Page 56 of The Mafia King's Baby

I follow the instructions and set the test on the bathroom counter, then pace the small space while I wait. The three minutes feel like three hours. I check my phone obsessively, watching the seconds tick by with agonizing slowness.

When the timer finally goes off, I take a deep breath and look at the test.

Two pink lines.

Positive.

I sink onto the closed toilet seat and stare at the plastic stick in my hands. Two clear, unmistakable pink lines that confirm what my body has been trying to tell me for at least a week. I’m pregnant. I’m carrying Yefrem’s child.

The reality is like a smack to the face. Everything has changed in the span of three minutes. The stakes of our situation have just escalated beyond anything I could have imagined. It’s not just about Yefrem and me anymore, or even about bringing down a corrupt network of federal agents. Now, there’s a life growing inside me, an innocent child who will inherit whatever world we create or destroy.

Tears start flowing before I realize I’m crying. They’re not tears of joy or sadness exactly, but something more complex—fear mixed with wonder, and terror combined with fierce protectiveness for this tiny life that’s barely begun.

I wrap the test in tissue and hide it in my pocket, then splash cold water on my face until the redness around my eyes fades. When I return to the main room, both Yefrem and Leonid look up questioningly.

“Everything all right?” asks Yefrem.

I nod, not trusting my voice yet. Leonid’s gaze meet mine across the room, and I give him the smallest nod. He understands immediately and returns to his laptop without comment. I should probably tell Yefrem before Leonid, but somehow, it’s easier with Leonid, because he isn’t as personally involved.

For the rest of the afternoon, I go through the motions of research and analysis while my mind spins through the consequences of what I’ve learned. Every decision we make now affects not just our safety, but the safety of my unborn child. Every risk we take becomes magnified by the responsibility I now carry.

As evening approaches, and we prepare dinner, I watch Yefrem moving around the kitchen with efficient competence. He’s gentle when he hands me a glass of water, mindful of my recent nausea without understanding its true cause. Part of me wants to tell him immediately, to share this earth-shaking news and face whatever comes next together.

I hold back because another part of me knows that once I tell him, everything will change between us. He’ll become even more protective, more cautious, and possibly less willing to take the risks necessary to bring down Lang’s network. The pregnancy will become another factor in every decision.

I need time to process this myself before I can help him process it. I need to understand how I feel about being tied to Yefrem in this most fundamental way before I can gauge his reaction to the same news.

That night, as I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, I place my hand on my still-flat stomach and try to imagine the life growing there. It’s too early for movement or visible changes, but knowing makes everything feel different. My body is no longerjust mine. My future is no longer just about my own survival and happiness.

The child I’m carrying will grow up in whatever world we create. If we succeed in exposing the corruption and disappearing into new identities, our baby will have a chance at a normal life. If we fail, if we’re caught or killed, our child will inherit danger and uncertainty.

The responsibility is overwhelming, but it also brings clarity. I know with absolute certainty that I want to keep this baby and want to build a life with Yefrem that includes the family we’ve accidentally created, but that means fighting harder than ever to ensure we have a future worth living.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell Yefrem, and we’ll figure out how to adjust our plans to account for this new reality. Tonight, I hold the secret close and let myself imagine what it might feel like to be truly free—not just from the corruption network that threatens us, but free to love completely, to build something permanent, and to create a life together that’s worth protecting without looking over our shoulders or mired in violence.

The stakes have never been higher, but for the first time since this nightmare began, I have a reason to fight for that’s entirely my own. Not one thrust upon me, or a situation from which I can’t escape, but a true, personal stake in this situation, and as protective instincts stir to life, I suddenly almost feel sorry for the people who are trying to destroy us. We won’t allow that to happen when we have something so valuable to protect.

20

Yefrem

The sound of retching from the bathroom pulls me away from the financial records I’ve been analyzing for the past three hours. It’s the fourth time this week that Celia has gotten sick, and each episode seems worse than the last. I set down my pen and listen to the muffled sounds of her distress while my jaw tightens with concern.

When she emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, her face carries the pallor of someone who’s been fighting their own body. She moves with the careful precision of glass that might shatter, as if sudden movements could trigger another wave of whatever’s attacking her system. I watch her return to her seat at the laptop, noting how she avoids meeting my gaze.

“You need to see a doctor.” The words come out sharper than I intend, frustration bleeding through my careful control.

She shakes her head and opens a new browser window. “It’s just stress. My body is still processing everything that’s happened.”

The explanation sits wrong in my chest. Celia has adapted to our situation with the kind of resilience that impresses even Leonid. She’s thrown herself into the investigation work with determination that borders on fierce, showing none of the psychological breakdown that might manifest in physical symptoms. If anything, she seems to have found purpose in our mission to expose Lang’s corruption network.

Yet the nausea persists, getting worse instead of better. Each morning brings the same routine—she wakes feeling fine, then within an hour she’s rushing to the bathroom. The pattern is too consistent to be random stress responses. “Maybe it’s something you’re eating.” I study her as she takes small sips from a glass of water. “Or some kind of bug you picked up during our travels.”

“Maybe.” Her tone suggests she doesn’t want to discuss it further.

I return to the financial documents spread across my table, but concentration fractures when worry gnaws at my focus. The records show clear patterns of money laundering through shell companies, with payments that correspond exactly to case dismissals and evidence tampering. Lang’s network is more extensive than we initially realized, reaching into at least six different field offices.

Leonid reenters from his supply run, bringing cold air and the scent of pine trees with him. He removes his jacket and settles at his laptop without comment, but I catch him glancing toward Celia with something that looks like concern.

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