Twisted Fate: A Forbidden Romance

by Ella James

  I close the foot or two of space between us, pulling her against me so I can hold her.

  “Oh, my heart.” Her mouth finds mine. I taste her tears as she clings to me. “Please say you’re not upset,” she rasps.

  “Why would I be?”

  She laughs, sounding unhinged. “I didn’t know if I should tell you sooner! Or if you would want…you know…” She makes a muffled sob sound.

  “No…no, rosa. I want whatever you want. You’re…okay about it?” I can’t draw a breath until she nods, wide-eyed and so fucking perfect that it almost kills me.

  “Jesus, woman. Of course I want our baby.” I’m breathing hard, though. I can’t get my breath. “Sorry,” I choke.

  “It’s okay.” She pulls me down so we’re lying on our sides, facing each other, and she pulls the covers over us. “It’s just the three of us, cuore. We’re okay.”

  My throat is so tight, and the room feels like it’s spinning. I’m aware of pressure behind my eyes. I know it’s tears that really want to fall—and I won’t let them, though I want to.

  It won’t ever be the three of us. Because of me.

  My palms find the roundness of her belly. “How many weeks along is…he or she?”

  “Twenty-four weeks.”

  Fuck, that sounds like a lot. “Is the baby…healthy?”

  “Yes.” Her voice breaks. “He or she seems healthy. Really active.”

  I nod, closing my eyes.

  “I don’t know the gender yet.” She kisses my hair. “What about you? Tell me how you are. I feel like something’s not okay. Did something happen?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know how to explain, so I say, “Nothing recent.”

  “Oh. I think maybe I understand.” Her words are so soft.

  “I don’t know, but I think it’s because of…other things that happened,” I manage. It’s the first time I’ve ever said something like that to anybody.

  “That stuff hangs around, right?” Her fingers sift through my hair. “I know, vita mia.” She’s stroking my cheek and then my shoulder. “Someone needs to hold you, help you relax.”

  She kisses my mouth softly, stroking my scruff. Then she curls herself around me, blowing a soft breath out.

  “I love you, il mio cuore. I love you forever. And it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out somehow.”

  “Anything you need…is yours.” I can feel my heartbeat in my head again, behind my eyes. I really think I might be sick.

  “We just need you. That’s all.”

  Her mouth finds mine again. It’s just a whispered kiss, but right now, I need more. Just a hint of that from me, and I can see she needs it, too. We’re kissing hard and fast. I can’t breathe, but that’s okay. The room spins around us, and my hand is in her pants. I feel the soft swell of her belly, but instead of making me afraid, it makes me want her more. Elise—and I put a baby in her. Our love created something real, something that lasts.

  I’m hard and throbbing as my fingers find their way past the soft cotton of her underwear. It’s an anchor—this soft heat. Everything I am, have been, or ever will be seems to swirl around this moment. Elise and her small, soft noises. Her sweet, soothing hands. Our mouths and tongues, our hips aligned. And then I’m pushing her pants down. She’s pulling off her underwear. My clumsy hands have got my own pants down around my knees.

  “I want you inside me,” she says, sultry.

  I run my hand over her rounded belly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She laughs. “I’m not fragile.”

  She shows me how not fragile she is. I’m cautious, and she’s begging me to come in deeper, to thrust harder. She’s crying out, pulling my hair, rocking her hips like she’s desperate, groaning. I don’t remember la mia rosa like this before. Right about that time, she laughs, and in a husky whisper tells me, “I think this has made me need you even more.”

  My eyes are shut. There’s just her warmth around me, her soft moans, and then her gentle hands along my ribcage.

  “Love you,” I groan, and she whispers it back. Soon I’m rolling over the ledge. It feels fucking incredible, but I’m so dizzy. “No sleep…for a lot of nights,” I try to explain as I lie face down.

  She’s rubbing my nape. I feel the covers pulled over my hips…and then my shoulders.

  “I know,” she says, curling around me. Her mouth is in my hair. Somewhere, I hear her say, “I love you.”

  30

  Luca

  I wake to a ringing phone. I’m in a dark room, startled—but there’s something warm and soft against me: rosa.

  A little rush of gladness hits me as I fumble to answer. My brother’s name is on the screen—along with 4:09 a.m.

  “Soren?” My heart’s still pounding from the sudden waking. “What’s the matter?”

  “You gotta meet me so we can talk. Aren’s working with the FBI, like in an active way. Last time we did the exchange—that time you oversaw it—he got the whole thing. They have lots of shit on us now, but especially Alesso and you.”

  My stomach does a slow roll. “Okay. Have you hacked any of their desktops? See if they’re taking it seriously?”

  “Luca—later.” I squeeze my eyes shut as Elise stirs beside me. “Sorry,” I rasp. God, I must be really tired. Number one rule of phones is that you only use them to set up a meeting. “Where do you want to meet?” I ask him.

  He says he’ll pick a place and text me, and when I end the call and open my eyes, I find Elise sitting beside me, looking concerned.

  “Did something happen?” Her too-round eyes shine in the dark room.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Was that your brother? I could hear—you sounded concerned.”

  “Nothing for you to worry over, rosa.”

  “Yes it is. Of course it is. Everything that matters to you matters to me now.”

  I shake my head, giving her shoulder a small squeeze before getting off the bed. “I don’t want you compromising yourself, rosa. Especially now.” She looks like she’s going to get up, too, so I lie back down with her. “You want to stay while I run out? I can come back.”

  “I can go home, too,” she murmurs. “If that’s easier for you.”

  “Stay and sleep. If I’m not back in time for when you want to go, just call a black car.” I run my hand back through my hair. “I might be back fast, though. I’m gonna try to have my brother meet me somewhere nearby.”

  Elise

  He brushes a kiss over my forehead, gives me a tired smile, and moves toward the bedroom door. When he reaches the door frame, he turns back around, wide-eyed as he walks back over to me.

  “One more time,” he rasps, hugging me with one arm as his free hand cradles my bump. “Bye to both of you” he whispers.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look as tired as he does leaving the apartment. Once he’s gone, I stand there in the kitchen/living area for a long moment. Then I drift back into the lone bedroom, looking at the medicine bottles on the dresser: all sleep meds. I wonder what the story is there, but I know the gist of it. He pretty much said he has PTSD-related sleep trouble.

  Poor Luca.

  I can’t resist looking around the bedroom a bit more before I lie back down. Inside the night stand drawer, I find a notebook filled with some kind of logistical information. Scrawled inside is the address 202 Richards Street. The handwriting doesn’t look like his. It’s big and loopy.

  I tell myself it would be an invasion of his privacy to look in the dresser drawers…but I can’t resist. I’m rewarded—punished?—almost instantly. The top drawer is filled with women’s clothes. They’re new clothes. Packs of underwear, bras in various sizes still bearing tags, shirts and shorts and jeans.

  Is this a house where he meets women? He said he’s never had anyone in the tub at his house. What if that’s because he only ever brings them here?

  There’s no way he sleeps with prostitutes on a regular basis…right? What if that’s how he knew he would
n’t transfer anything to me? Do sex workers have to show their test results or something like that?

  Using my phone, I look up the owner of this apartment, which turns out to be an LLC called The Rose Garden. I kind of feel like leaving, but I’m so sleepy—and the truth is, I want to see him again. The truth is I trust him, even if it’s senseless. But I don’t think it is.

  I get a nap on the soft, cotton sheets, and when I open my eyes, he’s in the doorway looking tired and rumpled in the same black jeans, boots, and long-sleeved T-shirt he had on last time I saw him.

  I push up on one elbow, searching his face with my blurry eyes. “How was it? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine.” He glances back into the living area. “I’m getting a glass of water. You want some?”

  “Sure.”

  He brings us both water, but instead of sitting by me, he sits at the edge of the bed, rolling his left shoulder and staring at the TV, which is off. When he turns to me, he lifts his brows, but he looks tense and solemn.

  “I was thinking of going soon,” I say, wanting to offer him some space if that’s what he needs. I’m hoping he’ll crawl back into bed with me, but instead he stands up.

  “I can take you back home.” He steps over to me, holding out a hand as if I might need help getting off the bed. I take it, and when I’m up, he wraps me against him for one of those good, firm hugs.

  “I want you to think of how I can help out with the baby.”

  My stomach does a slow roll as I nod. How he can help? What does that mean? I don’t have the nerve to ask as I start dressing, taking care to wrap my scarf around my face, and he calls valet.

  Then I’m following him into the hall. He locks the door and takes my hand in his.

  “Just keep me posted, okay?” he says again. “I want to be part of the process.”

  That sounds better. I nod, feeling teary.

  “Everything’s gonna be good. I know it wasn’t planned,” he says, just as the elevator dings, “but I can’t be unhappy. How do you feel?”

  I look into his blue eyes, just about the only part of him that’s visible between the disguise of his hat and his scarf.

  “I always wanted to be a mom,” I manage, only choking up a little.

  He lifts my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles before the elevator dings again, and it’s time to step off. Once we’re in the building’s lobby, he lets me go. We walk close but avoid touching as we head toward the revolving doors, and then the car; he gets my door like a gentleman.

  When we’re both buckled, he looks over at me. “Were you…when you came to my house? The day you ran in the park?”

  I nod, teary again.

  He murmurs a curse. “I didn’t know.”

  I can’t help a little cat smile. “How would you have known?”

  “Did you know?”

  “I had just found out in the weeks before. I’d been feeling really tired for a month or two. Falling asleep everywhere…like at my desk and things like that. And when I ran, I just felt different. I was a little anemic, so the doctor put me on some iron pills. But she said that’s really normal. It’s because of the baby.”

  “Making a baby takes a toll, huh?” When I dare to look into his eyes, I find them twinkling.

  “I hope the baby has your eyes.” It’s just a murmur, because I’m so nervous. I’ve been thinking of telling him since the day I found out, and this has gone much better than I feared it might.

  “When were you going to tell me?” he asks, reading my mind as he pulls out of the parking garage.

  “Tonight. When I saw that we were both up, I decided I couldn’t wait. That’s why I said we should meet up. I think I already knew I would end up telling you. Anyway, there’s not too much disguising things now. It’s my first, so it was slow to pop. That’s what they call it” —I smile— “but now there’s a definite little bump there.”

  He brings my hand up to his mouth again, kissing my fingers as he navigates the route to my place. “I’m so glad you told me.”

  We’re wrapped in silence for a moment. His fingers stroke the top of my hand.

  “Keep on being careful,” he says softly, as my building comes into view. “Try to think hard about everything you do.”

  “Is that your way of saying I’ve got enemies? Is it still the Armenians?”

  “It’s my way of saying you’re all that matters to me.” His voice drops down an octave, and I see him swallow. Finally, his eyes come to my face. “The two of you,” he manages. “Capische?”

  “Akash,” I whisper.

  That makes him smile; akash is the correct reply when someone says capische, but most people don’t know.

  “Take care of you two,” he says as he idles near the curb in front of my building.

  “You do the same—tell sweet Oscar hello for me. Try to get some sleep. Maybe we can get together again soon?”

  He nods, not quite looking at me. “Yeah, maybe we can.”

  I step out into the breezy night, looking over my shoulder before I walk briskly toward the doors.

  Over the next week, I wake every day to dark hearts waiting in my text box. I send hearts back to him before I leave my bed. All through the day, we text each other—just those little emoji hearts. It keeps us feeling close without making things too painful. Sometimes I’ll break down and send him a real text, telling him what I’m doing or how I’m feeling, what the baby’s doing, but he never does the same. I think he knows that if we really start to talk, it will be too hard.

  I’m in the elevator, riding up to my office, when my phone vibrates in my briefcase. I figure it’s probably hearts, and this time, I don’t want to check it. I’ve been feeling miserable for a few days—I guess since my last OB appointment, where they did an ultrasound and asked again if I wanted them to get a peek at what’s between the baby’s legs. I declined…in part because he wasn’t with me. I didn’t want to find out by myself. I don’t want to be by myself.

  I’m lost in thought, wondering what things might be like if he quit working with the Arnoldis and got a legit job, when I pull the door to the D.A.’s wing open and Fatima materializes in front of me. She’s wearing her usual thick-rimmed hipster glasses and a canary yellow pantsuit, with red lipstick, and the first thing I notice is the look of panic on her face.

  “Elise, we’ve got…things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She waves, her brown eyes popping open wider. “Blake Barnes is here. He’s from the FBI?”

  “Okay.” I give her a so-what look, even as my heart is beating harder. Instinctually, I glance down, worrying my bump is visible through my suit’s coat. But it’s not. I frown back up at Fatima. “So what’s the news? Why is he here?”

  She starts walking briskly toward the conference rooms, beckoning me like she’s in charge, which I find slightly annoying. “We’ve got breaking news. Aren—the leader of the Armenian mob, or the most prominent faction in—”

  “I know who that is,” I say with a tight smile.

  “Of course. You haven’t been to meetings lately, but I forget sometimes he got you detailed. Anyway, the FBI’s got Aren on the hook for all sorts of crazy stuff. Some weapons that are like, mass destruction status—for example, one’s basically an exploding drone—which Aren sold to two domestic terrorist organizations. So much drug stuff, like…so much. They have proof that his people are trafficking drugs through four different airports—”

  “This is great information, but can you explain—before we reach the conference rooms—why this is breaking news? Especially if it’s all in their court?”

  She nods, arching her brows. “It’s because Aren turned on Luca Galante.”

  I can feel myself pale, but I nod quickly. “Still, what does that have to do with us?”

  “They want to consult our committee. So we could maybe roll it into one giant investigation. I guess they think that it’s more sensible to take it that way…rather than through our offi
ce. I don’t know. But Blake is here. It’s kind of exciting. This could be a huge day for our team!”

  It takes every ounce of strength in me to blink coolly and set my face like I’m mildly annoyed. “Well, it may be. Or they may be out of bounds. We’re building our cases from what we got from the precincts. If we prosecute, it will be ours, not theirs.”

  “What about collegiality,” she says, but her voice fades at the end.

  “I’m a young, new D.A. I don’t want to be shown up by some Captain America type from the FBI.” I shrug, as if it doesn’t really matter.

  Oh my God, I’m going to hurl. I open my briefcase and grab a peppermint, hold one out to her. “Would you like one?”

  “I would. Thank you. Got that latte breath.”

  “Thank you for telling me about this, Fatima. You’ve done nothing but great work, and I’m really grateful for that. Let’s see what he says.”

  She pulls the door open to conference room one, and I step inside. The room is full. I don’t know how she missed this fact, but it’s not just one guy from FBI. It’s two guys and two girls, and they’re gathered at my podium. One of them—a blonde woman—is jerking my projector screen down.

  “Well, hello.” I slip effortlessly into attorney mode, giving them a calculated look of chastisement. “It seems you all are setting up shop in my conference room.”

  I can tell immediately who’s in charge, and for once, it’s not one of the women. It’s a tall, broad-shouldered guy I assume must be Blake Barnes.

  “Madam D.A. It’s nice to see you. We’d like to coordinate with your team on something I think we both consider a priority,” he says.

  “Yes, well, we would like an invite on our Google calendar.” I arch a brow.

  “We’re moving fast, but I’m sorry about that. Our superiors need to make a decision fast about Aren Alexanian and some people who work below him. We’d like to be sure we aren’t overlapping with charges or shutting down better work coming from your team. We have an agent who has formed a relationship with Aren, and she trusts him. She would like to accept his evidence against the Arnoldi family and reduce his time. He’s going to prison either way, but he might not get as long if he can push this stuff through on Luca Galante. Anyway, Fatima”—he waves at her—“mentioned you have compiled evidence on the Arnoldi family. We thought it would be nice to compare notes.”