Page 21 of Kidnapped By the Mafia

I’m alone, scared, and completely lost. And for the first time since I found out I was pregnant, I have no idea what to do next.

14

EMILY

It’s been a week since I ran from Lucas, and I’m still trying to convince myself that I made the right decision.

The memory of that day lingers like a shadow, creeping into my thoughts when I least expect it. But I can’t afford to dwell on it now. I need a job, and I need one fast.

I’ve spent hours scouring job boards online, sending out resumes, and praying for a response. When I finally got an interview invitation, I felt a brief surge of hope—a tiny flicker of light in the darkness that’s been closing in around me.

But as I stand outside the sleek, glass-fronted building downtown, that hope is quickly giving way to anxiety.

I tug at the hem of the business suit I’m wearing, trying to smooth out the wrinkles that I know aren’t really there. The suit isn’t mine; it’s Mia’s, borrowed in a desperate attempt to look more professional than I feel.

It fits, sort of, but as I catch my reflection in the glass door, I can’t help but feel too fat. The jacket pulls across my chest, and the skirt clings to my hips in a way that makes me acutely aware of every curve.

I take a deep breath and try to push the self-doubt away. I’m here for an interview, not a fashion show. But as I step inside the building, I can’t help but notice the people around me—their slim, tailored suits, their perfect postures, the way they glide across the marble floor with an air of confidence I’ve never felt in my life.

The lobby is all polished stone and gleaming metal, a monument to modern efficiency and understated wealth. The kind of place where the air smells faintly of expensive cologne and freshly brewed coffee. I approach the reception desk, forcing a smile onto my face even as my stomach twists in knots.

“Hi, I’m here for an interview,” I say, my voice sounding too small in the vast space.

The receptionist, a woman with impossibly perfect hair and a sharp, no-nonsense expression, barely glances up from her computer. “Name?”

“Emily,” I reply, my voice faltering slightly. “Emily Davis.”

She types something into her computer, then finally looks at me, her gaze flicking over me with a hint of fear. “You can have a seat,” she says, her tone edgy. “Someone will call you when they’re ready.” Why does she look afraid of me?

I nod, muttering a quick “thank you” before retreating to the row of chairs lined up against the far wall. The seats are sleek and uncomfortable, designed more for appearance than function. I sit down, crossing my legs at the ankles, and try to ignore the gnawing feeling of inadequacy that’s creeping up on me.

As I look around, I notice the other people in the lobby—men and women dressed in the kind of clothes I could never afford, their slim figures and perfect hair making me feel like I’m on the outside looking in.

I glance down at my own body, at the way the fabric of the suit stretches too tightly over my curves, and the familiar self-consciousness rears its ugly head.

It’s stupid, I know. But I can’t help it. I’ve never been one of those effortlessly thin women who can slip into any outfit and look like they belong in a magazine.

I’ve always had curves, and no matter how much I try to embrace them, there’s always that nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me I’m not good enough.

I try to focus on something else, anything else, to distract myself from the nerves that are threatening to overwhelm me. I pull out my phone, pretending to check emails, but my mind is elsewhere.

It’s been a week since I last saw Lucas, and the fear that he might still be out there, watching me, is always at the back of my mind. But the longer he stays away, the more I start to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m free of him. I read a couple more rejections. No one wants my articles, it seems.

I’m still carrying Lucas’s child but he offered to kill people for me. He’s a criminal, in the mob. I can’t parent with a mobster, can I? How many people has he killed? How many crimes has he committed?

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost miss it when the receptionist calls my name. I look up, blinking in surprise, and see her gesturing for me to come over. I stand up, smoothing down my skirt one last time as I walk over to the desk.

“You can go up now,” she says, handing me a small card. “Floor fifteen, first room on the left.”

“Thank you,” I reply, taking the card with a shaky hand.

As I head for the elevator, my heart starts to pound in my chest. I try to tell myself it’s just nerves, that it’s normal to feel this way before an interview.

But there’s something else—a sense of unease that I can’t quite shake. The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor.

The ride up is painfully slow, each floor ticking by with agonizing precision. I watch the numbers change, my reflection in the mirrored walls looking back at me with wide, anxious eyes.

I try to breathe, to calm the fluttering in my stomach, but the unease only grows stronger as the elevator climbs higher.

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