The first thing I noticed when my husband walked into my baby shower was not that he was forty-two minutes late.

The underground parking garage beneath Moretti Tower was cold, cavernous, and smelled of damp concrete and exhaust fumes. The rhythmic thumping of the HVAC systems sounded like the heavy, labored heartbeat of a dying beast.

Dante’s hand stayed firmly on the small of my back, his thumb tracing the curve of my spine through the raw silk of my coat. Surrounding us were six men in dark charcoal wool, their weapons concealed beneath their jackets, their eyes scanning the shadow-drenched pillars with predatory intensity.

"You shouldn't have mentioned Nicosia in the boardroom," I said quietly, keeping my pace steady despite the sharp, shooting pain radiating through my lower pelvic bone.

"He needed to know the exit doors were locked," Dante replied, his eyes never stopping their sweep of the garage. "Men like Carbone don't negotiate until they realize their money is already dead."

"He was cornered, Dante. A cornered dog doesn't run away; it lunges."

"He won't get within three hundred yards of you," Dante said, his voice tightening with that dark, possessive ferocity that had terrified me twenty-four hours ago and now felt like the only anchor keeping me grounded. "I have two teams stationed at the brownstone, and the hospital in Westchester has been cleared. The entire sixth floor has been leased under a corporate subsidiary."

"Dante," I said, stopping beside the armored Mercedes SUV.

He turned to me immediately, his expression softening with that sudden, agonizing vulnerability. "Are you in pain? Is it the baby?"

"He’s kicking, but that’s not it," I said, reaching up to take his lapel in my fist, pulling him down until his eyes met mine. "Look at me."

He looked.

"We walked into that room as partners," I said, my voice low and fierce. "Do not put me back in a gilded cage the moment we walk out. If you hide things from me again—if you try to 'protect' me by turning yourself into a monster and me into a victim—I will take this child, I will take the East Pier, and I will leave you with nothing but your empty ledgers. Do you understand me?"

Dante stared at me, the harsh fluorescent light carving deep lines into his cheekbones. Then, slowly, with an reverence that made my breath catch, he raised his bruised hand and pressed his palm against the side of my face.

"I spent six weeks believing that if I lost you, at least you would be alive," he whispered, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. "I thought if you hated me, you wouldn't grieve me when Carbone’s people put a bullet through my head. It was the only way I knew how to keep the rot from touching you."

"The rot touched me the day I fell in love with you, Dante Moretti," I said, leaning into the warmth of his palm. "Now let me help you burn it out."

Before he could answer, the sharp, deafening crack of a rifle shot ricocheted through the concrete cavern.

The rear window of the Mercedes exploded inward in a shower of glittering, diamond-shaped safety glass.

"Down!" Dante roared.

He didn't hesitate. He didn't duck. He threw his entire body over mine, his broad shoulders shielding my head and torso as the momentum carried us both down against the cold, grease-stained concrete of the garage floor.

Another shot cracked. Then another. The concussive blasts were followed immediately by the synchronized roar of our security team returning fire with automatic submachine guns. The garage turned into an inferno of echoing thunder, muzzle flashes strobing against the pillars like strobe lights in a nightmare.

Dante had me pinned beneath him, his weight carefully distributed on his elbows and knees so he didn't crush my stomach, his face buried in my neck. "Are you hit? Isabella! Are you hit?"

"No!" I gasped, the cold concrete biting into my bare palms. "I’m fine! Dante, your back—"

"Stay down," he snarled.

He rolled off me with blinding speed, drawing a customized Glock from his shoulder holster with his right hand while his left remained locked around my wrist. He didn't look back at the snipers. He looked at Leo, the head of our security detail, who was crouched behind the engine block of the second sedan.

"Pillar fourteen!" Dante yelled, his voice cutting through the gunfire like an iron blade. "Suppress and flank! Do not let them reach the ramp!"

Two of our men moved forward in low, coordinated sprints, their rifles barking in short, disciplined three-round bursts. A scream echoed from the darkness near the utility corridors, followed by the heavy, wet thud of a body hitting the floor.

Dante looked down at me, his eyes dilated, the raw adrenaline transforming his handsome features into something terrifying and ancient. "Can you stand?"

"Yes," I lied, my pelvic bone screaming in protest as a sharp, genuine contraction seized my abdomen.

He saw the flicker of pain across my eyes instantly. "Isabella?"

"Dante," I whispered, clutching his forearm as the contraction peaked, tightening my belly into a hard, unyielding knot. "We need to get out of here. Now."

"The baby?"