Page 23 of Mafia Pregnancy

“You think he’d try to take Leo away from you?”

I ball the napkins in my hand. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe he’d just disappear again, but this time, Leo would eventually know his father rejected him.” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm afternoon. “Either way, Leo gets hurt.”

“Or maybe Radmir would surprise you. Maybe he’d want to be part of Leo’s life in a positive way.”

“I can’t take that risk.” Especially if he’s what I think he is.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching Leo play with the easy joy that only four-year-olds can manage. He’s completely absorbed in his game, building elaborate scenarios with imaginary friends and impossible adventures.

“Danielle,” Carmen says carefully, “You said you’ve been feeling sick lately. Tired, nauseated...”

My stomach clenches, and not just from queasiness. “It’s stress.”

“When was your last period?”

The question hangs in the air between us like a bomb waiting to explode. I try to remember, counting back through the weeks of careful avoidance and professional distance. Eight weeks. Maybe nine. “Oh, no.” The words come out as a whisper, but there’s not as much shock as there should be. Part of me was aware but ignored the knowledge. There’s just been too much with which to cope lately.

She touches my hand. “We should get you tested just to be sure you aren’t...”

“I can’t be pregnant again. Not now. Not with his baby again!” I feel the edges of hysteria creeping into my voice. “I can barely handle working for him without falling apart. How am I supposed to tell him I’m carrying his child? I sure can’t hide that if he’s around.”

She makes a soothing sound. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, we find out for sure.”

Leo comes running over, his cheeks flushed from playing. “Mama, can we get ice cream?”

I look at my son, this beautiful, complicated reminder of one night that changed my life forever and try to imagine explainingto him he’s about to become a big brother under these fucked-up circumstances at a level a three-year-old can understand.

“Sure, sweetheart, but first, we need to make a quick stop.”

We leave the park after five more minutes on the swing and stop at a store on the walk back to my apartment. The pharmacy is busy, filled with people picking up prescriptions and buying everyday necessities. I stand in the family planning aisle, staring at the wall of pregnancy tests with growing panic.

Leo is examining the candy display near the front of the store, completely oblivious to the crisis unfolding around him. Carmen stands beside me, patient and supportive, waiting for me to make a decision. “Which one?” I ask, feeling paralyzed by this choice, which is dumb.

“Get two different brands to be sure.”

I grab the tests with shaking hands and hurry toward the checkout counter, hoping we can get through this without Leo asking too many questions. He’s at the age where everything is fascinating and worthy of investigation.

Predictably, when I set the boxes on the counter, he asks, “What’s that, Mama?”

“Just something I need to check at home.” I hand the cashier exact change, avoiding eye contact. “Nothing important.”

We stop for ice cream cones and eat them on the walk home Back at the apartment, I send Leo to his room to play while Carmen waits in the living room. The pregnancy tests sit on the bathroom counter like tiny instruments of fate, capable of changing everything with two pink lines. I already know how to take them, having been in this position once before. I pee in acup and dip both, then set the tests aside and wait for the longest three minutes of my life.

When the timer on my phone goes off, I close my eyes and take a deep breath before looking down.

Positive. Both of them.

I lean against the bathroom counter, gripping the edge until my knuckles turn white. Ten weeks ago, I made a decision that felt inevitable in the moment and necessary in ways I couldn’t explain. Now, I’m dealing with consequences I never saw coming. Again

Pregnant with Radmir’s baby. Again.

What the hell is wrong with me?

When I emerge from the bathroom, Carmen takes one look at my face and knows. She doesn’t ask for confirmation. She just opens her arms and lets me collapse against her, holding me while I try to process what this means for my carefully constructed life.

“What am I going to do?” The question comes out muffled against her shoulder.

“I don’t know,” she asks. “What do you want to do?”

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