"The morning my divorce from my mafia boss husband became final, he told me to call him if our last night together got me pregnant. Less than twelve hours later, my bathroom floor test showed two pink lines."

When the doctor walked in with the ultrasound printout, her expression was warm and reassuring.

"Well, Mrs. Blackwood—or, well, Ms. Carter, as your chart says—everything looks remarkably healthy," Dr. Vance said, handing me a small, grayscale image with a faint, blurry smudge near the center. "You're roughly five weeks along. The gestational sac is developing right where it should be."

I looked down at the tiny, insignificant speck of gray. Inside that microscopic cluster of cells was the continuation of a bloodline that controlled half the underworld on the East Coast.

"Is... is the baby strong?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Very strong," Dr. Vance smiled. "Just take it easy. Reduce your stress levels, eat well, and come back in four weeks for your next milestone check."

Reducing stress was going to be an Olympic-level challenge.

Leaving the clinic, I walked toward my favorite independent bookstore in the West Village—a quiet sanctuary where I planned to spend the afternoon losing myself in nineteenth-century literature and pretending the rest of the world didn't exist.

As I turned down a quiet side street near Christopher Park, a strange prickling sensation began at the base of my neck.

I’m being watched.

It was a survival instinct I had unconsciously picked up during my three years married to Ethan. When you live in a world where your husband’s enemies view collateral damage as a legitimate strategy, you develop a sixth sense for trailing footsteps.

I paused in front of a bakery window, pretending to inspect a display of artisan croissants, while using the dark glass as a mirror.

A black sedan idling fifty feet back. Tinted windows. A driver who hadn't turned off the ignition despite being parked illegally in a red zone.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Had Ethan found out? Had one of his security details spotted me leaving the OB-GYN clinic?

Without thinking, I picked up my pace, turning sharply down a narrow alleyway that led toward a busy avenue. Footsteps echoed behind me—faster, heavier, closing the distance with terrifying speed.

Before I could break into a run, a large, powerful hand clamped gently but firmly over my shoulder, spinning me around.

I gasped, raising my purse like a shield, ready to swing.

"Easy, Emma. It's just me."

The deep, gravelly voice stopped me dead in my tracks.

Standing before me in a tailored charcoal overcoat was Dante Rossi—Ethan’s primary enforcer and shadow. At forty, Dante had broken more noses than birthdays he’d celebrated, yet right now, his rugged face held an expression of profound, uncomfortable hesitation.

"Dante?" I lowered my purse, my chest heaving. "What the hell are you doing? Are you following me?"

Dante winced, running a calloused hand over his short-cropped dark hair. "Boss didn't order me to follow you, Emma. Not officially. But after you left the office on Friday, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He asked me to keep a discreet eye on your movements. Just... to make sure you were settling into the new apartment okay."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "A discreet eye? He has me tailed like a criminal?"

"He's paranoid, Emma. You know how he operates," Dante said defensively, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "Especially with the tension between our syndicate and the Russian outfit in Brooklyn heating up. The boss is vulnerable right now—even if he'd rather swallow glass than admit it."

"I am not one of Ethan’s security vulnerabilities, Dante," I snapped, turning on my heel to walk away. "Tell him I’m fine. Tell him the apartment is great. And tell him to stop sending his attack dogs to babysit me."

"Wait—Emma, hold on a second." Dante caught my arm again, his grip gentler this time. He glanced around the empty street before leaning in close. "There's... there's something else you should know. That text he sent you about his grandfather's watch? That wasn't just an excuse to talk to you."

I froze. "What do you mean?"

"Someone broke into his townhouse on Park Avenue late Friday night," Dante murmured, his eyes dark and serious. "Right after the divorce was finalized. They didn't steal money. They didn't touch the safe. But they left a message on his desk."

A cold dread crept up my spine. "What kind of message?"

"A polaroid picture," Dante said grimly. "Of you walking out of your divorce attorney’s office. With a red X drawn across your face."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis.