Derek’s fingers tightened until Norah felt her windpipe threaten to buckle. The stench of stale bourbon and rotting teeth rolled off him in waves.

Norah sat in the back, staring down at her lap. Her hands were still shaking slightly, though she clenched them into tight fists to hide it. The red marks on her throat burned beneath the silk collar of her blouse.

In the front seat, Vincent sat rigid. He hadn’t spoken a single word since they left the café. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle ticked rhythmically beneath his sharp cheekbone.

When the car pulled into the private underground garage of the penthouse, the doors slid open instantly. Vincent stepped out first, holding out a hand to help her. His grip was warm, impossibly steady, and laced with a restrained fury that felt like electricity crackling just beneath his skin.

They rode the private elevator up in total silence.

As soon as the penthouse doors chimed open, Vincent turned to her. His pale gray eyes searched her face, mapping every line of stress, every lingering shadow of fear.

“Sit,” he ordered, guiding her gently toward the velvet sofa by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

“Vincent, I’m fine,” Norah murmured, sinking into the cushions. “It was just Derek being pathetic. He didn't expect to see me, and he lost control—”

“He touched you,” Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. He knelt before her, carefully unbuttoning the top button of her blouse to get a better look at the bruises forming on her throat. His large, calloused fingers brushed her skin with infinite tenderness, a stark contrast to the violence that lived in his hands. “He laid his hands on my wife. In broad daylight. In a neighborhood where my word is law.”

“How did you even find me so fast?” Norah asked, a breathy mixture of wonder and dread catching in her chest. “Leo said you were heading to the docks.”

“I was,” Vincent replied, his eyes dark. “Halfway there, my internal GPS felt a disturbance. I turned the car around. Nobody leaves my sight, Norah. Especially not you. Especially not when you’re carrying my world.”

Norah’s breath hitched. The words hung in the air, heavy and resonant. She opened her mouth to speak, but the secret in her pocket seemed to burn against her thigh like a live coal.

Tell him, a voice inside her whispered. Tell him you’re pregnant.

She reached down, her fingers sliding into the pocket of her trousers where the small white plastic stick rested. But before she could pull it out, the private elevator chime chimed again with a sharp, insistent ring.

Vincent stood up instantly, masking his protective warmth behind a wall of cold authority.

Leo stepped out of the elevator, wiping a smear of dark blood off his knuckles with a black cloth. His face expressionless, he walked toward the living room, pausing a respectful distance away.

“Done, Boss,” Leo reported, his voice low and gravelly. “The message has been delivered. Nobody in that zip code will ever speak her name again. And Derek is currently taking a very cold, very permanent swim.”

Norah’s stomach clenched. She knew what Vincent’s world entailed—she had accepted the blood on his cuffs when she married him—but hearing it so casually discussed sent a shiver down her spine.

“Did anyone see?” Vincent asked coldly.

“Clean sweep,” Leo nodded. “The barista wet himself and promised to move to Nebraska by sundown. The old man in the corner was too busy reading the crossword to notice the sky falling.”

“Good,” Vincent said, turning back to Norah. His expression softened the instant his eyes met hers, shielding her from the grim reality of his empire. “Go wash up, tesoro. Dinner will be sent up from Le Bernardin. You need to eat.”

Norah stood up, the pregnancy test heavy in her pocket. She looked at her husband—the feared underworld king who commanded armies of men yet treated her like spun glass—and realized she couldn't keep the secret any longer.

“Vincent,” she said softly, stopping him as he turned toward his study.