Page 11 of Surprise Pregnancy for Villain

Not yet.

A speed bump looms up ahead and the SUV sails over it, bouncing like a kid on a trampoline.

I must be losing my touch because it takes me a moment to realize what’s happening, why she’s speeding.

It’s too late.

Screeching tires makes my chest tighten with fear, a rare emotion. A sickening crash follows, then the dreaded sight of flames emerge from the back. I swing my car to the side and dash out, not even bothering to kill the engine. Another rare reaction occurs as I sprint to the overturned vehicle.

I’m praying.

Please, God, let them be okay.

Although, with my terrible record, this prayer might get tucked into file 13.

Painful groans lash my ears as I stoop at the passenger side. The glass got smashed from the impact, which saves me valuable time. Using the flashlight feature on my phone, I sweep the space. Something moves in my gut when I see her curled up, her eyes tightly shut. She’s not the one groaning. Her best friend is. The object of my affection isn’t moving at all.

Fuck.

Reaching in, I feel for her pulse. My body sags with relief when I feel it beating strong and hard. She’s going to be fine. I guess the man upstairs heard me, after all.

Shifting back, I try yanking the door open, but it’s sealed tight. I have to get her out through the window. My concern about the broken glass get tossed aside when the hard stench of gas hits my nose. The fuel line has been broken. There’s no telling how serious that could be. I push my head in, undo her seatbelt, then gently pull her out. I hear a soft moan when I rest her down on the grass and another flood of relief puts a smile on my face as I hurry to the other side. Katie seems out of it now, but a quick check of her pulse confirms she’s fine, too. Like her friend, she stirs as I lay her down. Yet, she doesn’t open her eyes.

Good.

I take the burner from my pocket and dial the police emergency number, giving them details of our location before hanging up. It’s an upscale neighborhood, so I’m sure they’ll be here within the five minutes they’d promised. I should get out of here. The last thing I want is to get into the spotlight.

First, there’s something I need to do.

Her soft curls tease the tips of my fingers as I brush the hair from her face. Without the flashlight on my phone, it’s hard to see, yet I still make out her high cheekbones as I gently run my thumb over them. If only I could stay. If only I could save her exactly how I want, to take her home with me, nurse her back to health. Make her mine.

Someday, I will.

Police sirens pierce the air. Based on my estimation, they will be here within a minute or two. After checking her pulse again, just to satisfy myself that she’s still okay, I move off. The darkness of the night acts like a shroud as I hurry to my car and speed off in the opposite direction. Blue lights decorate my rearview mirror before I turn the bend. In the mob world, law enforcement are our mortal enemies, but for the first time, I’m happy to see them.

The girls will be okay.

Getting back to the highway, I don’t even bother to consider returning to the club. There’s no need to check out the scores of women passing through, hoping to make a connection. My objective has already been met. I’ve already found my bride.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

The vibration from my cell phone ceases my thoughts. Seeing Stefano’s name on the screen instantly kills my blissful mood. Pursing my lips, I press a button on my entertainment system to answer the call.

“Where are you?” Stefano’s gruff voice crackles from the on-board speakers. “I have a job for you to do.”

“I’ve gone out,” I reply impatiently. “Get someone else.”

“Bah,” he scoffs. “Who would I get with your talents, Ezio? And if you intend to take my place one day, I suggest you don’t disappoint me.”

“Why don’t you ask the little yes-man since he’s so eager to please,” I reply.

“Alessandro? You must be joking. I wouldn’t trust him to bring home a take-out dinner. I need you, Ezio.”

“I’m already on a job,” I argue, anxious to end the call.

“What job? Doing what?”

“Sowing my oats. As you ordered,” I say, my sarcasm thinly concealed.

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