Chapter 24
Giulia
SONG: YOUR LOVE (HAS RUINED MY LIFE) BY HOLDING ABSENCE
Three days. Seventy-two hours since Dimitri had walked out of Silverleaf with murder in his eyes and accusations on his lips.
I'd stopped counting the minutes somewhere around hour forty-eight.
The house felt enormous without him. Rooms that had seemed cozy with two people became cavernous with one. Margaret moved through the halls like a ghost. Brought me food I didn't eat. Tea I let go cold. Sympathy I couldn't quite accept because accepting it meant admitting this might be permanent.
That the bubble had finally popped and I was alone in the wreckage.
My phone sat on the nightstand. Silent. No calls. No texts. Nothing since his last message saying he was handling the situation. Whatever that meant. Probably violence. Definitely blood. The Bratva didn't handle situations through strongly worded letters and mediation.
I'd tried calling twice. Both times it went straight to voicemail. Either his phone was off or he was screening. Both options felt equally devastating.
The nausea started on day two.
At first I blamed stress. Anxiety had physical symptoms. Everyone knew that. Your husband accusing your family of attempted murder and then disappearing definitely qualified as stressful. Probably topped the list somewhere between natural disasters and actual warfare.
But the nausea came in waves. Mornings were worst. I'd wake up feeling fine and then five minutes later I'd be sprinting for the bathroom. Nothing stayed down. Toast became my enemy. The smell of coffee made me want to die.
Margaret noticed. Of course she noticed. The woman had eyes like a hawk and thirty-two years of experience with the Morozov family drama.
"Mrs. Morozova," she said carefully on day three. "Have you considered seeing a doctor?"
"I'm fine. Just stressed."
"Of course." She set down a plate of dry crackers. "But perhaps a doctor could prescribe something. For the stress."
The way she said it made my stomach drop. Not the nausea this time. Something else. Something that felt suspiciously like recognition.
After she left, I sat on the bathroom floor hugging my knees.
Thinking about timelines. About the three weeks we'd spent in our perfect bubble.
About how we'd been reckless and in love and definitely not careful about protection because we were young and stupid and convinced nothing bad could touch us here.
Three weeks of falling asleep wrapped around each other. Three weeks of morning routines and late-night conversations. Three weeks of intimacy that had felt profound and meaningful and permanent.
Three weeks was enough time for consequences.
The drugstore was a fifteen-minute drive.
I told Margaret I needed fresh air. She offered to come with me.
I declined probably too quickly. Drove myself into the city wearing sunglasses indoors like I was hiding from paparazzi instead of just paranoid that someone would recognize the Pakhan's wife buying pregnancy tests.
I bought three different brands. Also chocolate. And magazines I'd never read. The cashier was nineteen and supremely uninterested in my panic. Scanned everything with the blank efficiency of someone who'd seen it all and cared about none of it.
"Good luck," she said as she handed me the bag.
Either she'd noticed what I was buying or that was standard San Francisco retail farewell. Hard to tell.
The drive back felt longer. Traffic crawled through the Mission District. Tourists crossed against lights. I sat at intersections thinking about positive tests and tiny cells dividing and what it meant to bring life into a world where your husband might hate your entire family.
Silverleaf appeared through the fog like something from a gothic novel. All stone and glass and architectural drama. Home. Except it didn't feel like home without Dimitri filling the spaces. Without his voice echoing through rooms. Without the certainty that he'd come back every night.
I parked in the garage. Sat there holding the drugstore bag. Plastic crinkled in my hands. Three different brands because, apparently, I didn't trust any single test to tell me the truth.
Margaret was in the kitchen when I came in. She looked at the bag. Looked at my face. Said nothing. Just squeezed my shoulder and disappeared toward the other wing of the house.
Privacy. The woman understood privacy.
I locked myself in the master bathroom. Lined up all three tests on the counter. Read the instructions even though they were basically identical. Pee on stick. Wait three minutes. Learn your fate.
Simple. Clinical. Absolutely terrifying.
The first test showed results in two minutes. Pink plus sign. Clear. Unmistakable. Positive.
I stared at it. Waiting for it to change. Waiting for the universe to admit this was a joke. Waiting for literally anything except the reality of that pink plus sign burning into my retinas.
The second test agreed. Digital readout. "Pregnant 2-3 weeks."
The third test seemed excessive at that point, but I took it anyway. Same result. Two lines. Both present. Both mocking me with their certainty.
Three tests. Three positives. Three confirmations that my life had just become infinitely more complicated.
I sat on the edge of the bathtub and held the tests in shaking hands. Tried to process what this meant. Failed completely.
Pregnant. I was pregnant with Dimitri Morozov's child. With the baby of a man who'd walked out seventy-two hours ago convinced my family had tried to murder his. With the heir to a criminal empire built on violence and blood money and traditions that predated reasonable government oversight.
Pregnant at twenty-one with a husband who might not come back. Might not want me anymore. Might look at this baby and see Italian blood that couldn't be trusted.
The panic started small. Tightness in my chest, shallow breathing, then a crescendo into something larger. Something that felt like drowning on dry land.
I couldn't do this alone. Couldn't raise a child alone. Couldn't navigate pregnancy and birth and diapers and terrible twos without a partner. Without Dimitri.
But what if he didn't come back? What if the alliance was destroyed? What if my cousin Geraldo had actually attacked his people and now Dimitri blamed me by association?
What if. What if. What if.
The questions multiplied like cells dividing. Exponential panic. Mathematical certainty that I was completely unprepared for any of this.
I called my mother, but hung up before it rang. What would I even say? Hi Mom, I'm pregnant and my husband hates me and I'm living in a mansion that feels like a mausoleum. How's your Thursday?
I called my father next. Same result. Disconnected before the first ring. Giuseppe couldn't fix this. Couldn't negotiate with biology or broker deals with fate.
I was alone with three positive pregnancy tests and a phone that wouldn't ring and a house that felt too big and too empty and too much like a cage I'd locked myself into voluntarily.
The crying started without permission. One minute I was sitting there numb. The next minute tears were streaming down my face in hot tracks that stung and wouldn't stop.
I cried for the timing. For getting pregnant during the worst possible moment in our marriage. For the fact that this should have been joyful news shared between two people who loved each other instead of terrifying news discovered alone on a bathroom floor.
I cried for Dimitri. For the man who'd held me every night for three weeks and then left convinced I'd betrayed him.
For the husband who'd taught me about Russian poetry and port operations and how to make perfect espresso.
For the person who'd looked at me like I was remarkable instead of just acceptable.
I cried for myself. For the girl who'd agreed to marry a stranger and somehow fallen in love with him.
For the woman who'd thought love was enough to bridge the gap between two families who'd been killing each other for seventy years.
For the idiot who'd believed in bubbles when reality was always waiting to intrude.
And I cried for the baby. This tiny cluster of cells that didn't ask to be created. Didn't choose to be half Russian mob royalty and half Italian crime family. Didn't deserve parents who might be too broken to properly love them.
My hand moved to my stomach. Flat still. No visible changes. But underneath everything, cells were dividing. A person was being constructed from my DNA and Dimitri's. A whole human who'd inherit his eyes or my nose or some combination that would be entirely their own.
Our child.
The thought was simultaneously beautiful and devastating.
I stayed on that bathroom floor for hours. Watching light change through the window. Watching shadows creep across marble tiles. Watching my entire future rearrange itself around this new impossible reality.
Margaret knocked once. "Mrs. Morozova? I'm leaving dinner in the warming drawer."
"Thank you," I managed. Voice wrecked from crying.
Her footsteps retreated. The house settled into evening quiet.
Somewhere in the city Dimitri was doing whatever Pakhans did when their worlds imploded.
Somewhere my family was probably in crisis mode over whatever Geraldo had done.
Somewhere life continued while I sat on a bathroom floor holding my stomach and trying to figure out how to survive this.
My phone buzzed.
Dimitri: Coming home soon. Need to talk to you about something.
I stared at those words. Analyzed them like literature. "Coming home" was good. "Need to talk" was terrifying. "About something" could mean anything from divorce to war to apocalypse.
Me: Okay. I'll be here.
Because where else would I go? This was home now. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. Till death or divorce or whatever came first.
I cleaned up the tests. Hid them in the back of the bathroom cabinet underneath extra toilet paper.
Evidence that could wait. Revelations that needed better timing.
You didn't announce pregnancy to a husband who'd just walked out angry.
You waited. You picked your moment. You found solid ground first. Except there was no solid ground anymore.
Just quicksand masquerading as certainty.
I washed my face. Fixed my hair. Changed into fresh clothes because looking put together might trick me into feeling put together. Basic logic. Probably flawed. Definitely desperate.
Dimitri would be home soon. We'd talk. He'd tell me whatever he needed to tell me. Maybe it would be good news. Maybe the situation was resolved. Maybe we could go back to our bubble and pretend three days of separation hadn't felt like three years.
Or maybe this was the end. Maybe he'd come home to say the alliance was destroyed. That he couldn't trust anyone Italian. That our marriage was a political mistake he needed to correct.
Maybe this was goodbye wrapped in the pretense of conversation.
I went downstairs, and sat in the library surrounded by books I couldn't focus on reading. Waiting for my husband to come home and potentially destroy whatever remained of my heart.
My hand stayed on my stomach. Protective.
Instinctive. Already loving this tiny collection of cells more than I'd thought possible.
Whatever happened next, I had to protect them.
This baby who didn't ask to be born into crime families and arranged marriages.
This child who deserved better than parents who couldn't figure out how to trust each other.
I'd protect them. I'd find a way. Even if Dimitri left. Even if the alliance crumbled. Even if I had to do this alone.
But please. Please let him come home and choose us. Please let love be stronger than suspicion. Please let this baby have a father who stayed instead of running when things got complicated.
Please let this not be the end of everything.
I sat in the library watching fog press against windows. Holding my stomach. Holding my breath. Holding onto hope even though hope felt dangerously fragile.
Waiting for Dimitri to come home and tell me our fate.
Waiting to see if love could survive reality.
Waiting to find out if I'd have to do this alone or if maybe, possibly, we could still be we instead of separate people pretending we'd never mattered to each other.
The baby deserved better than broken parents.
I deserved better than this uncertainty.
We both deserved a love that didn't crumble under pressure.
Whether we'd get it was another question entirely.
One I'd find out the answer to soon.
Very soon.
Too soon.
Headlights swept across the driveway.
He was home.