Cashmere Cruelty - A Mafia Romance

I nearly rip the tie off the hanger in the process. In any other context, it would be unforgivable. Right now, I don't care. But that's part of what sobers me up in the end. I'm still catching my breath against this man-this man I don't even know the name of- when, terrifyingly, something else happens. The door chimes. "Oh, fuck," I curse, scrambling to get my feet back on solid ground. "Let them leave," the man murmurs into the crook of my neck. "Hello?" calls the voice I instantly recognize as Mr. Boyd's. "April, are you there?" "Please untie me," I squeak as quietly as I can. "Why? I'm not done with you yet." "I'm definitely done with you," I hiss, trying to magic my way out of my bonds like a sartorial Houdini. "Yeah, see, I don't buy that." The tie tears. Fuck. I cling to the only thing I can: the man who's currently still inside me. "I can order a new one of those," I squeak, slipping back into customer service mode. "You'd better. I quite liked it." Then, out of the blue, I feel his fingers pulling something out of my hair. My ponytail comes loose, curls all over the place. Great. "In the meantime, I think I'll take this," he says, dangling my hair ribbon in front of me. Cornflower blue, just like the ruined tie. "As insurance." "April? Elias? Anyone?" I start squirming and thrashing and whimpering and finally, the man takes the hint, letting me down with a grimace. "Fine. Be that way if you choose." "I absolutely will be that way," I growl back, rushing to put myself back together. My blouse is unsalvageable, but maybe - "I thought that was my shirt," the man frowns, watching me steal the dark gray shirt I gave him to try on earlier. "It will be. In ten to fifteen business days," I tell him curtly, rolling up the sleeves. "If you decide to purchase." "Well, now, I'm not so sure." I give him my worst glare. But I can't waste time trading evil looks with this arrogant, beautiful asshole, because Mr. Boyd is still thumping around in the shop impatiently. I compose myself as best as I can, watching him do the same in the mirror. There's a ripple of muscle across his chest, his arms, as he briskly slips on the clothes he came in with. I force myself to tear my gaze away. Then, without turning back, I start to head out. Somehow, he beats me to the door. "Here." He hands me a business card. "Contact info's on the back. Address, too, for delivery." Frowning, I read over the card. Matvey Groza, CEO. "See you at the final fitting," Mr. Groza drawls, pocketing my hair ribbon. Then, unexpectedly, he picks up my hand and kisses it. "... Ms. Flowers." And then, as if nothing happened, he walks. I hear Mr. Boyd outside going "Oh!", probably expecting Elias and then noticing at the last second the man in front of him is much paler and much taller and much, much scarier. The door chimes. And just like that, he's gone. With one last look in the mirror, I head out, calling out a thank you to Mr. Boyd for his patience. Matvey Groza. Whoever he is, I can tell he's trouble. It's better this way, really: I've got no desire to ever see him again. Or at least that's what I tell myself. And then, one month later, the universe holds up both middle fingers to me... In the form of two pink lines on a pregnancy test. 4 APRIL "Well," the doctor says, taking off the stethoscope, "everything seems to be in order. Baby's still oblique, but close enough to cephalic that we can expect it to turn. No signs of fetal distress, either." I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Everything's fine, then?" I ask, feeling stupid for not speaking Doctorese. Are there such things as stupid questions when you're pregnant? Luckily, Dr. Allan doesn't seem to think so. "Yes," she replies, a small smile on her face. "Almost too fine, to be honest." For the first time, her smile falters into an equally small frown. And just like that, my anxiety rushes back tenfold. "And, uhh... why's that?" "You're in your thirty-ninth week," she says, like it explains everything. I nod along, pretending I'm not about to have a panic attack while half-naked with my bits out in my OBGYN's studio. Dr. Cecilia Allan has many great qualities, but tact is definitely not one of them. "In normal circumstances," she continues, "your baby would have kicked its way out already." What a reassuring mental image. "Well, a due date's just a guess, right?" I ask with a nervous chuckle. "That certainly seems to be the case with your family history," the doctor muses, pulling out a file. I can tell it's mine by how thick it is. Ever since my baby decided to sleep through its own birth, we've been meeting weekly for ultrasounds and check-ups. One more week, and it's gonna start looking like War and Peace. "You mentioned your mother's pregnancy with you ran forty-three weeks?" "Forty-four," I correct. "And forty-six with my little brother." "She didn't consider an induction?" "With Charlie, yes. But it was..." I struggle to find the right words. I have a feeling "bloodbath" isn't a term to be throwing out inside a doctor's office. "Difficult," I settle on. "If possible, I'd like to avoid that." "Yes, you've said," Dr. Allan muses, turning a page. "Well, for now, the baby's health looks good. The heartbeat's strong. No signs of fetal macrosomia, either." Then, snapping the folder shut, she turns to me. "But I really can't recommend letting this go on too long. As your physician, it's my job to look after your baby's health. And yours, too," she adds, squeezing my shoulder warmly. "I know." It gives me a pang of guilt-the implication that I'm not thinking of what's best for my baby. But I know Dr. Allan didn't mean it like that. For better or worse, she's been my rock these past nine months. "Thank you, Dr. Allan. I promise I'll consider it." She smiles. "I know you will. Oh, and by the way," she adds, rotating in her revolving chair, "here's your test results." I take the envelope with trembling hands. "Thank you." "Sure you don't want to know the sex?" "Nah," I tell her as I pop up and get dressed. "I want it to be a surprise." It's more than that, really. But I don't see a point in burdening Dr. Allan with my existential musings, so I don't bother elaborating. "Alright. I blacked it out in there, like you asked. But feel free to call anytime if you change your mind." "Will do," I promise, rising to my feet. "Thank you again." "See you in a week!" Dr. Allan calls after me, her eyes already on the next patient's file, and I give her a quick nod. On my way out, I pass by couples holding hands in the waiting room. Partners supporting partners, come what may. I squeeze the envelope between my hands, walking out alone.