"My mob boss husband brought his mistress into our bedroom while I was 8 months pregnant—unaware I’d already planned my escape."

The metallic smell of antiseptic, oxygen, and blood hung heavy in the air.

My hands were shaking violently on the narrow operating table, my heart rate monitor vitals beep-beep-beeping in a fast, chaotic rhythm as the anesthesiologist administered the spinal block.

Then, a broad, warm hand wrapped securely around my fingers.

I looked up.

Dante sat on a small stool beside my head, wearing a blue surgical mask and cap. His storm-gray eyes were bloodshot, filled with a raw, agonizing devotion and fear that I had never seen in any man before.

He didn't speak about lawyers. He didn't speak about contracts. He leaned his forehead flat against mine, his broad hand squeezing my cold fingers with an iron grip.

"I am right here, Elena," Dante whispered, his voice shaking with a deep, reverent warmth. "I am right here, my queen. Look at me. Don't look at the curtain. Look at me."

I locked my hazel eyes onto his, holding onto his gaze as if it were the only anchor keeping me grounded in a sea of blinding pain and cold steel.

"Dr. Aris is making the secondary incision," the anesthesiologist reported smoothly.

Fifteen seconds passed—seconds that felt like eternity.

Then, a sharp, sudden release of pressure echoed through my abdomen.

WAHHHHHHHH! WAHHHHHHHH!

A high-pitched, loud, and breathtakingly healthy cry rang out through the sterile operating room, cutting through the hum of the cardiac monitors like a silver bell.

The entire medical team let out a loud, unanimous cheer.

"It's a boy!" Dr. Aris announced triumphantly, holding up a small, wriggling, covered baby with a thick mop of dark hair and furious, loud lungs. "Born at thirty-six weeks, weight six pounds four ounces! He is perfect!"

Tears of pure, weightless, and blinding joy exploded from my eyes as I sobbed uncontrollably onto the pillow.

Dante looked over the blue curtain at his son.

The feared Don of Chicago—the man who ruled an empire with an iron fist—dropped his head onto my chest and wept like a child. His broad shoulders shook violently as he buried his face in my neck, his hot tears soaking into my surgical gown.

"He's here, Elena..." Dante sobbed, kissing my jaw, my cheeks, my forehead with frantic, reverent kisses. "Our son is here... You did it, my love... You saved us..."

The nurse cleaned the baby, wrapped him in a soft warm fleece blanket with a small blue striped hat, and brought him over to my chest.

I held my son against my skin.

He had my pale skin, but his dark hair, sharp little jaw, and serious gray-blue eyes belonged entirely to the man weeping beside my pillow.

"What is his name, Mrs. Moretti?" Dr. Aris asked softly, holding a pen over the birth certificate ledger.