Chapter 1
Dante finally noticed that I'd stopped telling him things.
When I bought a new dress for the Autumn Gala, I didn't send him pictures and ask which one he liked. When the Moretti family held its annual Winter Gala, I attended alone as Mrs. Moretti. And when the doctors said the bullet fragments lodged beneath my shoulder blade had to come out, I scheduled the surgery by myself.
No call. No text. I didn't even leave him a note.
When Dante heard about the operation from my doctor, his expression hardened. "Why didn't you tell me? Give me the scans. I'll have the clinic rearrange everything."
"There's no need. I can handle it, and you're busy enough as it is."
Silence fell between us.
Two weeks earlier, I'd still been sending him pictures of earrings, asking which pair I should wear to a dinner with the captains. I'd text him during lunch to ask if he'd eaten and stay awake at night until his headlights swept across our windows. Every tiny part of my life used to revolve around my husband. My boss.
But now, when the old wound left me shaking with pain while he patiently listened to my stepsister cry, I didn't say a word.
I didn't tell him I was pregnant either.
Soon, he'd discover one more thing on his own.
I'd left New York for good.
"Tomorrow morning?" Dr. Whitaker looked up from my chart, sure he'd misheard me. "You don't want to wait a few days? Mr. Moretti gets back tonight. I'm sure he'll want to be here with his wife."
I closed the folder. "You're taking out a few bullet fragments under local anesthetic, not replacing my heart. I've already signed the consent forms."
He kept staring.
Everyone in the Moretti family's circle knew how dependent I'd once been on Dante.
When I sprained my ankle during a security drill, I'd refused treatment until he got out of a meeting with the captains. Once, the metal edge of a folder sliced my finger, and I'd held it up to him until he kissed it better.
So when I said I could manage alone, Dr. Whitaker didn't know what to do with me.
I left his office and stopped dead in the lobby of the family's private clinic.
Dante Moretti had just walked through the front doors, pulling a carry-on behind him. He was broad-shouldered and imposing enough that the younger men in the lobby stepped aside without thinking. One hand rested at my stepsister Vivi's back, steadying her over the two shallow steps as if she might break.
A handmade navy scarf was wrapped around her neck.
I'd knitted it for Dante on our third wedding anniversary.
His gaze landed on the folder in my hand. "Elena? What are you doing here? Is the old wound acting up again?"
Again. Such a small word, yet it made me sound like one more problem waiting on his desk.
The fragments in my shoulder were left over from the night of the ambush, and he knew that. Before I could answer, he took the folder and skimmed the report. "Tomorrow won't work. My schedule is packed. Have them move it to next week."
I pulled the papers out of his hand. "They don't need to work around your schedule. I'll come alone."
Dante blinked.
Two weeks ago, I'd asked whether I should wear red or black to the charity dinner. Now I was having surgery without telling him. If we hadn't run into each other, he might never have known.
As I took a step back, a white prescription box slipped from his coat pocket and hit the floor. The label was for a medication commonly prescribed for severe morning sickness.
Dante snatched it up. "Don't start. Vivi felt sick through the whole flight. I picked it up for her."
Vivi lowered her lashes and clutched the scarf. "I'm sorry, Elena. Dante was supposed to go straight home, but I felt awful. I was scared to come here alone."
Then she gave me a soft, embarrassed smile. "I wish I were as independent as you. Dante wouldn't have to worry about me all the time."
Independent. I almost laughed.
A month earlier, the skin around the fragments had flared up so badly that I woke in the middle of the night unable to move my shoulder. I called Dante, expecting concern. His first words were, "Is it really bad enough to call me right now?"
I told him I didn't know. I was scared, and I wanted my husband to come home.
"Call the doctor, Elena. You're a grown woman, and you're Mrs. Moretti. You can't hand every little problem to me. I'm your husband, not your personal nurse."
Funny how that worked.
The most powerful man in the city had time to solve everyone else's problems, just not his wife's. Yet Vivi only had to whisper that she felt unwell, and he'd drive her straight here from the airport.
Anyone watching them would think the woman wearing his scarf was his wife.
The old me would've demanded an explanation. I would've cried, fought, and made him prove that box of medicine meant nothing.
This time, I only nodded. "Got it." There were no accusations, no jealousy, and no tears.
Dante still didn't know about the tiny heartbeat inside me.
And our baby would never grow up hearing me beg his father to come home.
He'd grow up with me, somewhere far from New York.
