"1My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the pregnancy test onto the bathroom floor, because those two pink lines didn’t just mean I was pregnant. They meant I was carrying the child of Alessandro Vitali, one of the richest and most powerful billionaires in Chicago, and if he discovered the truth, I had no idea whether he would protect me or destroy me.

Standing beside Alessandro, draped in a floor-length emerald silk dress designed to discreetly accommodate my tiny, barely-visible baby bump, I held my head high. My hair was styled in intricate waves, and the massive engagement ring on my finger caught the light of a hundred crystal chandeliers.

"You look breathtaking," Alessandro whispered into my ear, his hand firmly anchored against the small of my back. "And terrified."

"They're staring like I'm a specimen in a glass jar," I murmured back through a soft, polite smile aimed at a group of photojournalists.

"They are staring because you are the most powerful woman in this room tonight," he replied, his tone dripping with quiet pride. "Stay close to me."

For two hours, Alessandro maneuvered us through the sea of Chicago's elite—politicians, CEOs, and old-money aristocrats. To my surprise, he didn't hide me in a corner. He introduced me to everyone as his equal, taking immense pleasure in watching snobbish socialites stumble over their words when they realized I was far from a temporary trophy.

However, the illusion of safety shattered when Alessandro was called away to a private corner of the mezzanine by the Mayor for a high-priority quick conference.

"I will be ten yards away," Alessandro said, kissing my cheek gently. "Frank is right behind you."

"I'll be fine," I offered a reassuring smile.

I walked toward the outdoor terrace to catch a breath of cool evening air, desperate to escape the hot, perfume-heavy atmosphere of the ballroom. I leaned against the stone balustrade, looking out over Lake Michigan, placing a gentle hand over my stomach.

"Enjoying the view, Mrs. Vitali-to-be?" a raspy, sickeningly familiar voice hissed from the shadows near the terrace doors.

I whipped around. Marcus Vance stepped into the moonlight, wearing a cheap tuxedo, a wicked grin stretched across his scarred face.

"Marcus," I gasped, backing up until my spine hit the balustrade. "How did you get in here?"

"A thousand bucks to a dishwasher buys a lot of back-door access," Marcus sneered, taking a slow step toward me. He looked wildly unstable, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. "Your billionaire fiancé ruined my business. The Vitalis froze all our syndicate bank accounts yesterday. My bosses want my head on a spike because I brought you into this."

"Frank!" I called out, glancing frantically around the terrace.

"Your big guard dog is currently dealing with two guys who started a staged brawl near the bar," Marcus chuckled darkly, pulling a small silver knife from inside his coat. "It's just you and me, Elizabeth. If I'm going down, I'm taking Vitali's precious little bird with me. Let's see how much he loves you when you're gone."

Terror, sharp and blinding, surged through me. But as Marcus lunged forward with the blade, something inside me snapped—the survival instinct honed by months of struggling on the South Side.

Instead of screaming, I grabbed a heavy bronze decorative planter off the balustrade and swung it with all my strength.

CLANG!

The heavy metal struck Marcus square in the jaw. He grunted, stumbling backward, dropping the knife onto the stone tiles. Before he could recover, a dark shadow erupted onto the terrace.

Alessandro didn't just step in; he hit Marcus like a freight train.

With apocalyptic fury, Alessandro grabbed Marcus by the throat, slamming him violently against the brick wall of the terrace. The sheer power in Alessandro’s movement was terrifying. His amber eyes were black with unbridled rage, his knuckles white as he lifted the heavy enforcer inches off the ground.

"You laid a hand on my wife," Alessandro growled, his voice a guttural sound of pure violence.

"Alessandro, stop!" I screamed, running forward and grabbing his arm. "Don't kill him! You'll ruin everything! Don't do this for him!"

Alessandro’s arm trembled under my grip. For three agonizing seconds, I saw the darkness in him—the legacy of the powerful, ruthless Vitali family that had ruled this city for generations. But as he looked down at my frantic, tear-filled face, the red mist cleared from his eyes.

He tossed Marcus onto the floor like a sack of trash. Frank and four security guards burst onto the terrace a second later, tackling Marcus to the ground and placing him in heavy plastic restraints.

"Take him to the District Attorney," Alessandro ordered coldly, wiping his hands with a linen handkerchief. "Ensure every piece of evidence regarding the O'Malley syndicate's money laundering is delivered to the federal prosecutors tonight. I want that entire organization dismantled by morning."

"Yes, sir," Frank barked, dragging a bruised, weeping Marcus away.

The terrace went quiet again, save for the distant sound of the city traffic. Alessandro turned to me, his chest heaving, his immaculate suit slightly rumpled. He took two step toward me, reaching out to touch my face, but paused—his eyes filled with a rare, devastating vulnerability.

"Did he touch you?" Alessandro asked softly, his voice trembling. "Did he hurt you or the baby?"

"No," I whispered, stepping close and throwing my arms tightly around his neck. "No, I'm okay. You came."