Chapter 1
The heavy oak door of the pantry finally gave way with a sharp crack, the brass lock splintering under the force of a sympathetic kitchen boy’s pry bar. Nina Hayes stumbled out into the dimly lit service corridor, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She was a beautiful, gentle maid with delicate features and clear, expressive eyes, but right now, she looked like she had barely survived a war. Her fitted black maid dress was covered in dust, the white collar and cuffs smudged, and her white apron was terribly rumpled. Atop her disheveled hair, her white ruffled headband sat crookedly, a testament to the violent shove Dahlia Mercer had given her an hour ago.
"Thank you, Leo," Nina whispered, her voice trembling as she gripped the wall for support. "I have to stop her. I have to tell him."
"Miss Nina, they're already in the main hall," the kitchen boy warned, his eyes wide with fear. "Mr. Ashford is about to make the announcement. If you go out there looking like that, the Mercers will kill you."
"I don't care," Nina said, her jaw setting with a fierce, protective determination.
She pushed past him, breaking into a desperate run toward the grand reception. Inside Roman Ashford’s luxurious mansion, a crowded Thanksgiving reception was in full swing. Tiered crystal chandeliers flooded the entire interior with warm golden light, casting an opulent, amber glow across the marble floors. Tall ivory candles glowed inside glass hurricane holders on polished walnut consoles. Harvest wreaths, copper bowls overflowing with miniature pumpkins, autumn foliage, and elegant cornucopia arrangements decorated the room. Formally dressed guests representing the city’s most dangerous crime families were gathered, sipping champagne and awaiting the highly anticipated pregnancy announcement.
Nina skidded to a halt, stopping just beside the service doorway. Her chest heaved as she took in the scene.
Roman Ashford stood at the center of the room. At thirty-three, the mafia boss was an imposing, handsome figure with broad shoulders, an angular jaw, naturally swept-back hair, and extremely short stubble. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit that accentuated his lethal grace. A family signet ring and a luxury wristwatch caught the golden light, drawing attention to the artistic tattoos decorating his hands and fingers with visible negative space. A small, intricate neck tattoo peaked just above his collar.
Beside him stood Dahlia Mercer, his twenty-nine-year-old fiancée. She wore a champagne satin gown that clung perfectly to her figure, a prominent diamond engagement ring flashing on her finger. She maintained an affectionate, flawless public smile, basking in the attention of the elite crowd.
But it was the small figure rushing across the burgundy velvet sofas that caught everyone’s attention. Three-year-old Owen, Roman’s son, had soft curls, round rosy cheeks, and little dimples. He wore rust-red velvet overalls embroidered with a tiny turkey, a cream knitted shirt, and miniature brown boots.
Owen approached Dahlia, holding a rounded, fabric-covered maternity cushion by its elastic straps. He had found it discarded in a nearby drawing room. Roman looked from the cushion in his son's hands to Dahlia’s perfectly flat gown.
Owen, smiling helpfully up at the woman, said, "Auntie, you forgot your tummy!"
Dahlia’s public smile instantly disappeared, replaced by a flash of pure, unadulterated panic. She reached sharply toward the cushion, her manicured claws aiming for the fabric.
"Little brat. Give it here," Dahlia snapped, her voice dripping with venom.
Before her fingers could make contact, Roman moved with terrifying speed. He stepped smoothly between Dahlia and Owen, his broad back shielding his son. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Roman studied the cushion in his son's hands for a fraction of a second, the realization dawning in his dark, dangerous eyes. He then looked directly across the room, his gaze locking onto Nina standing disheveled by the service doorway. Roman’s jaw tightened so fiercely that the muscle feathered beneath his stubble. He paused, letting the silence stretch until every single guest fell silent and turned toward him.
Roman spoke quietly, his voice a lethal, rumbling promise of violence. "Nina. There’s no baby?"
Nina stepped fully into the golden light. She faced Roman, her heart hammering against her ribs. She steadied a trembling breath and maintained unbroken eye contact with the most dangerous man in the city.
"No," Nina stated clearly. "She locked me up."
Dahlia briefly glanced toward the watching guests, reading the shock and impending judgment on their faces. Her forced smile hardened into a mask of pure, bitter resentment as she finally met Roman’s devastating gaze.
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"You bought it," Dahlia sneered, lifting her chin in defiance. "Every damn word."
Roman reached down and gently took the cushion from Owen. He placed the cushion carelessly on the adjacent velvet armchair. Nina crossed the distance, her rumpled apron swishing, and gently took Owen’s small hand, pulling him safely against her side. Roman remained standing like a concrete wall between Dahlia and Nina, fixing Dahlia with a cold, unwavering stare, letting the final, suffocating silence reign over the ruined reception.
