My ex grabbed my throat in a café over my pregnancy, completely unaware my new mafia husband was standing right behind him.

Sleep did not come easily, despite the warmth of the king-sized bed and the heavy weight of Dominic’s arm draped over my waist throughout the night. Every time I drifted off, I felt the phantom press of Ethan’s fingers around my throat, the bitter smell of his stale cologne, the venom in his voice demanding to know who got me pregnant.

Six months ago, Ethan had thrown a wine glass at my head because dinner had been ten minutes late. That had been the final straw. I had packed a single bag while he was passed out on the living room sofa, signed the unilateral divorce papers prepared by a legal aid clinic, and vanished into a modest studio apartment downtown. I thought I had erased myself from his world.

Then, two months later, an unexpected catering gig for a charity gala put me in the path of Dominic Varela. When a drunk, entitled donor had cornered me in the service hallway, Dominic had intervened with cold, surgical efficiency. What began as a terrifying rescue turned into a courtship that moved with the speed of an avalanche. When I discovered I was pregnant just weeks after our whirlwind civil marriage, Dominic hadn't questioned it; he had doubled the estate’s security and kissed my stomach every morning before sunrise.

By morning, Dominic was already gone from the bed.

I slipped on a cashmere robe and padded down the curved staircase to his private study. The heavy mahogany door was slightly ajar, the bitter scent of dark espresso drifting into the corridor.

"...not a coincidence, boss," Matteo’s voice came from inside, low and sharp. "Ethan Vance doesn't drink specialty coffee on Cathedral Street. His firm is based five miles south. Someone gave him Clara’s schedule. Someone pointed him straight to that café."

I froze in the doorway, my breath hitching in my chest.

Dominic was standing behind his desk, studying a dossier spread across the polished wood. His tailored jacket was off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark, intricate tattoos that crept from his forearms to his wrists—symbols of loyalty and blood that marked him as the undisputed king of Baltimore’s underworld.

"Who?" Dominic’s voice was devoid of emotion, a flatline that preceded an execution.

"We pulled traffic cameras and checked his phone records," Matteo answered. "Three calls from a burner phone registered to an LLC out of Delaware. The same shell company the Corban syndicate used to buy up the shipping docks last spring."

The Corban family. Even I knew that name. They were Dominic’s fiercest rivals, pushed to the brink of financial ruin after Dominic had severed their smuggling routes through the Chesapeake Bay.

"They think Ethan is a leverage point," Dominic said, tapping a single finger against the mahogany desk. "They couldn't touch me directly, so they dug into Clara’s past. They found an angry, bankrupt ex-husband with an bruised ego and handed him a roadmap."

"Should we pick Ethan up and sweat him?" Matteo asked.

"No," Dominic said, his dark eyes rising to meet mine as he spotted me standing outside the open door. "Ethan Vance is a coward who preys on women he believes are defenseless. He will run back to the men who gave him courage. Watch him. The moment he meets with his Corban handler, take them both."

Dominic stepped out from behind the desk, his demeanor softening instantly as he closed the distance between us. "You should be resting, Clara."

"He didn't just stumble upon me, did he?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "This isn't over."