Chapter 10 - The HeirHarper’s labor stopped at four centimeters.
For the first time in twelve hours, everyone inside the private maternity wing breathed.
Medication reduced the contractions.
Steroids were administered to support the baby’s lungs.
A team of specialists monitored Harper continuously.
Dominic refused treatment for his gunshot wound until a physician threatened to have him removed from the room.
“It passed through the shoulder,” the surgeon told him. “You are fortunate.”
Dominic looked toward Harper.
“Not relevant.”
“It will become relevant if you develop an infection and collapse beside your pregnant wife.”
Harper pointed at the door.
“Go.”
Dominic frowned.
“Harper.”
“Get stitched.”
“I am fine.”
“You have blood on the chair.”
He looked down.
There was blood on the chair.
“Fine.”
He returned forty-five minutes later with his arm immobilized.
Harper was asleep.
Dominic sat beside her.
For several hours, no meetings mattered.
No commission.
No Matteo.
No empire.
Only the monitor displaying the heartbeat of his child.
Fast.
Steady.
Alive.
When Harper woke near dawn, she found Dominic asleep with his head beside her hand.
She moved her fingers through his hair.
His eyes opened immediately.
“You should rest.”
“So should you.”
“I was.”
“You sleep like someone waiting for an assassin.”
“Habit.”
Harper smiled weakly.
“The doctors think we can delay delivery.”
“How long?”
“Days. Maybe weeks.”
“Good.”
“Dominic.”
His expression told her he knew what was coming.
“Did they find Matteo?”
“No.”
Harper closed her eyes.
“The body?”
“No.”
“So he survived.”
“Possibly.”
“That means yes in Russo language.”
Dominic leaned back.
“I have men searching.”
“Do not turn the hospital into a battlefield.”
“I purchased the building next door.”
Harper stared.
“You what?”
“For security operations.”
“Of course.”
He reached for her hand.
“You nearly died.”
“I did not.”
“He held a gun against you.”
“And you were shot.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
“I am accustomed to it.”
Harper looked at him.
“That may be the least romantic thing you have ever said.”
He kissed her fingers.
“I am sorry.”
She softened.
“About what?”
“For all of this.”
“No.”
“Harper.”
“No.”
She tightened her grip.
“I chose you after the contract ended.”
His eyes lowered.
“I knew what your world was.”
“You did not know my insane brother would return from the dead.”
“Neither did you.”
“I should have protected you.”
“You did.”
“I knelt.”
The word seemed to disturb him.
Harper understood.
Men like Dominic were raised to believe kneeling meant defeat.
“You saved me.”
“I surrendered.”
“You chose me over your pride.”
His eyes met hers.
“That is not weakness.”
Dominic was silent.
Harper smiled.
“Your father would probably agree.”
His expression changed at the mention of Vittorio.
The wound remained open.
Biology.
Betrayal.
Gabriel Moretti.
“Have you decided what to do with the archive?”
“Yes.”
Harper waited.
“I am giving it to federal prosecutors.”
She stared.
“All of it?”
“Through attorneys. We will negotiate immunity where possible for information involving historical crimes.”
“What about current operations?”
“Those end.”
“Dominic.”
He looked at her calmly.
“I meant what I said.”
Harper felt emotion tighten her throat.
“You could lose everything.”
“No.”
His hand moved over her stomach.
“Not everything.”
Over the following six weeks, New York’s criminal landscape changed faster than anyone believed possible.
Several Russo gambling operations closed.
Illegal port agreements disappeared.
Companies previously controlled through intimidation were purchased legally or released.
Three captains resigned.
One attempted rebellion.
Dominic ended it without bloodshed by freezing every account connected to the man and providing enough financial evidence to make prison unavoidable.
Harper was impressed.
“You weaponized accounting.”
Dominic looked offended.
“Financial pressure is efficient.”
“You are terrifying with spreadsheets.”
“I have people for spreadsheets.”
Madison remained in the hospital frequently, partially because Harper needed company and partially because Dominic now considered every location outside secure walls suspicious.
Her health continued improving.
One afternoon she entered Harper’s room carrying two coffees.
“You can’t have this.”
Harper stared.
“Why did you bring it?”
“For me.”
“You are cruel.”
“It runs in the family.”
Harper smiled.
“Technically not my biological family.”
Madison sat.
“Are we doing that now?”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending biology decides family?”
Harper looked at her.
Madison shrugged.
“You married a man who just discovered his father wasn’t his father. Seems like a bad time.”
Harper laughed.
“How are you?”
“Alive.”
“Nightmares?”
“Sometimes.”
Harper reached for her hand.
Madison squeezed it.
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“I know.”
That answer reassured Harper more than any false confidence could.
At thirty-five weeks, Harper was finally discharged.
Dominic moved them not to the penthouse but to a secure estate in Westchester.
Harper expected another fortress.
Instead, she found a large Georgian house surrounded by trees.
No visible guards.
No cameras in every corner.
A nursery painted pale green.
She turned toward Dominic.
“You did this?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“People did it.”
“For you?”
“Yes.”
“No ballistic curtains?”
He paused.
“They are inside the walls.”
Harper laughed.
“I knew it.”
For ten days, they experienced something dangerously close to peace.
They ate breakfast together.
Walked through the gardens.
Argued about baby names.
Dominic rejected every name Harper suggested.
“Oliver.”
“No.”
“Henry.”
“No.”
“James.”
“No.”
“You realize our child requires a name.”
“I am aware.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Alessandro.”
Harper stared.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because he’ll sound eighty years old at birth.”
“It was my grandfather’s name.”
“The grandfather with succession problems?”
Dominic considered.
“Fair.”
One evening, Harper found him sitting alone in the nursery holding Vittorio’s letter.
She sat beside him.
“You read that a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Does it help?”
“Sometimes.”
She rested her head against his shoulder.
“He loved you.”
“I know.”
“But you’re still angry.”
“Yes.”
“That is allowed.”
Dominic looked at the crib.
“I spent my life believing he was infallible.”
“Parents rarely are.”
“He killed Gabriel.”
“Yes.”
“And loved me.”
“Yes.”
“How do both things exist?”
Harper thought carefully.
“People are rarely only one thing.”
Dominic looked at her.
“A man can love his son and still do something unforgivable.”
“Yes.”
“That does not erase the love.”
“No.”
“And love does not erase the crime.”
“No.”
He exhaled slowly.
“You are inconveniently rational.”
“I charge by the hour.”
“I already paid two million.”
Harper raised an eyebrow.
“You never actually paid me the final amount.”
Dominic looked surprised.
She started laughing.
For several seconds he stared.
Then he laughed too.
A normal sound.
A husband laughing with his wife in their child’s room.
That was when the window shattered.
Dominic moved instantly.
He pulled Harper to the floor.
A bullet struck the wall above the crib.
Alarms erupted.
Security flooded the grounds.
Harper’s heart raced.
Dominic covered her with his body.
“Stay down.”
Another shot.
Then silence.
Guards shouted outside.
Dominic’s radio activated.
“Shooter vehicle leaving east perimeter.”
“Stop it.”
“We’re pursuing.”
Harper looked at the bullet hole.
Not aimed at her.
Not exactly.
At the crib.
A message.
Dominic saw it too.
His face became something terrible.
The shooter escaped.
The abandoned vehicle was found five miles away.
Inside lay a black crown medallion.
Matteo was alive.
That night Dominic wanted to move Harper to a military-grade bunker.
She refused.
“We cannot keep running.”
“You are about to give birth.”
“Exactly.”
“I will not allow Matteo near you.”
“He does not need to come near me if he can make us destroy ourselves.”
Dominic paced.
“What are you suggesting?”
“We finish it.”
“How?”
Harper looked toward the medallion inside an evidence bag.
“He wants the heir.”
Dominic stopped.
“No.”
“He wants symbolism.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“Whatever idea is forming, stop.”
Harper ignored him.
“Matteo believes our child proves you replaced him permanently.”
“Yes.”
“So we give him what he wants.”
Dominic stared.
“You have lost your mind.”
“Not the baby.”
“No.”
“I said not the baby.”
His expression remained suspicious.
Harper continued.
“We give him the announcement.”
“What announcement?”
“That our child has been born.”
Understanding appeared.
“A trap.”
“Yes.”
Dominic studied her.
“You want Matteo to believe the heir exists and is vulnerable.”
“Yes.”
“He comes to us.”
“Yes.”
“And where are you while this happens?”
“Somewhere safe.”
Dominic narrowed his eyes.
“You agreed too quickly.”
Harper smiled.
“I am learning.”
Two days later, every gossip site in New York received the same anonymous photograph.
A tiny infant hand wrapped around Dominic Russo’s finger.
The photograph was fake.
Created using a carefully staged image from a hospital charity archive.
The headline spread instantly.
DOMINIC RUSSO WELCOMES SON.
Within three hours, a message reached Dominic’s private phone.
Matteo.
No text.
Only coordinates.
An abandoned Russo shipping terminal in Brooklyn.
Midnight.
Dominic looked at Harper.
“He took the bait.”
Harper’s heart accelerated.
“Then finish it.”
Dominic kissed her.
“I will.”
But Matteo had anticipated more than they knew.
At eleven thirty that night, while Dominic prepared to leave Westchester, Harper felt a familiar tightening across her abdomen.
She looked at the clock.
Ten minutes later, it happened again.
Then eight.
Then six.
Harper stared at Dominic.
He stared back.
“No.”
She almost laughed.
“You cannot tell labor no.”
“Not tonight.”
“Apparently your son disagrees.”
Dominic became pale.
Harper gripped the table as another contraction arrived.
The trap had been set.
May you like
Matteo was waiting in Brooklyn.
And after months of surviving assassinations, betrayals, kidnappings, family secrets, and a criminal revolution, the Russo heir had selected exactly the worst possible night to finally enter the world.
