23. Elle

23

ELLE

I should have gone to sleep hours ago. If my parents knew I was still awake, I would no doubt be grounded for the rest of the month.

My parents should be used to it by now. They’re forever coming in to check on me before they go to sleep only to find me sitting at my window with my nose in a book.

But tonight is different.

I jolt awake to find my book has fallen on the floor, the dust jacket all rumbled, and my bedside lamp still on.

“Oh no,” I hastily climb out of bed to rescue my book.

I’m just fixing the dust jacket when someone shouts downstairs.

I freeze at my father’s booming voice. He’s yelling in English which is unusual.

Normally, when he’s mad, he slips into his native Italian, despite no one being able to understand him.

My mother usually responds by yelling in Russian and they break out into a fit of laughter when they realized they can’t understand a word the other is saying.

Setting my book down on my bedside table, I tiptoe over to my bedroom door and press my ear against it, hoping to catch what my father is saying.

“Get the hell out of my house!”

Someone is in our house?

My stomach flutters as a deep unknown voice yells something back in a strong accent similar to my mother’s.

My father’s voice booms. “I fucking warned you ? —”

A huge crash cuts my father off, and I shriek.

Whoever my father is talking to is making my Papi mad. And not just the kind of mad he gets when Marco and I are caught stealing candy from the pantry.

This is different.

Something about it feels dangerous.

I don’t want to listen to this.

My father is a strong man, and I know he will make sure that nothing and no one will ever hurt me or Marco or Mama. So instead of sneaking out to investigate further, I step away from my door and go to perch on the bench beneath my window, which overlooks the gardens.

The porch lights are on, flooding not only the back patio below with orange light, but a boy who’s staring up at me too.

I jump, falling off the bench seat and landing on the floor with a thump as I clutch my hand to my heart.

Who is that, and why is he in my backyard?

I peer over the window ledge to find him still standing there, looking up at me with such sad eyes.

He looks to be around thirteen or fourteen, with long limbs and messy dark hair.

What is he doing here? And why won’t he stop staring at me?

The shouting downstairs is getting louder and another huge crash sounds from beneath my room.

I can’t hear my mother’s voice at all .

Why isn’t she saying something to stop this?

I should go and make sure Marco is all right. He doesn’t like it when there’s loud noises, and he’ll be frightened.

Running over to my door, I yank on the handle, but the door doesn’t move.

“Come on! Just open already,” I mutter, trying again.

Nothing.

I can’t get out.

“Mami!” I yell as I bang my hand against the door.

Is this Marco playing a trick on me?

“Marco, this isn’t funny! Let me out!”

Pressing my ear against the door, I try to listen out for the sound of Marco’s footsteps running down the hall, or his cheeky laugh when he’s teasing me.

But there is only shouting.

My father’s voice is lost among the sea of voices that have now joined in.

More men have come.

What is happening?

“Help!” I pull on the handle with all my strength. “Please, Papi! Help me ? —”

An awful smell hits me, and I look around.

Smoke is creeping in beneath my door.

I stagger back from the door as it starts to fill up my room.

My throat is scratching, and I can’t hold my cough in.

If there’s smoke, there’s fire. And I’m completely trapped.

My legs almost give out as the panic sets in.

“MAMI! PAPI! MARCO!” I run to the door, banging my fists against it. “HELP ME!”

The smoke is filling up my room at an alarming rate which means the fire must be nearby.

Is it near my brother’s room?

“Marco,” I sob as I continue to pound on the door.

The smoke is starting to fill my lungs, and I start coughing violently.

Tears stream down my face as the smoke burns my eyes, but there’s nowhere else for me to go.

I can’t escape it.

I’m going to burn to death if someone doesn’t find me fast.

A fit of cough overtakes me, and my throat starts closing up.

I grab the glass of water I always have on my bedside table, but it slips and shatters on the floor.

I bolt upright in bed, gasping for air as the phantom smoke burns my lungs.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t? —

“One…” I place a hand on my heart to try and calm myself down.”

“Two…” It’s as if my lungs are working against me as I try to take a breath, but there’s no relief.

“Three…” My skin is covered in sweat, and my hair sticks to my face.

“Four…” I work through my grounding exercise.

“Five…” I’m in my apartment.

“Six…” There are sirens wailing nearby.

“Seven…” My skin smells of my new strawberry soap.

“Eight…” It was just a nightmare.

“Nine… Ten…”

I’m no stranger to waking up and thinking I’m trapped inside my childhood home as it goes up in flames. The recurring nightmares are what got me to see Dr. Mills in the first place.

But just when I think I’m safe, they creep back into my life, and I’m eight years old all over again. Terrified and alone.

They tend to happen when I’m stressed or anxious, so I’m not surprised that I’m starting to experience them again. The trauma of the last few months has likely uncovered some old wounds from my past, and despite my best efforts at talking through my feelings with Dr. Mills, I’m not going to heal overnight.

These things take time.

But that doesn’t make the nightmares any less upsetting.

I reach across to switch on the light before throwing back the covers and heading into my bathroom to splash some cold water on my face.

If I had more energy, I’d get in the shower and wash away the sweat that soaks my skin, but I’m exhausted. So, this will have to do.

When I walk back into the bedroom, my eyes land on a single red rose that has been placed on the end of my bed.

He was here.

I swallow a sob of happiness as I dart over to the bed and pick the flower up. I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply.

“Lev,” I whisper.

He wants to comfort me, even if it means risking being caught by one of Mikhail’s men.

He hasn’t left me.

The thought makes my heart swell.

I climb back into bed and lay the rose down on the pillow beside me, letting it bring me comfort as I close my eyes and drift back to sleep.

My head’s groggy when I wake up a few hours later. It doesn’t help that the sunlight is streaming in through my window, making me wince as I peel open my eyes.

Since when is it broad daylight at six a.m. in October?

“Oh, my god!”

I sit up and search around the bed for my phone.

“Oh no ,” I groan when I realize it’s almost eight, and I’m due at the hospital… well, now.

Cursing under my breath, I sprint into the bathroom and start trying to make myself look somewhat presentable for work when the wave of nausea that followed me home from the café yesterday hits me all over again.

I clutch my stomach.

For a brief second, I think I’m in the clear. But just as I’m reaching for my mascara, it hits all over again and the next thing I know, I’m bending over the toilet and retching.

Calling my boss from the floor of my bathroom as I lean over the toilet was not how I wanted to start my day, but here we are.

“Hi, Karla,” I croak.

“Elle, honey, are you all right?”

“I think I’ve got a stomach bug.” Bile burns my throat. “And I slept through my alarm, so I’m going to be a bit late?—”

“You’re not going anywhere, sweetie. The last thing I need is a vomiting bug going around the ICU. Rest up and let me know when you’re feeling better.”

“Are you sure? I could maybe come in for afternoon rounds?—”

“Don’t even try. If I get wind that you’re sneaking around the ward, I’ll stick you on bedpan duty until New Year’s. ”

I sigh. “Fair enough.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Karla, you’re the best.”

“So I’ve been told.” She chuckles. “Speak later.”

Catching the occasional bug is an occupational hazard, so I should be used to it, but I still hate it.

Once I deem it safe enough to leave my spot beside the toilet, I head straight back to bed and try to sleep off whatever bug is plaguing me.

It’s almost two by the time I wake up again. The rose is still beside me on the pillow, but it does little to cheer me up.

I feel like death, which means I’m going to have to give in and call a doctor.

Working for a private hospital means that I have excellent health insurance, and I’m able to get a phone appointment with my primary care physician almost immediately.

“How long have you been feeling nauseous?”

“Since yesterday afternoon.” My throat feels raw from vomiting so much, and my head is pounding from dehydration.

“And is there any chance you might be pregnant?”

I shake my head. “No…”

Right?

“Miss Conti? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, my god, I-I have to call you back.” I hang up the phone and run into my bathroom to check the cabinet under my sink.

Just as I feared, the box of tampons that I bought last month is sitting on the shelf, completely unopened .

“Don’t taunt me.” I slam the door closed. “Oh god, this cannot be happening!”

But it makes sense.

I should have gotten my period two weeks ago, which means it’s highly likely that I’m pregnant.

I run to the toilet again, but this time not from nausea but from panic.

My vomiting spells are too unpredictable to risk going out to CVS to get a test, and I definitely can’t call Lucia to pick one up for me.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

I reach for my phone and open the postmate s app.

There’s something slightly humiliating about having a pregnancy test delivered to your door. But I can’t risk going into work and taking one of the free ones. If one of my colleagues were to see, how the hell would I explain who the father is?

Oh yeah, about that… He’s just a murderer who’s been stalking me for years and when we had sex, I was blindfolded so I never saw his face. But don’t worry, we’re buying a three-bed house in Queens and getting a golden doodle!

A hysterical laugh escapes me at the thought.

The next thirty minutes are the longest of my life as I wait for my delivery guy to drop off my CVS bag. It doesn’t help that he barely looks old enough to drink and practically throws the bag of pregnancy tests at me as if he might catch something from them.

“Asshole.”

I take the bag into the bathroom.

My fingers shake as I tear open one of the boxes and unwrap the test.

I wish I didn’t have to do this alone. I wish that Lucia or hell, even Lev himself, could hold my hand as I set the test on the counter once I’m finished and wait for the results.

As soon as I set the timer, my mind starts to race.

Lev doesn’t exactly strike me as a white picket fence kind of guy. And even if he was and the thought of being a father filled him with joy, how the hell are we meant to start a life together when he’s got a target on his back put there by the Koslovs?

I’m so deep in my spiraling thoughts that the sound of my timer going off makes me shriek.

“Moment of truth.” I reach for the test.

“Holy crap.” The two pink lines have my knees buckling, and I have to grip the counter to stop myself from falling to the floor.

I’m not sure how to feel.

I’ve always seen myself as having kids, but not like this. Part of me is thrilled, but it’s not enough to mask the devastation.

How can this ever work?

After all, my family may want him dead.

But I want him .

And right now, I can only hope that he wants me, and this baby.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

I need to tell him, so I take the positive test and head over to the window in my bedroom.

It will be hours until dark, and even then there’s no guarantee that he can sneak up here.

I have to hope that he’s watching as I place the positive pregnancy test on the windowsill, and that he’ll be able to sneak up here under the cover of darkness to find it.

I head back to bed with the weight of this news resting heavy on my shoulders, knowing that the fate of our future rests in the hands of the Koslovs.