Chapter 1 - The Threshold of BetrayalThe heavy brass doorknob turned with a slow, agonizing creak that sounded like a gunshot in the silent, carpeted hallway of the St. Regis Hotel.
I didn't run. I couldn't. Another sharp, agonizing contraction ripped across my abdomen, locking my abdominal muscles and leaving me gasping for air against the cold silk wallpaper.
The door swung inward.
Marco—Harrison’s chief enforcer, a six-foot-four wall of muscle wearing a dark suit—stepped out into the hallway. His hand was tucked inside his jacket, resting on his shoulder holster, his eyes sharp and deadly as he scanned the corridor.
Then his eyes fell on me.
He froze. His gaze dropped from my pale, sweat-streaked face to the scattered 3D ultrasound photographs lying on the carpet near his polished leather shoes.
"Mrs. Moretti...?" Marco breathed out, his voice dropping into a shocked, hesitant whisper.
Inside the VIP lounge, the silence became absolute.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached the doorway. The air in the hallway seemed to drop into an absolute, suffocating freeze as my husband, Harrison Moretti, stepped out into the light.
At thirty-eight, Harrison was breathtakingly handsome—tall, broad-shouldered, with silvered hair at his temples and storm-gray eyes that could command a room of two hundred syndicate bosses with a single glance. He had removed his suit jacket, his white silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark tattoos tracing his forearms.
His gray eyes locked onto mine. Then they shifted downward to the ultrasound picture lying between his shoes.
The easy, arrogant amusement on his face vanished, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness.
"Chloe..." Harrison spoke softly. His voice was warm, gentle, and dripping with the exact same tender affection he used when he kissed my forehead every morning. "Sweetheart, what are you doing up here?"
I stood straight, my fingers digging into my swollen stomach, my hazel eyes burning with an unholy, sovereign fire that made Marco instinctively take a step backward.
"I brought you the ultrasound pictures, Harrison," I said. My voice didn't shake. It was clear, velvet, and cut through the silent corridor like a newly sharpened blade. "I wanted to show you their little faces. But I see you've already assigned them to Harper, Madison, and Audrey's estate."
Behind Harrison, his three associates inside the lounge went paper-white, scrambling to gather their papers in a panic.
Harrison didn't look back at them. He stepped over the ultrasound pictures, walking slowly toward me, his hands raised palms-up as if approaching a skittish, cornered animal.
"Chloe, you're upset," Harrison murmured softly, reaching out to touch my arm. "You misheard what we were saying. You're six months pregnant with triplets, my love. The hormone therapy is making you paranoid."
"Don't touch me!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings as I slapped his hand away with all the strength left in my body. "Don't you dare lay your lying, filthy hands on me or my children!"
Harrison's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A dark, terrifying shadow passed through his storm-gray eyes—the real Harrison Moretti. The mafia king who ordered executions without raising his voice.
"Marco," Harrison commanded flatly, without taking his eyes off my face.
"Yes, Don Harrison?"
"Lock the VIP elevators. Secure the private garage." Harrison reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping my wrist with an iron pressure that prevented me from moving an inch. "My wife is having a high-risk medical episode. We are returning to the estate immediately."
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"No!" I gasped, thrashing against his grip as another severe cramp seized my abdomen. "Let me go! Help! Someone help me!"
"Nobody is coming to help you, Chloe," Harrison whispered into my ear, his voice dropping into an icy, apocalyptic register that chilled my blood. "I own this hotel. I own this city. And whether those babies are yours or not... you belong to me."
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