Page 61 of Sexted By a Stranger
"Nothing, I'm fine." I shook my head frantically, my voice shaky. "It's just my period. Makes me nauseous."
Luca's frown deepened as he studied my face carefully. "Sheila, are you sure that's all?"
"Yeah." I rubbed my temples, feigning frustration. "Had a rough day with the designs, too. No inspiration. Wore myself out."
Time seemed to stretch endlessly.
Finally, he nodded slowly. "If you're tired, get some real rest." He straightened, his gaze briefly catching on my hand still protectively covering my abdomen. My heart jumped.
"Don't push yourself so hard about the inspiration thing."
"Okay," I responded quietly.
He turned and walked me to the bedroom.
"I still have some things to handle. Why don't you go to bed?" As he reached the door and put his hand on the handle, he stopped, his back to me.
"Sheila, remember—anything that's troubling you, tell me. I'll take care of it."
The door closed softly, shutting out that faint smell of blood along with him.
He definitely knew I was hiding something.
Those eyes were too sharp. No matter how hard I tried to hide it, he'd caught that internal struggle.
I thought of Leon's painting—the sunlight under the garden arbor so bright, Luca's expression so focused as he looked at me… So beautiful.
Then I looked down at my still-flat stomach where a new, fragile little life was growing.
Two worlds. Two futures.
I gripped the edge of the bed and slowly sat down, my mind crystal clear for the first time in days.
I had to make a decision.
Chapter 20
Luca
"Connor's forces are fully assembled," Ragnar's finger tapped three points on the spread-out map. "East side—the abandoned Bluebird Textile Mills, west docks at Pier Three warehouse, and their underground fight club stronghold in the Lower East Side. They're planning coordinated strikes at 2 AM on our casino and port warehouses—three-pronged attack."
I stared at the Manhattan map sprawled across the table, red markers scattered densely across the port district like drops of blood.
"What about the Direwolf Bratva?" I asked.
"Forty men, all elite. Combined with the Marcheses and Malkovich's crews, Connor's scraped together a hundred and sixty." Lennox added, his voice grim. "Boss, Connor's betting everything on this. He wants to rip out our Manhattan roots in one night. His hatred for you runs deep."
"Hates me?" I let out a cold laugh. "The more he hates, the sloppier he gets."
I picked up the nondescript black encrypted communicator from the table. After a brief crackle of static, a deliberately lowered voice came through—fearful and fawning.
"Boss? You called for me?"
"Antonio," my voice was perfectly level, betraying nothing. "I have a 'gift' that needs to accidentally find its way to our Irish friends' ears."
A nervous gulp came through the speaker. "Y-yes, sir. What do you need?"
"Tell them," I slowed my words, making sure each one was crystal clear, "we intercepted their full operational plan. We know about the two-front assault. At 1:30 AM, our main force will be holed up at Golden Crown Casino—the port will be our weak spot. Remember, this is intel you risked your life to steal."
