THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE FRAMED HIS PREGNANT MAID FOR POISONING HIS DYING FATHER—UNTIL THE FORGOTTEN DON GRABBED HER SLEEVE IN FRONT OF HIS SON.

The penthouse sat atop a forty-story tower overlooking the icy expanse of Central Park.

It was a world Emily had only seen in glossy architecture magazines: floor-to-ceiling bullet-resistant glass, heated limestone floors, minimalist Italian leather, and an eerie, echoing quiet that felt miles away from the chaos of the hospital.

Yet the silence brought no peace.

Two armed men stood guard at the private elevator foyer. Another sat in the kitchen monitoring surveillance feeds from thirty-six cameras positioned throughout the building.

Emily sat on a plush velvet sofa, wrapped in a cashmere throw Dominic had ordered one of the staff to bring her. A tray of fresh fruit, warm roasted chicken, and herbal soup sat on the coffee table before her.

For weeks, she had survived on stale cafeteria bread and cold coffee while working fourteen-hour shifts at the mansion, sending every penny she earned to the medical facility in Albany. Her body felt hollow, aching in every joint, her lower back throbbing with the heavy weight of her third trimester.

She took a spoonful of the warm soup. It was rich, seasoned with rosemary and garlic, and for a moment, her eyes filled with tears again.

"Eat," Dominic’s voice commanded softly from behind her.

He had removed his suit jacket and rolled the cuffs of his white dress shirt up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos that curled beneath the fabric—remnants of his early years running the docks in Brooklyn. He held a glass of amber scotch in one hand, but he had barely touched it.

"I am eating, Mr. Romano," she said quietly.

"Call me Dominic."

Emily looked up. "I don't think that's appropriate, sir. You're my employer."

Dominic sat down in the leather armchair across from her. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying her.

"My employees don't risk their lives to scream at my fiancée about digitalis toxicity," he said. "My employees don't hold my father’s hand when he's drowning in poison. You aren't working for me, Emily. You're the guest of honor in this house."

Emily set the spoon down, her fingers trembling against the porcelain. "I just keep thinking about what would have happened if I hadn't taken that key from the linen closet. If I had just stayed downstairs like Mrs. Whitmore told me to."

"He would be dead," Dominic said without hesitation. "And Julian Vance would currently be sitting in my father's office, preparing to bury me in the East River alongside him."

Suddenly, Emily winced.

She gasped, her right hand flying to the lower curve of her abdomen. Her breath hitched, her eyes squeezing shut as a sharp, tightening spasm seized her lower belly.

Dominic was on his feet in an instant. He set his glass on the table with a sharp clatter and knelt in front of her.

"Emily? What is it?"

"It’s... it’s okay," she wheezed, her forehead breaking out in a cold sheen of sweat. "It’s just... Braxton-Hicks contractions. The stress. The baby... she's been kicking so hard since this morning."

Dominic’s jaw clenched. For all his ruthlessness, for all his experience facing armed cartels and federal prosecutors, he looked completely unequipped to handle a pregnant woman in physical pain.

He placed his broad palm gently against her lower stomach.

The heat of his hand seeped through her gray cotton uniform. Beneath his palm, a sharp, distinct movement pushed outward against her belly.

Dominic froze.

His eyes widened in genuine astonishment. He stared at his own hand as if he were witnessing a miracle.

"She's... moving," he whispered, his voice stripped of all its usual hardness.

"She moves a lot when she's scared," Emily said, her breathing slowing as the cramp finally subsided. "Or when she's hungry."

Dominic didn't remove his hand immediately. He kept it there, steady and protective, feeling the tiny flutter of life fighting inside the exhausted girl sitting before him.

"You're seven months along," Dominic murmured. "Where is her father?"

Emily let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. "He left the day the test came back positive. Packed his bag, said he was going to look for a welding job in Scranton, and changed his number. He told me having a child with an uneducated girl from a dead mill town would ruin his future."

Dominic’s gray eyes grew dark, a cold, dangerous fury flickering behind them. "A coward."

"Most people are cowards when things get hard, Mr. Romano," Emily whispered.

"Not you," Dominic said.

Before she could answer, the phone on the coffee table began to buzz violently.

It was Dominic’s secure satellite line.

He stood up, the warmth leaving his posture as he picked up the receiver. "Talk to me."

*"Dominic,"* Marco’s voice barked through the speaker, accompanied by the muffled, distant crack of automatic gunfire. *"They hit the Albany hospital."*

Emily’s heart stopped. She lunged forward, clutching the arm of the sofa. "My mother!"

"Report!" Dominic roared into the phone.

*"A three-man hit team attempted to breach Margaret Carter’s floor ten minutes ago,"* Marco shouted over the noise. *"Julian Vance sent them to eliminate the leverage. But your men were already in position. Two shooters are down, one is in custody. Mrs. Carter is unharmed. We have her in an armored transport right now, heading south toward Manhattan."*

Dominic closed his eyes for a single second, letting out a breath like escaping steam. "Bring her directly to the penthouse. Use the subterranean parking entrance."

He hung up the phone and looked down at Emily.

She was hyperventilating, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, her hands clamped over her mouth to muffle her sobs.

"Your mother is safe," Dominic said, stepping forward and pulling her gently by the shoulders until she was standing against him.

He didn't know how to comfort people. He had spent his life dealing in fear, retribution, and loyalty. But as he wrapped his arms around Emily’s shaking frame, feeling her tears soak into his white shirt, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

Julian Vance and Victoria Sterling had made this personal.

And in Dominic Romano’s world, when you made it personal, you didn't just lose your business.