my tears drowning his shirt. He simply holds me, his fingers gliding beneath the blanket of my hair and stroking softly against my nape.

His unexpected compassion only adds to my downfall, stirring the deepest depths of my sorrow, dragging a lifetime of loneliness to the forefront.

I sob, and sniff, and hiccup, his large frame a buoy in the storm.

Everything is too much. My tormented past. My devastating present. My bleak future.

He doesn’t quit holding me as the blubbering runs its course, uncontrollable and chaotic at times, restrained and keening at others. Not even after the weakness bids farewell, leaving behind rickety, hitched breaths and tears that have dried into a gritty mask coating my cheeks.

“Thank you,” I murmur into his shirt.

“That’s the last thing you want to do when I plan to kill the father of your child.”

I recoil, meeting the unforgiving volatility in his expression. “Why?”

“You want the truth?” His hand falls from my nape. “Jealousy, for starters.”

I glance away in shock, and okay, maybe I break eye contact in the hopes it will stop my heart palpitating. It doesn’t. My chest continues to be a pitter-pattering mess of instability.

“Tell me his name,” he demands.

“You don’t want to kill the father of my child,” I whisper.

“I assure you, I do.”

I shiver with awakening goose bumps. “That’s a bold move for a little jealousy.”

“There’s nothing little about it. You’re under my fucking skin, Ivy.”

I huff a derisive laugh, hating how my body reciprocates the feeling. Loathing how my nerves warm to his unhinged possessiveness.

“You think I’m joking.” A cold smirk tilts one side of his lips, the callous bloodlust in his eyes making my nipples harden against the silken interior of his jacket.

“Actually, I don’t. What I think is that you need to ditch the theatrics of killing my baby’s father.”

“Why? Do you love him?”

“No.” I’m not sure love would be possible with a man like Salvatore. “But sometimes he’s worth having around.”

His jaw ticks. “Give me his name.”

The base of my throat tightens, making it harder to breathe. I can’t deny him the truth a second time.

I turn to face the vanity, needing a minute.

“Ivy,” he warns. “Give me his fucking name.”

I stare at him in the mirror, the weight of his severity emboldening my strength.

“Salvatore Costa.” The admission whispers from me, a mere kiss of acknowledgement in the confined space of the private bathroom.

His expression morphs into something I can’t decipher. No longer the presumed jealousy but not quite pity. It’s surprise, and concern, and the finer edges of hostility.

“Mine?” It’s one deeply etched syllable that makes me shiver.

I nod.

He straightens, his height growing all the more domineering. “What about Gabriel’s men?”

“I wasn’t with any of them—consensual or otherwise.”

He doesn’t react. There’s no movement. No more words. The quiet is so awkward I’m compelled to fill it.

“Don’t worry. You have no responsibilities.” I hold my head high, mentally rebuilding my independence brick by brick as I clench the washcloth in my fist. “I’ll handle this on my own.”

“Handle it?” he grates.

“Yes.”

A wealth of emotions peer back at me, all ruthless and determined.

I wait for him to force the abortion issue. To make demands of my body and my future. Instead he continues to take in the sight of me, his stern stillness confounding.

“Say something,” I whisper.

It takes long seconds for him to rein back his severity, his posture softening slightly, his features losing the malevolent edge. “Are you scared?”

“Petrified,” I admit.

“I’m sure it’s concerning to be harboring the devil’s spawn, but I assure you, it’s safe to incubate the malevolence of my bloodline. My sister has a kid who is yet to show any signs of psychopathy… or so I’m told.”

It feels like another kindness—a conversational pivot to help ease the situation. “Or so you’re told?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t had a lot to do with her.”

“Why?”

He leans forward and glides his hand over mine, taking the strangled washcloth from my grip. “Like your upbringing, mine was unstable. The connection I have to my siblings is temperamental at best.”

My pulse gains a life of its own. I don’t want to accumulate any more similarities with this man. The current parallels are already softening me to him.

“You act differently around them,” I murmur. “I’ve noticed how your playfulness vanishes.”

He reaches around me, turns on the faucet to dampen the cloth, then slowly wrings it out. “Our relationship requires a delicate balance.” He brings the washer to my injured hip and raises the hem of his suit jacket, trailing the dripping material around the square outline of a waterproof bandage. “I was the spare to the heir for a long time.” Water dribbles down my thigh, the excess moisture creating a placid waterfall that cascades to the floor. “I was worthless, for most intents and purposes, and treated accordingly. Dante was the prince, Remy the baby, Abri the beautiful daughter, and I was a shadow. At least until Dante ran away from home and rebuilt his life as Matthew.”

I swallow against the tightness building in my throat, his tender touch awakening sedated nerve endings. “Then what happened?”

“They finally saw me.” He trails the cloth to the second bandage on my hip, gently removing the antiseptic stain. “And I learned that it was far better when they didn’t.”

He continues cleaning me in an unspoken contract—I grant him vulnerability to my body, inch by agonizing inch, while he grants me the same with his family secrets.

“And your father is dead now?” I ask.

He inclines his head, his gaze focused on the cloth as he guides it back around my waist.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he growls. “His death was a blessing.”

I feel the weight of his words. The guilt. The torment beneath.

I’m not naive enough to think he doesn’t mourn the loss. Children with broken relationships still grieve their parents’ deaths. It may not be the agony of losing what they had, but it’s the anguish of longing for what should’ve been.

I let him travel through his memories without pestering him. It’s just silence and contemplation while he glides the washcloth higher to the bandage covering the puncture wound on my waist, the opening of the jacket growing wider, threatening to expose my naked chest.

“How did you find her?” he asks.

“Who?” I swallow, knowing exactly where this conversation is leading but desperate to buy time.

The washcloth pauses on my waist and his eyes meet mine in the mirror.

He doesn’t repeat himself. He simply holds my focus.

I sigh. “By mistake.”

The cloth continues its path, slowly circling my waist bandage, covering my leg in water droplets.

“Give me the details, mi reina .”

I wither. Emotionally, at least. That endearment is my downfall, and when paired with the kind way he cleans me and the gentleness of his voice, I’m a lost cause. “Catarina kept disappearing with a tray of food. At first I thought they were her meals and asked her to eat with me, but she refused, claiming it was bad manners when I was a guest and she was an employee.”

“My mother’s meals, I assume.” He runs the washcloth in figure-eight loops around my waist and hip, circling my bandages.

“Yeah. I thought Catarina was eating in her own room until I found out she has a cottage elsewhere on the property. So I got curious. I didn’t mean to walk in on state secrets. I swear it wasn’t intentional.”

“How did you find the reinforced door, let alone open it?”

I tense against the enjoyment of his touch. “That doesn’t matter.”

“You’re pregnant with my child.” He meets my gaze. “And currently sporting more holes than a shower head, so I assure you it does.”

The velvety caress of his voice skitters down my spine, coaxing, disorientating. “I’m not going to tell you if you’re going to go postal.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. When it comes to things that put you in danger, you don’t get a say. You will tell me.”

I’m tempted to ask how he plans to force compliance. Problem is, I’m half-naked and my feminism is already on its knees, dazed and doe-eyed by his toxic masculinity. “You need to promise nobody will be punished for what happened.”

“I can promise you’ll never hear about anyone getting punished,” he counters.

I glower. “ Salvatore .”

“Don’t fuck with me, Ivy. Tell me who put you in danger?”

I raise my chin, lips closed, stubbornness on lock.

“Would you prefer if I inflicted punishment and asked questions later? Because I’m more than happy to take aim at everyone that’s been under this roof while you’ve been here, which includes my brother and Olivia.”

Shit . I didn’t even think about Liv being on the suspect list. “You wouldn’t.”

He holds my gaze, not needing to reiterate he most definitely would.

“It was my fault. I was snooping.”

“Someone let you in,” he counters.

“No. When I went to check the room, one of the shelving units was sitting at an odd angle away from the wall and I wanted to know why.”

“And the soundproof door?”

I swallow. “It was open… Your mother called out to me.”

“Then what? You walked in, got too close, and she attacked?”

“Not exactly… I found her days ago.”

His expression regains an edge of contempt.

I glance away, shame coating me like a second skin.

“What do you mean?” He dumps the washcloth on the vanity and guides me to face him.

“I’ve been going down to see her every night. We talk for hours.”

Those dark eyes turn stormy, the fury in them making me wither.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It seemed real at the time.”

“What seemed real?”

“Her friendship.” I swallow over my drying throat. “The way she cared.”

“What did you tell her?” he demands.

“You were all we had in common. And I remembered Bishop calling you a momma’s boy, so I thought it would be okay to talk about you…”

“ And ?”

“I overexaggerated a little. Maybe even sprinkled a bit of fiction in there.”

His expression turns apocalyptic—cold eyes, hard lips.

“I told her how we met. And the whole French martini pick-up line, which led into the kiss. Then she started asking questions, and the conversation evolved over the space of a few nights. She made some accurate assumptions?—”

“What kind of assumptions?”

“She asked if we’d slept together.” I cringe through the admission.

His nostrils flare.

I seriously hate disappointing him. “Tonight I went down there to tell her I was leaving. And with the hormones and the craziness of the situation, when she offered to give me a hug I couldn’t resist the slightest glimpse of maternal comfort.”

“Then she stabbed you?”

Liquid blurs my vision again. “She held me against the bars and didn’t stop attacking me until I gouged at her eyes.”

He turns his face away, the harshness of his features seeming so much worse in profile view.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know the two of you are close. I didn’t want to hurt her, but?—”

He hangs his head. “This isn’t on you.”

“—she thinks we’re together. She said she knows who I am.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “She said that?”

I give a hesitant nod. “She called me a Latina whore and told me I was just like your sister.”

I’d thought he was angry before. That the harsh lines in his features were the epitome of his rage. But I was wrong. What stares back at me now is Salvatore at his most temperamental. He vibrates with fury, his attempt to hide it flimsy at best.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I ask.

“No, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He straightens, lying right to my face. “I just need to speak to her.”