Chapter 3 - The Interrogation
Sunday dragged like a lead weight. Norah stayed in her room under the guise of resting, her heart hammering against her ribs every time she heard footsteps in the hallway. She had hidden the ultrasound strip inside the hollow lining of an old cosmetic case tucked at the very back of her closet, buried beneath spare buttons and hair ties. But she knew Dominic’s men. They didn't just search rooms; they dismantled them if given a reason. By Monday morning, the tension inside the compound had reached a suffocating pitch. Norah forced herself out of bed, pulling on another oversized sweater—a dark maroon turtleneck this time—and tied her hair back into a tight bun. She walked into the kitchen to prepare Lily’s breakfast before the little girl woke up.
She was scrambling eggs at the stove when the kitchen door swung open, not with Lily’s enthusiastic rush, but with the heavy, unannounced stride of Dominic’s chief enforcer, Viktor. Viktor was a man built like a brick wall, with a broken nose and eyes that missed nothing. “Mr. Russo wants you in the study,” Viktor said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. Norah’s hand slipped, the wooden spatula clattering against the edge of the iron pan. “Now?” “Now.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel, her pulse drumming in her ears like a war drum. She walked down the long, mahogany-paneled corridors of the estate, each step feeling heavier than the last. The study door was ajar. Dominic was standing behind his massive oak desk, looking out over the manicured back gardens where the morning mist was slowly burning off the grass. He didn't turn around immediately as she entered.
“Close the door, Norah.” She stepped inside and pulled the heavy oak door shut behind her. The click of the latch sounded like a prison cell locking into place. Dominic turned around. He wasn't wearing his jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate web of dark tattoos winding up his forearms. On the desk in front of him sat an open manila folder. Inside it were crisp, clear photographs taken from a digital camera—photos of her walking out of the Fourth Street clinic, photos of her getting into a taxi, photos of her holding a small white bag from the pharmacy. “You lied to me about the mass,” Dominic said softly. His voice wasn't raised. It was quiet, controlled, and infinitely more terrifying than a shout. “I didn't lie. I panicked. I—values of privacy—” “You went to an obstetrics and gynecology clinic, Norah.”
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The words dropped into the room like lead weights. Norah froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands until it hurt. “OB-GYN,” Dominic repeated, stepping around the desk. He closed the distance between them with terrifying speed. He stopped two feet away from her, towering over her, his slate-gray eyes boring into her soul. “Women do not go to an OB-GYN for a benign abdominal tumor. Women go to an OB-GYN when they are pregnant.” “Mr. Russo, please—” “Who is the father?” The question hit her like a physical blow. The absolute coldness in his voice, the detached professionalism of a mob boss interrogating a traitor, shattered something fragile inside her chest. He didn't know. He genuinely thought she had been sleeping with someone else while working inside his fortress. “What?” she whispered, the shock overriding her fear. “I asked you a simple question,” Dominic said, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Who is the father? Is it one of the guards? One of the men from the local deliveries? Did you think you could sneak around my back, get pregnant under my roof, and I wouldn't find out?”
Anger, sharp and blinding, suddenly cut through her terror. She lifted her chin, meeting his harsh gaze head-on. “You think I’m sleeping around with your guards? Under your roof? With men who carry guns and watch my every move?” “People take risks, Norah. People think they’re clever.” “I am not sleeping with your guards!” Her voice echoed off the high ceiling of the study. Dominic stared at her, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed every micro-expression on her face. He stepped closer still, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body, smelling the expensive sandalwood and gunpowder clinging to his clothes. “Then prove it,” he said quietly. “Prove it isn't true.” “How? By letting you lock me in a medical chair?” “By letting my doctor examine you right now. Dr. Vance is waiting in the guest wing.” Norah’s blood ran completely cold. If Dr. Vance examined her, the truth would be out in thirty seconds. There would be no more hiding behind oversized sweaters, no more pretending it was a tumor. Dominic would know. And once Dominic knew, he would take the child.
