Chapter 1 - THE FOURTEENTH CALL
The marble floor of the penthouse living room was ice-cold against Serena Vale’s burning skin.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline glittered under a starless, ink-black August sky. Inside, the silence was suffocating, broken only by the harsh, wet gasps of Serena’s breath and the frantic, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
A fresh surge of agony exploded across her lower abdomen, sharp enough to make her vision go dark at the edges.
Serena curled onto her left side, her fingers digging desperately into the woven rug. Her silk nightgown was soaked through, warm blood pooling against the white marble, creeping slowly across the polished floor toward the leg of the glass coffee table.
Her water had broken twenty minutes ago. Her contractions were coming hard and relentless, less than four minutes apart.
And her hands were shaking so violently she could barely hold her phone.
Serena tapped the screen, her thumb leaving a smudge of red across the glass. She pressed speed dial.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
"The subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message..."
Serena cut the line before the automated voice finished.
Her chest heaved. Tears cut clean tracks through the dust and sweat on her cheeks, but she didn't allow herself to cry out. She squeezed her eyes shut, counted to ten through the searing pain in her back, and pressed speed dial again.
This was the fourteenth time.
Three thousand miles away, in a penthouse suite overlooking the Seine at the Four Seasons Hotel George V in Paris, Dante Romano’s phone sat on a mahogany nightstand.
He wasn't in a meeting. He wasn't negotiating a turf settlement with the Corsican syndicate or securing shipping routes through Marseilles.
He was lying under Egyptian cotton sheets, his bare chest rising and falling in deep, untroubled rest. Resting against his shoulder was Claire Bennett—a twenty-four-year-old blonde socialite with soft blue eyes and a quiet, helpless smile that made Dante feel like a king.
Serena knew about Claire.
She had known about the late-night dinners disguised as corporate emergency board meetings. She had known about the five-star hotel stays billed to ghost accounts in Liechtenstein. She had known about the platinum Cartier bracelet that had vanished from Dante’s safe two weeks ago, only to appear on Claire’s wrist in an Instagram post tagged in St. Tropez.
For two years, Serena had chosen silence. She had built her life around Dante’s world, playing the dutiful, stoic wife of New York’s most feared underworld figure. She had convinced herself that loyalty was paid in patience.
But tonight, patience meant dying on her living room floor.
BZZZZZ.
On the nightstand in Paris, Dante’s phone vibrated for the fourteenth time.
Dante stirred, his brow furrowing as he reached out with a heavy, sleep-numbed arm. He squinted at the bright screen.
14 MISSED CALLS — SERENA.
Dante let out an irritated sigh, his jaw tightening. He didn't answer. He didn't tap the video option.
With a quick, practiced flick of his thumb, he selected the automated decline option, typed five quick words, and slammed the phone back onto the table face down.
In a meeting. Call you later.
In Manhattan, Serena’s phone screen lit up with the text message.
She stared at those five words.
In a meeting. Call you later.
A fresh contraction tore through her lower body, so severe that her back arched off the floor and a choked moan escaped her throat. But inside her chest, the frantic, terrifying panic suddenly dissolved.
The roaring in her ears ceased. The desperate, suffocating desire to hear his voice, to hear him say I’m coming, hold on, simply evaporated.
Not broken.
Finished.
She had spent nearly three years wondering how much betrayal a marriage could survive. At 2:53 that morning, lying in her own blood while her husband drank champagne in Paris with his mistress, she had her answer.
Serena let the phone slide from her fingers onto the blood-stained rug. She took a deep, shuddering breath, reached out, and dragged the phone back toward her face.
She didn't call Dante Romano again.
She tapped a number she hadn't dialed in over a year.
The line rang once.
"Serena?" Nora Greer’s voice came through the speaker instantly—sharp, alert, devoid of sleep despite the hour.
"Nora," Serena rasped, her voice barely a whisper against the cold marble.
"What’s wrong? You sound—"
"It’s time," Serena gasped, her hand clutching her swollen belly as another wave of pressure hit her. "It’s... there’s blood, Nora. A lot of blood."
Silence fell over the line for a fraction of a second, followed by the rustle of a jacket and the sharp metallic click of a car key.
"Thirty-six weeks," Nora said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp, tactical calm. "Placenta previa. Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"Where is Dante?"
"Paris," Serena whispered. "With her."
Nora let out a single, dark breath through her teeth. "Eleven minutes. Do not try to move. Stay on the floor. I’m bringing the unit."
The line went dead.
Serena rested her forehead against the cold marble floor.
May you like
She closed her eyes, placing both hands over her stomach, feeling the tiny, frantic movement of her baby beneath her ribs.
"Stay with me, baby," Serena whispered into the empty, echoing darkness of the penthouse. "Just stay with me. Mommy’s got you."
