At 10 PM, The Mafia Boss Got A Call: "Your Ex-Wife Is Pregnant And Unconscious."

The sun began to crest over the horizon of the Hudson River, casting a brilliant golden hue across the immaculate gardens of the Caruso estate.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite, sipping warm chamomile tea while watching the distant glimmer of the Manhattan skyline. The weight that had crushed my chest for months—the constant fear, the hunger, the bitter loneliness—was completely gone, replaced by a deep, unshakeable peace.

The heavy oak door of the suite clicked open.

Dante walked in, having removed his tactical vest and suit jacket. His white dress shirt was slightly rumpled at the cuffs, his hair tousled from the night's operations, but his dark eyes were bright with an unmistakable warmth.

He crossed the room quietly, wrapping his arms around me from behind, resting his chin gently on my shoulder. His large warm hands settled over the gentle curve of my five-month belly.

“It’s over,” Dante whispered against my neck. “Volkov’s network is dismantled. The federal indictments have been filed, and our shipping lanes are entirely secure. No one will ever threaten us again.”

I leaned back against his solid chest, closing my eyes as I covered his hands with mine. “I never doubted you for a second, Dante.”

“You should have,” he murmured, a self-deprecating note in his voice. “You had every reason to walk away, to hate me, to never let me near you again. Instead, you gave me a second chance.”

“I didn't give a second chance to the mafia boss,” I turned around within his embrace, looking up into his face. “I gave it to the man who carried me out of the cold when I had nothing left in the world.”

Dante smiled—a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes and erased every trace of the ruthless syndicate leader he was known as to the rest of the world.