Chapter 3 - The Cold War in the BoardroomThe silence in the penthouse living room stretched so long that the hum of the city far below sounded like a distant ocean.
Vincent stared down at the small piece of plastic resting on the dark mahogany table. Two pink lines, stark and undeniable, stared back at him.
The man who controlled half the shipping lanes, illegal imports, and financial institutions on the East Coast—the man who had watched men beg for their lives without a single change in heart rate—suddenly looked entirely unmoored.
His broad chest stopped moving. His pale gray eyes widened by a fraction, the color seeming to drain from the room until only the stark reality of those two lines remained.
“Norah,” Vincent breathed. It wasn’t a command. It was a confession of absolute awe.
“I took the test this morning,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady. “Before the café. Before Derek.”
In three long strides, Vincent crossed the space between them. He didn’t care about the marble, the decor, or the towering windows. He dropped to his knees in front of her, his large hands coming up to frame her face with a reverence that borders on worship.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his voice thick, rougher than usual.
“Positive,” Norah nodded, a single tear escaping her eye and tracking down her cheek.
Vincent’s gaze dropped from her eyes down to her stomach. Slowly, hesitantly, as if he were afraid his touch might break the spell, he pressed his open palm flat against her lower abdomen. His fingers splayed wide, covering her warmth. He pressed his forehead gently against her waist, breathing in the scent of her skin, trembling in a way Derek’s violence had never been able to make him do.
“A child,” he murmured against her silk blouse. “My blood. Our child.”
“Are you… are you angry?” Norah asked, the old, ingrained fear whispering in the back of her mind. “With everything going on, with the Syndicate pushing into our territories—”
Vincent’s head snapped up, his gray eyes flashing with sudden, blinding intensity. He gripped her hips firmly, pulling her down until she was kneeling on the floor with him.
“Listen to me,” Vincent growled, his voice vibrating with absolute possession and fierce, protective love. “There is nothing—no war, no rival boss, no empire in the world—that matters more than this. From this exact second, my entire existence belongs to keeping you and this child safe. Do you understand me?”
Before Norah could answer, the secure phone on Vincent’s desk chimed with a sharp, triple-toned ring.
It was a frequency reserved for only one person: Marcus Vance, the head of the Italian Syndicate and Vincent’s most volatile rival.
Vincent’s face hardened instantly, the tender father vanishing behind the mask of the underworld king. He stood up smoothly, adjusting his vest, his eyes turning to flint.
“Leo,” Vincent called out without turning around.
“Boss?” Leo stepped out from the hallway.
“Lock down the penthouse. Double the perimeter guards on floor forty and street level. Nobody enters, nobody leaves.” Vincent picked up the secure satellite phone, his thumb pressing the receiver. “And get the private jet on standby at Teterboro. We might need a change of scenery sooner than expected.”
May you like
“Marcus?” Leo asked, his brow furrowing.
“Marcus,” Vincent confirmed coldly, bringing the phone to his ear. “Let's see what the old bastard wants.”
