Chapter 1
Caught inside a deadly crossfire between rival criminal organizations, an exhausted pregnant waitress was pulled from the wreckage by Chicago’s most ruthless crime boss. Vincent Moretti believed he was saving an innocent bystander. An emergency ultrasound would reveal a deeply personal secret capable of tearing his empire apart.
The neon sign above the Starlight Diner flickered with a persistent buzz and cast a sickly pink glow across the rain-slicked asphalt of Chicago’s West Side. Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee, burned hash browns, and inexpensive disinfectant.
Isabelle Stanton wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. Her other hand rested instinctively upon the heavy curve of her 7-month pregnant stomach.
Her ankles throbbed with a steady ache.
It was 2:15 a.m., and Isabelle’s shift should have ended more than 1 hour earlier. The diner was nearly empty. A truck driver slept inside a corner booth, and a solitary man sat near the window.
Isabelle glanced toward him.
He had entered approximately 20 minutes earlier and brought an immediate, suffocating change into the room.
The man wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely out of place against the diner’s cracked vinyl booths. His dark hair had been styled with immaculate precision, and his sharp, hawklike features remained motionless.
He had not touched the black coffee Isabelle poured for him.
He stared through the window toward the driving rain, its flickering neon reflections moving inside his dark eyes.
The man was Vincent Moretti.
Isabelle did not know his name, but she understood the type of danger surrounding him. A person did not survive long inside that neighborhood without recognizing the silent authority of someone accustomed to commanding violence.
“Would you like a refill, sir?”
Isabelle approached his table while holding the glass coffee carafe. Exhaustion caused it to tremble slightly inside her hand.
Vincent turned his head slowly.
His gaze moved across her pale face, the fatigue beneath her eyes, and the stained apron stretched tightly over her pregnant stomach.
For a fraction of a second, the coldness inside his expression fractured.
A memory seemed to pass across his face, painful and deeply buried.
Vincent reached inside his jacket, removed a crisp $100 bill, and placed it upon the Formica table.
“Keep it.”
His low, rough voice sent a shiver through Isabelle.
“And sit down. You look as though you are about to collapse.”
“I cannot accept this.”
She stared toward the money. It was more than she earned during 3 complete shifts.
“I am fine. I only have a few more tables to clean.”
“Take it.”
His tone did not permit further argument.
Before Isabelle could respond, the diner’s front window exploded inward.
Automatic gunfire tore through the quiet room.
Glass crossed the interior like shrapnel, cutting into the vinyl booths and destroying the ceramic mugs along the counter.
The sleeping truck driver did not have time to wake before the bullets struck him.
Isabelle screamed and released the coffee carafe.
It shattered beside her feet, splashing hot liquid across her sneakers.
She remained standing, completely paralyzed by the sudden violence.
A heavy hand closed around her arm and pulled her toward the floor.
Isabelle struck the tile hard enough for sharp pain to travel through her side.
Vincent covered her body with his own.
He had drawn a matte-black Glock 19 from his shoulder holster during the same movement.
“Keep your head down.”
His command rose above the gunfire.
Outside, several vehicles blocked the street. Their tires screamed against the wet pavement.
The rival Falcone syndicate had begun its attack.
Vincent had known that an assassination attempt was approaching, but he had not expected his enemies to strike inside a civilian diner.
Rounds destroyed the front of the building.
Plaster fell around Vincent and Isabelle.
He returned fire through the ruined window with controlled precision.
Two men wearing dark coats collapsed upon the sidewalk.
More attackers continued emerging from the sport-utility vehicles.
“We cannot remain here.”
Vincent seized the collar of Isabelle’s uniform.
“Can you run?”
“My baby.”
She held both hands against her stomach and began sobbing.
“I will not let them touch you. Stand.”
Adrenaline forced Isabelle upward.
Vincent placed himself between her and the street while firing toward the attackers.
He pushed her through the kitchen doors.
They passed the terrified fry cook, who had concealed himself inside the pantry, and reached the rear exit.
Vincent drove the door open.
Rain swept through the narrow alley.
A heavily armored black Cadillac Escalade waited at its far end with the engine running.
Dominic, Vincent’s fiercely loyal enforcer, sat behind the wheel.
“Boss!”
Dominic opened the rear passenger door.
“Get inside.”
Vincent pushed Isabelle forward.
She struggled to breathe, and the weight of her pregnancy slowed every movement.
A bullet struck the brick wall inches from her face and covered her with red dust.
Her knees failed.
Vincent caught her around the waist and nearly threw her into the Escalade’s rear compartment.
He entered immediately after her.
Gunfire struck the vehicle’s armored exterior.
“Drive.”
Dominic accelerated from the alley.
The tires moved violently across the wet pavement.
Inside the dark passenger cabin, Isabelle curled inward and shook uncontrollably.
The reality of the previous 3 minutes settled around her.
She was an unknown, financially desperate waitress trying to earn enough money to pay the medical debts left after her mother’s death.
Now she was covered in glass dust and sitting beside an armed criminal leader.
Vincent returned the pistol toward its holster.
His suit had been damaged by plaster and marked with the blood of his enemies, but his behavior remained unnaturally calm.
“Were you struck?”
He examined Isabelle’s body for wounds.
“No.”
Tears mixed with soot upon her face.
“I do not think so.”
A sudden pain tore through her lower abdomen.
Isabelle gasped and closed both hands around the leather seat.
The pain was white-hot and immediate.
Vincent leaned toward her.
“What is happening?”
“It hurts.”
She pressed both hands desperately against her stomach.
“Something is wrong. I fell too hard.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Five years earlier, his wife had died inside his arms after a car bomb intended for him exploded.
She had been 6 months pregnant.
Vincent watched both his wife and unborn child bleed to death while he remained powerless to save either of them.
Upon their graves, he swore that he would never experience that helplessness again.
“Dominic.”
Urgency entered his voice.
“Forget the safe house. Take us toward the estate.”
Dominic was to contact Dr. Harrison and order him to prepare the medical wing immediately.
“If this woman loses her child, I will hold everyone accountable.”
The Moretti estate was a fortresslike mansion hidden behind tall iron gates and dense woodland upon the outskirts of Chicago.
The Escalade did not use the primary entrance. It descended a reinforced concrete ramp into an underground garage resembling a military bunker.
Isabelle moved in and out of consciousness.
The abdominal pain arrived in vicious waves. Every movement of the vehicle felt like a knife turning inside her body.
When the Escalade stopped, Vincent pulled her from the seat.
He did not wait for his men to bring a stretcher.
Vincent lifted Isabelle into his arms and carried her with surprising ease despite her advanced pregnancy.
He ran through 2 steel doors and entered a brightly illuminated medical corridor.
The private trauma center had been built to treat gunshot wounds and other injuries without attracting the attention of police officers or rival organizations.
“Place her here.”
Dr. Harrison stood beside a modern hospital bed and pulled on sterile gloves.
He was a brilliant surgeon whose gambling debts had forced him into permanent service with the Moretti family.
Two expressionless nurses worked beside him.
Vincent lowered Isabelle carefully upon the bed.
“She fell hard during the attack. She is 7 months pregnant and experiencing severe abdominal pain.”
Isabelle moved her head weakly from side to side.
“Please save my baby.”
“We will do everything possible.”
Dr. Harrison cut away the damaged and blood-spotted fabric of her diner uniform, exposing her stomach.
“I need an intravenous line and the ultrasound machine immediately.”
Vincent stepped backward and rested against the cold tiled wall.
His heart beat violently, an unfamiliar sensation for a man known for emotional detachment.
He could not stop looking toward Isabelle’s terrified face.
The white lights, the metallic trace of blood, and the desperate voice of a pregnant woman reopened wounds from his past.
“Is she bleeding?”
“Minor spotting.”
Dr. Harrison spread clear gel across Isabelle’s abdomen.
“It may be a placental abruption caused by the fall, or premature contractions triggered by stress. I need to see what is happening.”
Isabelle held the bed rail until her knuckles became white.
She closed her eyes when Dr. Harrison pressed the ultrasound transducer against her stomach.
The room became silent.
Only the rapid, rhythmic sound from the monitor remained.
Dr. Harrison examined the black-and-white image.
“The fetal heart rate is elevated but strong. It is 155 beats per minute.”
The child was distressed, but the placenta appeared almost completely intact.
The fall had not detached it.
Isabelle released a trembling breath and opened her tear-filled eyes.
“He is safe.”
“He?”
Vincent moved closer toward the monitor.
“Yes.”
A faint smile appeared upon Isabelle’s face despite the pain.
“I am carrying a boy.”
Dr. Harrison continued moving the transducer across her abdomen to search for internal bleeding.
When the instrument passed over the lower portion of the uterus, his hand stopped.
He leaned closer toward the high-definition monitor.
Confusion entered his expression.
Dr. Harrison adjusted the controls and enlarged a cluster of pixels.
“What is it?”
Vincent noticed the change immediately.
His hand moved instinctively toward the weapon beneath his damaged jacket.
“Harrison, speak.”
“This is extremely unusual.”
The physician altered the ultrasound frequency.
“Miss Stanton, you said you are 7 months pregnant.”
“Yes.”
Fear returned toward Isabelle’s face.
“Is he deformed? Is something wrong with him?”
“The fetus appears completely normal for 28 weeks.”
Dr. Harrison looked from the monitor toward Vincent and then back toward Isabelle.
“Did you undergo in vitro fertilization? Was the embryo implanted?”
All color left Isabelle’s face.
She turned away.
Shame and fear struggled inside her expression.
“Yes.”
She had not believed that she possessed another choice.
Her mother’s death left her with overwhelming medical debt. Collectors threatened to break her legs.
Isabelle found a private clinic that offered a large payment for carrying a child on behalf of an anonymous wealthy couple.
The clinic implanted the embryo.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“What clinic?”
“The Genesis Hope Institute.”
The room seemed to become colder.
Vincent knew the name.
The Genesis Hope Institute was the same fertility clinic he and his late wife, Isabella Maria Moretti, had used 5 years earlier to preserve viable embryos before she began cancer treatment.
Three years earlier, the clinic burned to the ground during an arson fire.
Vincent had been told that everything inside had been destroyed, including what he believed to be his final chance of continuing his bloodline.
“Harrison.”
Vincent’s voice fell toward a lethal whisper.
“What are you seeing upon that screen?”
Dr. Harrison pointed with a shaking finger.
Embryos preserved for wealthy clients were sometimes marked with a microscopic biocompatible radio-frequency identification tracer along the outer membrane.
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It protected against theft and clinic errors.
The tracer would dissolve safely after birth, but during pregnancy the advanced imaging equipment could detect its metallic-density pattern.
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