Chapter 1 - The Night I Learned My Ex-Wife Was Carrying My Child
Three months after I divorced the only woman I had ever loved, a hospital called at 10:03 P.M. to tell me she had been found unconscious with a serious head injury.
I was Nico Marchetti, thirty-nine years old, the man half of Chicago whispered about and the other half pretended not to know.
More than eight hundred armed men answered to my organization.
I controlled shipping contracts, private security companies, warehouses, and businesses that operated on both sides of the law.
Men who had ordered murders without blinking lowered their eyes when I entered a room.
I had survived assassination attempts, betrayals, and a war that had buried two of my closest friends.
But when a nurse told me my ex-wife was sixteen weeks pregnant, the bourbon glass slipped from my hand and shattered across my office floor.
The baby was mine.
And the last thing I had told Elena before our divorce was that our entire marriage had been a lie.
My name is Nico Marchetti.
For six years, Elena Brooks had been the only person capable of making me feel like an ordinary man.
She was a public school art teacher when we met.
Twenty-seven years old, stubborn, beautiful, and completely unimpressed by the expensive watch on my wrist.
She had been standing outside a neighborhood bookstore in Lincoln Park, arguing with a delivery driver who had parked his truck across the wheelchair ramp.
I had stopped because her voice carried halfway down the block.
The driver was twice her size.
She hadn't cared.
When I offered to intervene, she turned those extraordinary brown eyes on me and said, "I don't need someone to rescue me. I need him to move his truck."
I fell in love with her before I knew her last name.
For six years, she made my world different.
There were Sunday mornings when she insisted we cook breakfast ourselves, despite having a chef.
There were ridiculous arguments over whether Christmas decorations belonged in the house before Thanksgiving.
There were evenings when she fell asleep on the couch with paint on her fingers and her head against my shoulder.
And there was the little yellow house she wanted someday.
Not a mansion.
Not a penthouse.
A yellow house with a crooked front porch, a vegetable garden, and enough bedrooms for children.
"Three," she used to say.
"Three children?"
"Maybe four."
"You're trying to bankrupt me."
She would laugh.
"You can afford diapers, Nico."
I had promised her that house.
Then, three months earlier, I destroyed everything.
Now I sat forty-three floors above downtown Chicago, listening to six associates argue about a missing shipment.
Outside the windows, snow blew sideways across Lake Shore Drive.
The city looked like a collection of distant stars trapped beneath frozen clouds.
My underboss, Dominic Russo, stood beside the conference table.
At forty-six, Dominic had worked for my father before he worked for me.
He was disciplined, calculating, and always dressed as though he expected to attend a funeral.
"Someone diverted the shipment before it reached the warehouse," he said.
"Then find out who," I replied.
"We're trying."
"Try harder."
Nobody spoke.
I reached for my bourbon.
That was when my phone rang.
An unfamiliar Chicago number appeared on the screen.
Normally, I ignored calls during meetings.
Something made me answer.
"Marchetti."
"Mr. Nico Marchetti?"
A woman's voice.
Professional.
Careful.
"Speaking."
"My name is Amanda Lewis. I'm calling from St. Matthew Medical Center. You're listed as the emergency contact for Elena Brooks."
My hand stopped.
"Elena Marchetti," I corrected automatically.
There was a pause.
"Sir, her identification says Elena Brooks."
Of course it did.
She had taken back her maiden name immediately after the divorce.
I had kept wearing my wedding ring.
Not openly.
Never where my men could see it.
I wore it on a chain beneath my shirt because removing it completely felt like admitting something I could not survive.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Ms. Brooks was brought to our emergency department approximately forty minutes ago."
My fingers tightened around the glass.
"Why?"
"She was found unconscious with a significant head injury."
The office became silent.
I didn't remember telling anyone to stop talking.
"Is she alive?"
"Yes, sir."
I closed my eyes.
"But she remains unconscious, and our medical team is evaluating her injuries."
"Was she in a car accident?"
"We don't have a confirmed explanation yet."
"Who found her?"
"Mr. Marchetti, the physician can discuss the available information when you arrive."
I stood.
My chair rolled backward into the wall.
"Tell me exactly how badly she's hurt."
"Sir, I understand you're concerned."
"Concerned?"
My voice rose.
"That's my wife."
Nobody at the table moved.
The nurse hesitated.
"Mr. Marchetti, there's something else we need to ask."
My heart began beating so hard that I could feel it beneath my ribs.
"Ask."
"Were you aware that Ms. Brooks is pregnant?"
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood her.
"Pregnant?"
"Yes, sir."
"How far along?"
"Approximately sixteen weeks."
The glass slipped from my hand.
It struck the hardwood floor and exploded into glittering pieces.
Sixteen weeks.
I calculated without thinking.
Our child had been conceived before the divorce.
Before Elena sat across from me in the courthouse conference room with tears running down her face.
Before she dropped her pen twice because her hands were shaking.
Before she asked the question I still heard every night.
"Was any of it real, Nico?"
And before I looked into the eyes of the only woman I had ever loved and answered, "No."
I remembered the silence afterward.
Not screaming.
Not anger.
Just a terrible, stunned silence.
As though something inside her had stopped breathing.
Now she was carrying our baby.
"Mr. Marchetti?"
I gripped the edge of my desk.
"Is the baby alive?"
"The fetal heartbeat is currently stable."
"Currently?"
"Both patients need continued monitoring. Please come to the hospital."
I was already reaching for my coat.
"Tell the doctor I'm coming."
I ended the call.
My younger sister, Ava, stood near the fireplace.
She was thirty-two and had inherited our mother's dark eyes and her refusal to be intimidated by me.
"Nico?"
I couldn't speak.
She crossed the room.
"What happened?"
"Elena's in the hospital."
Her face changed.
"What?"
"She's unconscious. Head injury."
Ava covered her mouth.
"Oh, God."
I grabbed my keys.
"She's pregnant."
Ava stared at me.
"Pregnant?"
"Sixteen weeks."
Her eyes widened.
"Does that mean—"
"It's mine."
"Nico, you can't know that for certain."
I turned toward her.
"Elena never betrayed me, Ava. Not once."
My sister looked away.
That was when I noticed something.
She wasn't simply shocked.
She looked frightened.
I had seen that expression before.
Three months earlier.
The night I told her I was divorcing Elena.
"Ava," I said quietly.
She swallowed.
"Go to her."
I wanted to ask what she knew.
Instead, I ran.
Eleven minutes later, four black SUVs stopped outside St. Matthew Medical Center.
My security chief, Gabriel Torres, exited the first vehicle before it had fully settled against the curb.
Gabriel had served with the Marines before joining my organization.
He was the one man I trusted to tell me the truth even when I didn't want to hear it.
"Two men at each entrance," he instructed his team.
"No weapons inside the hospital unless authorized," I snapped.
He looked at me.
"Understood."
I rushed through the emergency doors.
A nurse behind the reception desk stood when she recognized me.
"Mr. Marchetti?"
"Where is my wife?"
"Sir, your ex-wife is undergoing imaging."
Ex-wife.
The word struck like a blade.
"Where?"
"Dr. Whitmore is coming to speak with you."
"I don't need a conversation. I need to see Elena."
A physician appeared at the end of the corridor.
She was in her early fifties, with silver-threaded hair pulled into a tight knot and a face that suggested she had spent years delivering difficult news.
"I'm Dr. Karen Whitmore."
I approached her.
"What happened to Elena?"
She glanced at the men behind me.
"Can we speak privately?"
"Whatever you have to say, say it."
"Mr. Marchetti, your former wife has suffered a traumatic head injury. We are assessing the extent of the damage, and I don't want to speculate before the imaging has been reviewed."
"Will she wake up?"
"We don't know yet."
Four words.
I had heard them before.
From doctors after shootings.
From lawyers before trials.
From men who knew they had disappointed me.
But never had four words frightened me so completely.
"What about the baby?"
"The fetal heartbeat is reassuring at present. However, her pregnancy means we'll be monitoring her closely while treating her injuries."
"Do whatever you have to do."
"We will."
"Money isn't an issue."
Her expression hardened slightly.
"Mr. Marchetti, her care will not depend on your money."
For the first time that night, I respected someone for refusing to be impressed by me.
"Then tell me what you need."
"Space to do our jobs. And information."
"What information?"
"Do you know whether Elena has been threatened recently?"
My entire body went still.
"Why?"
Dr. Whitmore hesitated.
"She has bruising on her upper arm in addition to the head injury. That does not establish what happened, but we're concerned she may have been assaulted."
The hallway seemed to tilt.
"Assaulted?"
"We've notified the appropriate authorities because the circumstances are unclear."
I heard Gabriel shift behind me.
"Where was she found?"
"According to the emergency medical report, in the service stairwell of a commercial building on West Randolph Street."
"Which building?"
"The Ashford Building."
I knew it.
A twelve-story property near the West Loop.
One of my holding companies had owned it until the previous summer.
We had sold it to an investment group controlled by a man named Victor Sloane.
A man who had once worked with my father.
A man I had warned never to come near my family.
My mouth went dry.
"Was anyone with her?"
"She was alone when emergency responders arrived."
"Who called?"
"The report identifies a building maintenance employee."
"Her belongings?"
"A handbag and phone were recovered with her. Hospital staff secured them."
I looked at Gabriel.
He had already understood.
"Find out who brought her to that building," I said.
His jaw tightened.
"Yes, boss."
"And Gabriel?"
He waited.
"Quietly."
He nodded and stepped away.
Dr. Whitmore watched him leave.
"Mr. Marchetti, I need you to understand something."
I turned back.
"Your former wife's safety is our priority. If she has been harmed, she will need to decide what information she wishes to share when she's able."
I nodded.
For six years, I had mistaken protecting Elena for controlling every danger around her.
I was beginning to understand how little control I truly had.
"Can I see her?"
"Once the team completes the current evaluation."
"Please."
The word surprised both of us.
I couldn't remember the last time I had begged anyone for anything.
Dr. Whitmore's expression softened.
"I'll come get you."
She disappeared through a set of double doors.
I stood alone in the corridor.
Then I remembered the final night of our marriage.
Elena had fallen asleep against my chest.
Her fingers rested over my heart.
I had watched her breathe for almost an hour.
Because I already knew what I was going to do.
Two days earlier, an envelope had appeared inside our private residence.
No courier.
No security alert.
No indication that anyone had entered.
Just an envelope on Elena's pillow.
Inside was a photograph of her walking out of the school where she taught.
A red circle had been drawn around her stomach.
And beneath the photograph, five words.
NEXT TIME, WE WON'T MISS.
I had assumed the circle was simply a threat against her body.
Now I wondered whether someone had known about the pregnancy before I did.
My phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
There was a photograph.
Elena.
Taken earlier that evening.
She stood outside the Ashford Building wearing a cream-colored winter coat.
One hand rested protectively against her stomach.
Beside her was a woman in a dark green coat.
The woman's face was turned away from the camera.
Below the photograph was a message.
YOU DIVORCED HER TO SAVE HER.
A second message appeared.
HOW DID THAT WORK OUT, NICO?
I stared at the screen.
The divorce had not been public knowledge until after it was finalized.
Only a handful of people knew why I had done it.
Only three people had seen the photograph left on Elena's pillow.
Me.
Gabriel.
And my sister Ava.
My phone rang again.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Who is this?"
A man's voice came through the speaker.
Distorted.
Almost amused.
"You should have told her the truth."
"Where are you?"
"That's not the question you should be asking."
"If you've hurt Elena—"
"Your wife discovered something interesting today."
I stopped breathing.
"What?"
"Something your father buried twenty years ago."
My father's name was Lorenzo Marchetti.
He had died eight years earlier.
And he had taken enough secrets to his grave to destroy half the city.
The voice continued.
"Ask yourself why Elena went to the Ashford Building."
"Who are you?"
A soft laugh.
"Ask your sister."
The call ended.
I stood frozen.
Then the double doors opened.
Dr. Whitmore stepped into the corridor.
"Mr. Marchetti?"
I shoved the phone into my pocket.
"Yes?"
"Elena has been moved to a monitored room. She's still unconscious, but you can see her briefly."
I followed her.
The room was dim.
Machines whispered.
A monitor displayed the rhythm of a heart that had once beaten against mine every night.
Elena lay motionless beneath a white blanket.
Her beautiful dark hair had been carefully moved away from the dressing near her temple.
There was swelling along one side of her face.
An intravenous line ran into her arm.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
Not because she had changed.
Because I had spent three months pretending I could live without her.
I approached the bed.
"Elena?"
Nothing.
I touched her hand.
It was warm.
That nearly destroyed me.
"Baby, it's me."
The monitor continued its steady rhythm.
I pulled a chair beside her bed.
For years, I had called her my sunshine because she hated how gloomy our penthouse looked in winter.
Now I couldn't make myself say the nickname.
I didn't deserve to.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
The words sounded pathetic.
Small.
Useless.
"I thought I was protecting you."
I looked toward the gentle curve beneath the blanket.
Our baby.
A life I hadn't known existed.
"I didn't know."
My voice broke.
"God, Elena, I didn't know."
I lowered my forehead against her hand.
"I lied when I said I never loved you."
The room remained quiet.
"Every second was real."
I kissed her knuckles.
"And if you wake up, I swear I'll spend the rest of my life proving it."
Something brushed my fingers.
I lifted my head.
Elena's hand had moved.
Barely.
Her eyelids fluttered.
"Elena?"
I stood.
"Doctor!"
Her lips parted.
I leaned close.
"Don't try to talk. You're safe."
Her eyes opened just enough for me to see the brown I remembered.
For one heartbeat, she looked directly at me.
Then fear transformed her face.
Her fingers tightened weakly around mine.
"Nico..."
"I'm here."
She struggled to speak.
I moved closer.
"What is it, sweetheart?"
Her voice was almost inaudible.
"Don't..."
I leaned closer still.
"Don't what?"
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
Then she whispered four words that made the blood turn cold in my veins.
"Don't trust your sister."
Her eyes closed again.
The monitor began sounding an alarm.
Dr. Whitmore rushed into the room with two nurses.
"Mr. Marchetti, step back."
I stumbled away.
A nurse checked Elena's breathing while the doctor examined her.
"Elena?" Dr. Whitmore said firmly. "Can you hear me?"
No answer.
The medical team moved around the bed.
I backed into the wall.
Don't trust your sister.
Ava.
The little girl I had carried out of our burning childhood home.
The woman I had protected since she was seven years old.
The only living member of my immediate family.
And the person Elena had just warned me about.
Gabriel appeared in the doorway.
His expression told me something else had gone wrong.
"Boss."
I barely heard him.
"What?"
"We found out who the Ashford Building's maintenance employee called before dialing emergency services."
I turned.
"Who?"
Gabriel glanced at Elena.
Then at me.
"Your sister."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Outside, Chicago disappeared beneath another curtain of snow.
May you like
And for the first time since inheriting my father's empire, I understood that the greatest threat to my family might not be standing outside my gates.
It might have been sitting at my dinner table for years.
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