Page 17 of Kidnapped By the Mafia

I return to the office, fully expecting to be met with disappointment, and I’m not wrong. The interviewer is standing by the door, arms crossed, a look of thinly veiled disdain on her face. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re a good fit for this position,” she says, her tone dismissive. “We need reliable employees.”

Her words cut through me like a knife, sharp and unforgiving. I nod, unable to muster any argument, and murmur a weak thank you before stumbling out of the office. The noise and bustle of Chinatown hits me like a wall as I step outside, the sensory overload only adding to the sinking feeling in my chest.

My head is spinning, my body weak and trembling as I wander aimlessly through the crowded streets. I’m too tired, too defeated to even think straight.

All I know is that I need to sit down, to find somewhere quiet where I can catch my breath and figure out what the hell is happening to me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fumble to pull it out, my hands still shaking. It’s a text from Mia.

Let’s meet for lunch. The usual spot?

I type out a quick response, my fingers clumsy on the screen:

Yes, please.

11

EMILY

As I make my way to the Lower East Side, I can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something is very, very wrong. The thought of Lucas crosses my mind again, but I push it aside, focusing on the immediate problem—figuring out what’s happening to my body.

The diner Mia suggested is a small, unassuming place we’ve been to countless times before—a relic of a bygone era with cracked vinyl booths and faded photos of the neighborhood lining the walls.

The smell of greasy food and burnt coffee fills the air as I slide into a booth across from Mia, who’s already there, sipping on a soda.

“You look like hell,” Mia says bluntly, her eyes narrowing in concern. “What’s going on?”

I slide into the booth across from her, the familiar squeak of the vinyl reminding me of how many times we’ve sat here, sharing our troubles over greasy fries and cheap coffee. But today, the thought of food turns my stomach, and I push the menu aside without even glancing at it.

Mia eyes me critically, her sharp gaze taking in every detail—the pallor of my skin, the dark circles under my eyes, the way my hands tremble slightly as I reach for the water glass. “You look like hell,” she repeats, her tone more concerned than blunt this time. “What’s going on?”

I sigh, rubbing my temples as if that might somehow clear the fog that’s settled over my mind. “I don’t know, Mia. I’ve been feeling sick for days—nauseous, dizzy. I even threw up during a job interview this morning.”

Mia’s brow furrows, and she sets down her soda, leaning in a little closer. “Sick how? Like, the flu? Or something else?”

“It’s not the flu,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s different. I can’t explain it, but I’ve been feeling off, like my body’s not my own anymore. I thought it was just stress, but now… I don’t know.”

Mia studies me for a moment, then asks the question that’s been lingering in the back of my mind, the one I’ve been too afraid to ask myself. “When was the last time you had your period?”

Her words hit me like a freight train, and I blink, trying to recall the answer. My mind races back through the past few weeks, but it’s all a blur of job rejections, sleepless nights, and this gnawing, ever-present anxiety.

“I… I don’t know,” I admit. “A while ago, I guess. I’ve been so stressed with everything, I didn’t really notice.”

Mia’s expression turns serious, and she leans in even closer, her voice low but insistent. “Emily, could you be pregnant?”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and terrifying. Pregnant. The possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind, not with everything else that’s been going on.

But as I do the math in my head, a cold sense of dread settles over me. The last time I was with Lucas was six weeks ago. We didn’t use protection. “I assumed it would be okay. It was just one time. What are the odds?”

Mia is already rummaging through her oversized handbag, pulling out a small, rectangular box and sliding it across the table toward me. “Here,” she says, her tone firm. “I had this left over from when I had a scare after a one-night stand. You should take it, just to be sure.”

I stare at the pregnancy test, my heart pounding in my chest. “Mia, I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Mia interrupts, her voice leaving no room for argument. “And you should. Better to know now than when it’s popping out. Go to the bathroom and take it. That’s an order.”

My hands are trembling as I pick up the box, the weight of it feeling much heavier than it should. I can’t bring myself to move, to even think about what I’ll do if the test is positive. “But what if it’s positive? What do I do then?”

Mia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, her eyes softening with sympathy. “One step at a time, okay? Let’s just see what the test says first.”

---