I walked into my mafia boss husband’s penthouse with our baby’s first ultrasound, only to find him kissing his secretary—and eleven days later, he discovered the one secret that could destroy his entire empire.

The man who kicked the front door off its hinges wasn't a hitman.

It was Lorenzo.

He burst into the room like an avenging demon from the depths of hell, an automatic shotgun leveled at his hip. Before the second Marcone gunman could bring his weapon to bear on me, Lorenzo fired. The blast threw the attacker through the cedar wall out onto the foggy deck.

The third gunman, coming around the side terrace, fired a burst through the window. Splinters of wood and glass showered the living room.

Lorenzo didn't seek cover. He charged forward, taking two grazing rounds to his left shoulder without flinching, and emptied three rounds through the window frame. A heavy thump outside signaled the end of the firefight.

Silence fell over the cabin, broken only by the crackle of burning cedar from an overturned lamp and the sound of Lorenzo’s ragged, ragged breathing.

Gunpowder smoke drifted between us like a blue veil.

Lorenzo lowered the shotgun. His dark hair was wild, plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood from a gash near his hairline. His custom Italian wool coat was shredded at the shoulder, dark blood seeping through the fabric.

He dropped the shotgun onto the floorboards. It hit the wood with a heavy clatter.

Slowly, carefully, he raised both hands in the air, palms open, showing me he held no weapons.

"Isabella," he choked out, his voice cracked and raw.

I didn't lower my Glock. I kept the iron sights trained directly between his eyes. My hands trembled, but my aim remained lethal.

"Take one step closer, Lorenzo, and I will put a bullet through your skull," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring in my ears.

Lorenzo stopped. He looked at the gun in my hands, then looked into my eyes. What he saw there seemed to hurt him far more than the bullets tearing through his shoulder.

"Isabella... please," he whispered, tears welling in his dark, terrifying eyes. "I’m not here to take you back by force. I swear on my mother’s soul."

"Your mother’s soul?" I scoffed, a bitter laugh tearing from my throat. "You don't have a soul, Lorenzo. You have a ledger and an empire. Did you come for the shipping drive? It's buried in the woods. You can have it after you rot."

"I don't care about the drive," Lorenzo pleaded, taking a half-step forward before catching himself when my finger tightened on the trigger. "Salvatore Marcone is dead. His entire council was eliminated two hours ago. The threat to you is gone forever."

"And what about the threat in this room?" I challenged, tears finally blurring my vision. "What about the man who kissed his secretary on his desk while his wife was holding the proof of his children in her hands?"

Lorenzo flinched as if I had driven a stiletto between his ribs.