Chapter 15
ALINA
Ilock the bathroom door even though I know no one is going to barge in.
It’s an old habit from years of living with my father.
The trip to the pharmacy was, blessedly, uneventful.
The security guard was just as uncomfortable in the family planning aisle as I hoped he would be.
He didn’t even notice when I grabbed a pregnancy test and hid it under my box of tampons.
I could have hidden a bomb in the basket and he wouldn’t have looked at it.
Now that I’m back at the safehouse, my coup doesn’t feel as satisfying. Getting the pregnancy test was one thing, but now I actually have to take it and see if my life is going to change forever. Even being out in public for a few minutes today isn’t enough to bring me joy right now.
I set the paper bag on the counter and take the test out slowly, like it might actually explode if I move too fast. The plastic feels light in my fingers, in complete opposition to how heavy this moment feels.
I stare at the instructions longer than strictly necessary. They’re pretty straightforward. Pee on the stick. Wait for the stick to determine your fate.
I try to talk myself down. It’s something I’ve always been good at, finding a rational explanation to things and calming myself off the ledge. It doesn’t work this time. Maybe because there’s just too much trauma to deal with this time. My stomach twists again, sharp and unmistakable.
I turn on the faucet and wait for the water to warm, then turn it off again. I don’t need flowing water, although the calming sound does help. Mostly, though I’m just procrastinating, doing anything I can think of to delay the inevitable.
I think of all the times I’ve been the supportive friend, waiting outside a bathroom stall for a friend to pee on a stick. Even back in high school, I had plenty of girlfriends who had to wait through the agonizing three minutes to find out if their lives would be forever changed.
I’ve doled out congratulatory hugs so many times, usually because the test ended up negative. I just pray that this will be one of those times, but I’m worried my good luck has run out.
I take a breath and follow the steps, methodically.
I set the test on the edge of the sink and stare at the wall while the seconds stretch out cruelly.
I don’t pace or try to make time move faster.
I just stand there, arms crossed tightly over my chest, staring at a small crack in the tile like it holds the answers to the universe.
If I could, I’d stay in this moment forever, putting off the inevitable.
When I finally force myself look down, my heart drops straight into my stomach. It’s positive. There’s no denying it. It’s not just a faint line or an ambiguous reading. It, very clearly, tells me I’m pregnant.
The room tilts. For a moment, I don’t breathe. I just stare at the test, my brain refusing to accept what my eyes are clearly seeing. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. This is too much. It’s absolutely absurd.
A month ago, I was celebrating my engagement to a man I thought I loved. Now, I’m on the run with a notorious mob boss I barely know, and I’m pregnant with his baby.
A laugh bubbles up out of nowhere, sharp and almost hysterical. I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle it, but it escapes anyway, echoing off the tile walls. It sounds wrong in this space, hollow and echoed.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper.
My legs give out, and I sit down hard on the edge of the tub, gripping the porcelain until my knuckles ache. My chest feels tight, like there’s a band wrapped around it, pulling tighter and tighter with every shallow breath.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I just need to accept the reality now. I can always panic later.
I open my eyes again and reach for the test, hands trembling. I don’t want it here. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want it existing in the same space as me for one second longer.
I pry it apart with shaking fingers, snapping the plastic casing open. The test strip inside looks flimsy and unassuming, like it couldn’t possibly be responsible for the way my entire life has just shifted on its axis.
I drop it into the toilet and flush immediately, watching it disappear like I can erase the moment by sheer force of will. The plastic casing follows, then the box, then the receipt. I tear them into small pieces before flushing again, just to be sure. Just to feel like I’m doing something.
When the toilet stops running, the bathroom is far too quiet.
I stand up abruptly and splash cold water on my face, gasping as it hits my skin. I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection. I look the same. I lean closer to the mirror until I can see every freckle and fine line on my face.
“This is fine,” I tell myself quietly.
My voice is steadier than I feel.
I dry my face with a towel and take another deep breath, forcing my racing thoughts into some kind of order. Panic isn’t useful. Tears won’t fix anything. I’ve always been better when there’s a problem to solve.
And this is a problem. A huge one.
I pace the length of the bathroom, barefoot on the cool tile, trying to think. The nausea has faded into the background now, replaced by a buzzing awareness under my skin. Fear, yes, but also something else. Something strange and unfamiliar.
Protectiveness. The thought hits me so hard I have to stop moving.
No. Don’t do that. Don’t romanticize this.
This is not a miracle. This is not some cosmic sign. This is biology and timing and a series of terrible decisions layered on top of each other.
I sit back down on the tub and wrap my arms around my knees, staring at the closed toilet lid. I can’t tell Andrei about this. The thought comes fully formed, immediate and absolute. I can’t tell him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I know what would happen if I did. I’ve watched him long enough to understand how his mind works. He would take control. He would decide what was best. I would become a liability and my baby would become a bargaining chip.
This is my problem. I’ll handle it alone, just like I’ve handled every other problem in my life. The decision settles over me with surprising clarity. I don’t know exactly how yet. I don’t know what steps come next.
Still, I will not let this become another thing that happens to me without my consent.
I stand up again, steadier now, and wash my hands thoroughly, like I’m scrubbing the moment itself away. When I leave the bathroom, I move carefully, deliberately, like I’m afraid any sudden motion might shatter this fragile sense of control.
The safehouse is quiet. Andrei is out, which is a relief. I don’t think I could look at him right now without something giving me away. My body feels different suddenly. Heavier. Charged.
I sink down onto the couch with a blanket and stare at the far wall, letting my thoughts wander despite my best efforts to corral them.
“Stop,” I mutter out loud to myself.
This is not the time. I force myself to think practically. I have to figure out what I’ll do next. The one thing I do know is that I’m keeping this baby.
I glance toward the hallway, half-expecting Andrei to appear like he always seems to when I’m deep in my thoughts. He doesn’t, thank goodness.
I press a hand to my stomach, tentative and unsure. I pull it back quickly, as if I’ve burned myself.
This doesn’t change anything, I tell myself firmly. It can’t. I’m still me, and I’m still in this impossible situation. I sit there until my heartbeat finally slows, until the nausea fades completely, until I feel capable of standing again without wobbling.
When I do, I straighten my shoulders and square my jaw.
I’ve always been good in a crisis. I just didn’t realize how many I’d be facing all at once.
My stomach rolls again, slow and unpleasant, and I close my eyes, resting my elbows on my knees.
I give the panic a small window to work itself out of my system.
A few minutes, maybe. Enough time to acknowledge it, to let it run its course.
Then I shut the door on it and move forward because it’s not helping the situation.
I inhale deeply through my nose, exhale through my mouth, counting until the tightness in my chest eases just a little. I have to be smarter about this than I’ve ever been about anything in my life.
The Bratva is dangerous. That much I understand now, even if I didn’t before. I’ve seen enough in the last few weeks to know that violence isn’t the exception in Andrei’s world, it’s expected. It’s a language, a currency.
He already treats me like a fragile thing that his enemies can use to get to him. How much more would his enemies use our child? The thought makes my stomach lurch violently enough that I think I might actually throw up.
I’m not going to let that happen to my baby. I refuse to let my child become leverage. I’ll have to lie about this. I’ll have to pray that the danger of this situation passes and that I can return to my normal life. Then, I can come up with a real plan.
I don’t have a lot of money saved, but it’s enough that I can go somewhere far away. I could start over away from his prying eyes and those of his enemies. I could lie to everyone and say that I met someone quickly after my failed engagement and it happened so fast. What a blessing, what a miracle.
I’d never be able to see Andrei again, and that hurts more than I thought it would. If I’m truly going to keep this baby a secret from him and protect it from his enemies, I would have to disappear completely from his life.
What about my dad? Could he know? Probably not. He can’t know anything without also becoming a liability.
This is all so much more complicated than it should be.
The only thought I can manage with any certainty is that my baby deserves better than this. It deserves a healthy, happy life, free from any danger He or she deserves a normal childhood, not one hounded by guards and always looking over their shoulder for the nearest threat.
Sure, Andrei has an unbelievable amount of money, and that would make their life easier. It’s everything else that would be hard. They could never go to public school. They could never attend a community center, the way I did growing up. They couldn’t just go to Central Park and explore.
Their life would constantly be marred by potential threats and fear. Childhood would be nonexistent.
No, I can’t let my baby experience that. I can’t raise a child in captivity, always too terrified of life to really experience. I have to fight for this child. I have to give it a better life and fight for its future. No one else is going to.
That’s my job.