Four months after I spent one unforgettable night with a stranger, my best friend stood beside Chicago's most feared mafia boss and announced she was carrying his baby. I was holding a mop when she ordered security to throw me out, unaware that **the baby growing inside me was actually his.**

Dante stood outside the driver’s side of the Maybach, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead, his white shirt stained with crimson.

Sutton Vane lay crumpled at his feet on the wet concrete, unconscious or dead, his jaw dislocated at an impossible angle.

Delia froze, the syringe dropping from her limp fingers and clattering harmlessly onto the rubber floor mats. Her face went completely paper-white, all the manic bravado draining out of her in a single, terrified gasp.

"D-Dante..." Delia stammered, her voice shaking violently as she scrambled backward against the passenger door. "Dante, thank God! She attacked me! Marin had a gun—she broke into your car—"

"Silence," Dante said.

The word wasn't shouted. It was delivered in a flat, monotone whisper that carried more pure terror than any scream.

Dante stepped forward, reaching into the vehicle. For a terrifying second, Delia flinched, expecting an executioner's blow. But Dante ignored her completely.

His large hands gently caught my trembling shoulders, pulling me out of the car and into the rain. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling my shivering body flush against his chest. I buried my face into his neck, the scent of rain, cedar, and gunpowder washing over me, anchoring my shattered nerves.

"Are you hurt?" Dante asked, his voice rough with an emotion that bordered on desperation.

"No," I choked out, clutching the lapels of his shirt. "I'm okay. The baby... we’re okay."

Dante let out a ragged breath, his hand coming to rest protectively over the small of my back.

He turned his head slowly toward Delia, who was now trembling so violently she could barely keep her feet under her as she tumbled out of the passenger side onto her hands and knees in the oily puddle.

"Get up, Delia," Dante commanded.

Delia dragged herself up, sobbing hysterically, rain washing her expensive mascara into dark streaks down her cheeks. "Dante, please! You don't understand! She seduced you! She's trying to steal your empire! I'm carrying your heir! You can't do this to the mother of your child!"

A tall, sharp-featured man in a tailored black suit stepped out of the shadows of Warehouse 3. It was Marco, Dante’s chief of security. In his hand was a leather binder.

"The medical records from Michigan Women’s Clinic, boss," Marco said, handing the file to Dante. "Obtained five minutes ago under federal syndicate warrant."

Dante didn't even open the file. He tossed it onto the wet hood of the Maybach.

"Falsified ultrasound scans," Dante said coldly. "Purchased for fifty thousand dollars from a disbarred gynecologist. A silicone prosthetic belly ordered online under Sutton Vane’s alias. And a bank transfer authorization signed with a stolen corporate seal."

Delia stared at the folder, her breath hitching in her throat. The lies had run out. The labyrinth of deceit she had built over four months had completely collapsed beneath her feet.

"You never touched me," Dante said, his voice cutting like a scalpel. "The night I was poisoned, you were three blocks away at the Peninsula Hotel, waiting for Sutton’s hitman to confirm my death. When I survived, you stole my signet ring from Sutton, who had pickpocketed it while I was stumbling through the alley."

Delia’s sobs abruptly stopped.

She wiped her wet face with the back of her sleeve. Her posture shifted. The pathetic, frightened damsel vanished, replaced by the bitter, spiteful woman she had truly become.

"So what?" Delia snarled, her voice full of pure venom. "You think you're so high and mighty, Moretti? You're a criminal! A mobster with blood on his hands! I deserved that life! I deserved the penthouses, the yachts, the respect! Why should Marin have it? Why should this pathetic, spineless little maid get the fairy tale when she didn't even have the guts to ask for your name?"

"Because she didn't save me for money," Dante replied calmly. "She saved me because she has a soul. Something you traded away a long time ago."

He gestured slightly with his fingers.

Two armed guards moved forward, clamping steel cuffs around Delia’s wrists.

"What are you doing?" Delia screamed, thrashing against the guards’ iron grip. "You can't kill me! My uncle is a city councilman! The press will tear you apart!"

"I’m not going to kill you, Delia," Dante said, stepping back toward the warmth of the running car. "Killing you would be merciful. Tomorrow morning, every financial asset in your name will be seized by the Outfit’s legal council to settle your debts to Saint Jude's and the municipal transport board. After that, you’ll be handed over to the Cook County District Attorney, along with audio recordings of your conspiracy to commit murder, fraud, and embezzlement."

Delia’s eyes widened with pure, unadulterated horror. "No! Cook County maximum security? Dante, please! They’ll tear me apart in there!"

"You wanted power, Delia," Dante said, turning away. "Now you can rule a concrete cell."

The guards dragged her screaming toward one of the idling transport vans. Her curses and shrieks were quickly swallowed by the roar of the wind and the crashing waves of Lake Michigan.

Dante opened the rear door of the Maybach and guided me gently inside, away from the freezing rain. He sat beside me, wrapping a dry cashmere blanket around my trembling shoulders.

"It's over, Marin," he murmured softly.

"Is it?" I asked, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. "Your men know about me now. The city knows. A mob boss can't be seen with a cleaning woman who carries his child."

Dante reached out, his warm, strong hand gently cupping my cheek. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone with unmistakable tenderness.

"You're not a cleaning woman to me, Marin," Dante said, his dark eyes burning with fierce conviction. "You never were. Tomorrow night is the annual Outfit Gala at the Palmer House. Every family boss in the Midwest will be in attendance."

"Why are you telling me this?"