Two Months After Our Divorce, My Millionaire Ex-Husband Found Me Pregnant and Alone in a Manhattan Hospital—And Froze When He Realized the Baby Was His. But When I Heard the Doctor Mention His First Love’s Name, I Realized Our Divorce Might Be Hiding a Much Darker Secret...

He was going to get himself killed.

I knew Adrian Moretti better than anyone on Earth. When he spoke in that terrifying, quiet tone, it didn't mean he was confident; it meant he had calculated that his own survival was non-essential to the objective. He was going to offer himself as bait to draw Salvatore Russo into the open so the federal tactical units could execute the takedown.

"Marco!" I pounded on the reinforced door of the medical suite until the latch clicked open.

Marco stepped in, holding a satellite phone, his expression grim. "Claire, you need to rest. The doctor said—"

"Where is he going?" I demanded, grabbing Marco’s forearm with both hands. "Tell me right now, Marco! Where is Adrian meeting Salvatore?"

Marco looked away, his jaw tightening. "I can't tell you that. Adrian gave explicit orders."

"Marco Bellini, listen to me!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Adrian thinks he’s expendable! He thinks that because he broke our marriage and put us in danger, the only way to redeem himself is to die in the process of taking Salvatore down! You know that’s what he’s doing!"

Marco didn't answer, but the flick of his eyes betrayed him.

"If Adrian dies tonight," I said, my voice dropping to a trembling whisper, "my daughter will grow up knowing her father died because he thought he wasn't worthy of coming home to her. Do you want to carry that on your conscience for the rest of your life?"

Marco closed his eyes, swearing violently under his breath in Italian. He shoved his satellite phone into his pocket and dragged a hand down his tired face.

"Terminal 4 at the Brooklyn Navy Yard," Marco said raspy. "Salvatore has a container ship registered under a Panamanian flag scheduled to depart at dawn. Adrian told Salvatore he would deliver the signed master voting proxies for Moretti Capital in person, in exchange for Salvatore calling off the hit contracts on you."

"And the FBI?"

"The FBI was supposed to move in at midnight," Marco said, checking his watch. It was already eleven-fifteen. "But Salvatore has federal informants inside the Eastern District. If the bureau rolls up too early, Salvatore executes his scorched-earth plan: he detonates the fuel bunkers at the terminal, slips into international waters, and leaves a kill order on you that no one can rescind. Adrian is going in alone thirty minutes before the raid to confirm Salvatore is physically on site."

"He’s walking into an execution chamber," I breathed.

"Yes," Marco said simply. "He is."

"Take me there."

"Are you insane?" Marco yelled, stepping back. "I swore an oath to Adrian to protect you!"

"And you swore an oath to protect him!" I fired back. "Salvatore wants Adrian’s compliance. What is the one thing Salvatore knows Adrian will surrender everything for? The one thing that proved Adrian’s divorce was a lie?"

Marco stared at me, realization dawning with horror across his features. "No. Absolutely not. I will not use you as leverage."

"You won't use me," I said, grabbing my heavy wool coat from the bedside chair. "We are going to use Vanessa."

Marco paused. "Vanessa?"

"Where is she?"

"Two rooms down," Marco muttered. "Guarded."

I didn't wait for his permission. I pushed past him, marching down the clinical hallway until I reached Room 104. I pushed the door open.

Sitting on the edge of a narrow hospital bed was Vanessa Russo.

She looked nothing like the glamorous, untouchable heiress from the society pages of my youth. Her cheeks were hollowed, her blonde hair cut roughly to her shoulders, her left hand wrapped in heavy surgical bandages where three fingers had been amputated. But in her eyes, there was no fear left. Only a cold, burning hatred for the man who had destroyed her life.

She looked up at me, her gaze drifting immediately to my coat, then to my face.

"You must be Claire," Vanessa said, her voice dry and hoarse. "Adrian’s wife."

"His ex-wife," I corrected softly.

Vanessa gave a faint, broken laugh. "There is no 'ex' with Adrian Moretti, darling. When that man loves, it is a permanent condition. Even when he was pulling me out of that cellar in Red Hook, bleeding out from a gunshot wound in his shoulder, the only thing he whispered to Marco was: *'Is Claire safe? Did they find her apartment?'*"

My breath caught. "He was shot?"

"Grazed his shoulder," Vanessa said, touching her own collarbone. "He didn't even stop to bandage it. He just drove straight to Brooklyn to watch your windows."

She stood up slowly, clutching the edge of the bed for support. "Why are you here, Claire?"

"Salvatore is at the Navy Yard," I said. "Adrian went to trade his life for mine. And I need you to help me stop it."