Chapter 2 - THE REVEAL
Dominic’s office in the Valente Tower fell into a silence so absolute that the hum of the city seventy-two floors below vanished. Silas, usually unshakeable, took a step back. His boots clicked against the dark hardwood, the sound sharp and heavy, like a hammer cocking.
"What do you mean, there's more?" Dominic's voice did not rise. It dropped into a dangerously quiet register, the tone he used right before a contract was signed or a man was removed from his territory.
Silas tapped the iPad screen, scrolling past the ultrasound image to a secondary medical file buried under the hospital’s pediatric cardiology archives. "The Northwestern database flagged her file because of her family medical history. Meline’s mother died of an undiagnosed aortic aneurysm when Meline was twelve. It’s hereditary, Boss. Connective tissue disorder."
Dominic’s dark eyes narrowed. His chest tightened, a cold knot forming beneath his ribs. "Explain."
"The pregnancy puts an immense amount of stress on her vascular system," Silas said, his voice tightening. "According to the specialist’s note at the bottom of the chart, if she doesn't receive specialized cardiovascular monitoring during the second and third trimesters, she’s at a high risk for a major arterial rupture during labor. She needs specific beta-blockers and a planned, highly controlled C-section at a Level I trauma center. If she attempts to give birth naturally, in secret, without a medical team that knows her history..."
Silas didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
The implication hung in the air like poison gas.
Meline had fled to hide from him. She had taken an alias. She was working under the table, avoiding credit cards, avoiding official hospitals, avoiding anyone who could trace her back to the Valente name.
She was hiding in the dark, and that very darkness was killing her.
"She doesn't know," Dominic whispered, his hand shaking slightly as he stared at the screen. He looked at the specialist's red-flagged warning. Patient left before follow-up genetic counseling could be scheduled. "She left the hospital before they could run the blood panel. She has no idea she’s carrying a ticking clock inside her."
"Boss," Carlo Rossi, his veteran underboss, stepped into the room. He had heard the tension from the hallway. "The Duca family is pushing for the wedding date. Seraphina’s father is in New York. He wants the signing done by Friday."
"Tell him to wait," Dominic growled, not looking up from the iPad.
"We can't," Carlo said, his voice heavy with warning. "The Duca alliance is the only thing keeping the Outfit from starting a three-front war on the East Side. If you stall now, they’ll think you're weak. They’ll think you're looking for an exit."
"I am looking for an exit," Dominic said. He stood up, his massive frame blocking the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. The Tom Ford jacket clung to his shoulders like armor, but his face was pale, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. "Get the plane ready."
Carlo stared at him. "The plane? To where?"
"Boston," Silas answered, looking at his screen. "A cash-only utility account under the name Clara Evans was registered three days ago in Beacon Hill. It took me twelve hours to trace the routing number back to a shell company used by a retired Harvard professor who specializes in art history. It's her, Boss."
"We go now," Dominic said, reaching into his desk drawer for his Beretta. "No guards. No convoy. Just you and me, Carlo."
"Dominic," Carlo pleaded, stepping in front of the door. "If the Ducas find out you left the city for a civilian girl, they will put a hit on her before your plane even touches the tarmac in Massachusetts. You are putting her in a crosshair."
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Dominic stopped. He looked down at the small, grainy image of the ultrasound on the screen. The tiny heartbeat. The woman who had looked at him with warm, brown eyes in the quiet of the art museum and told him she wasn't afraid of his world.
"She is already in a crosshair, Carlo," Dominic said, his voice flat and iron-cold. "And I’m the one who pulled the trigger. Move."
