The cold ceramic tile beneath my knees was the only thing grounding me as another violent wave of nausea ripped through my stomach.

"Emma?" Liam’s voice came again, accompanied by a quick, double knock on the thin wooden bathroom door. "You’ve been in there for twenty minutes. If you miss your 7:00 AM shift at the diner, old man Miller is going to fire you, and I can't cover your half of the electric bill this month."

"I'm fine, Liam!" I called out, my voice cracking slightly as I wiped my mouth with a piece of toilet paper. "Just... stomach bug. Must have been the leftover takeout."

"Right. The takeout we both ate, except I feel fine," Liam muttered through the door, his tone shifting from sarcastic to mildly concerned. "Open up. Let me give you some anti-nausea meds."

"I'm coming out, give me a second!"

Panic, sharp and icy, flooded my veins. I looked down at the plastic wand resting on the edge of the sink. Two dark, undeniable crimson lines glared back at me.

Pregnant.

With Alessandro Vitali’s baby.

The crown prince of Chicago’s underworld. The man who ordered executions between sip of espresso and dictated city policy from the penthouse of the Obsidian Hotel. A man who, six weeks ago, had held my waist in Room 1520 and made me forget that I was living on borrowed time.

If Alessandro found out, he wouldn't just take the child—he would investigate me. He would dig into my past with the terrifying efficiency of a billionaire mobster. And if he dug into "Emma," the fragile paper maze I had built to protect myself would collapse like a house of cards.

Because "Emma" didn't exist.

My real name was Elizabeth Vance. Six years ago, my father—a senior forensic accountant for the Federal Bureau of Investigation—had uncovered the master ledger of the syndicate that preceded Alessandro’s rise: the Moretti-Vitali alliance. Three days before he was scheduled to testify before a grand jury, my parents’ car exploded in our driveway.

I was nineteen. I survived only because I was inside the house, grabbing my coat.

I didn't go to the police. The police were bought. I didn't enter Witness Protection; the federal marshals had a leak. Instead, I grabbed my father's hidden flash drive, buried my real identity in the deep web, bought high-grade forged documents, and became Emma—a ghost slipping through the cracks of Chicago, waiting for the day I could leak the data anonymously and destroy the Vitali empire forever.

And then I had slept with the head of the empire.

God, I was so stupid.

I hurriedly wrapped the pregnancy test in a wad of pink toilet paper, shoved it deep into the bottom of the small wire trash bin next to the sink, under layers of discarded cotton balls and makeup wipes. I flushed the toilet, washed my face with freezing water, and pulled my hair into a tight ponytail.

I opened the door. Liam was leaning against the hallway wall, holding a mug of coffee, wearing his usual faded flannel.

"You look like death," he said gently, scrutinizing my pale face. "Are you sure you can work today?"

"I have to," I said, putting on my battle armor—a forced, tight smile. "I need the tips. Nursing school tuition for the spring semester is due in two weeks."

"You push yourself too hard, Em," Liam sighed, handing me a glass of room-temperature water. "One of these days, your body is going to force you to stop."

It already has, I thought bitterly, swallowing a small sip of water.

An hour later, I was tied into my stained grease-apron at Miller’s Corner Diner, wiping down sticky formica tables as the morning rush began. The smell of frying bacon and old coffee, usually comforting, made my throat tighten every five minutes. I kept my head down, moving mechanically, counting the hours until my shift ended.

At 11:30 AM, the diner went dead silent.

It wasn't a gradual quiet. It was the sudden, suffocating hush that occurs when the apex predator enters the room.

The bell above the door chimed softly. The chatter of truck drivers, construction workers, and weary commuters vanished instantly. I turned around from the coffee machine, my hands freezing over the glass pot.

Four men in tailored black suits stepped inside first, their eyes scanning the room with practiced lethargy, their hands resting subtly beneath the left flaps of their jackets.

And then he walked in.

Alessandro Vitali.

He was imposing, breathtaking, and entirely out of place amidst the peeling wallpaper and neon diner lights. He wore a midnight-blue three-piece suit that cost more than this entire diner was worth. His dark hair was combed back, his sharp jawline shadowed by a faint trace of stubble, and those terrifying amber eyes swept over the room before locking directly onto mine.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs. He knows. Oh God, he knows.

"Can I... can I help you, sir?" old man Miller stammered from behind the register, his voice trembling.

Alessandro didn't look at Miller. He didn't look at anyone else. He walked slowly toward my station, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the scuffed linoleum.

He stopped inches from my side of the counter. The scent of expensive sandalwood, velvet rain, and dark tobacco wrapped around me, pulling me back to that night in Room 1520.

"Emma," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that sent a shudder straight down my spine.

"Mr... Mr. Vitali," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to pick up what's mine," he said calmly.

He reached into his breast pocket. My breath caught in my throat. I thought he was pulling a gun. I thought he was going to end my life right here among the syrup bottles and ketchup stains.

Instead, he placed a small object onto the laminate counter.

It was a clear, ziplock evidence bag. Inside it was a wad of pink toilet paper, pulled apart. And resting inside was the plastic pregnancy test I had thrown away three hours ago.

Two clear pink lines stared up at me under the flickering fluorescent lights.

"You dropped this," Alessandro said softly, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. "In your apartment trash. Along with the fake identity documents hidden in your floorboards."