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

The rain had returned by dusk, transforming the Baltimore port into a landscape of slick concrete, rusted shipping containers, and bitter sea fog. Pier 42 had been closed to commercial traffic for three hours under the guise of an emergency electrical inspection.

A single black luxury sedan sat parked beneath the yellow sodium floodlights, flanked by two armed men in heavy raincoats. Inside the car was Julian Corban, the silver-haired head of the Corban syndicate, nursing a glass of scotch while waiting for the man who owned the rest of the harbor.

A convoy of three black SUVs rolled smoothly onto the pier, cutting through the fog before forming a barricade around Corban’s vehicle. Dominic stepped out of the middle vehicle alone, not even bothering with an umbrella. The rain beat down on his shoulders, but his steps were deliberate, measured, and absolute.

Corban’s bodyguards reached for their waistbands, but Matteo and four other Varela enforcers materialized from the shadows behind the shipping containers, laser sights painting glowing red dots across the guards' chests. The men froze, slowly raising their hands in surrender.

Dominic walked straight up to the rear passenger window of Corban’s sedan and tapped twice with the heavy signet ring on his finger.

Corban lowered the window, his expression tight with forced composure. "Dominic. A bit theatrical for a rainy Thursday, isn't it?"

"Get out of the car, Julian," Dominic said evenly.

"I think we can speak quite comfortably from here—"

Dominic opened the door himself, reached in, seized Julian Corban by his bespoke lapels, and yanked him bodily out into the pouring rain. Corban stumbled onto the wet asphalt, his expensive shoes splashing in a puddle.

"Hey! Are you insane, Varela?" Corban sputtered, trying to maintain his dignity while his guards remained pinned by red sniper dots. "You think you can break the peace over some common girl you picked out of a gutter?"

Dominic slammed Corban back against the vehicle’s frame. The impact knocked the wind from the older man’s lungs with a wet gasp.

"You funded Ethan Vance’s petition," Dominic said, his voice barely louder than the patter of rain, yet vibrating with lethal intent. "You thought attacking my wife through the family courts would weaken my focus on the northern shipping terminals."

"It's just business, Dominic!" Corban wheezed, his hands coming up defensively. "A small thorn in your side to remind you that you don't control every angle—"

"My wife is not business," Dominic interrupted, his grip tightening until Corban’s face turned scarlet. "She is my life. And you weaponized a man who put his hands around her throat."

Dominic leaned closer, his dark eyes void of all human pity.

"By nine o'clock tomorrow morning, you will instruct Sterling to withdraw the filing. You will cut all contact with Ethan Vance. And you will sign over your controlling shares in the terminal three warehouse to my holding company."

"And if I refuse?" Corban choked out defiantly. "You start a war over a divorce court filing?"

Dominic reached into his coat and produced an envelope, dropping it onto Corban’s soaked chest.

"Inside that envelope are the coordinates of the offshore ledger your youngest son keeps in Zurich, along with photographic evidence of his side deals behind your back. If the filing isn't dead by morning, the federal prosecutor gets a copy, and the rest of your syndicate council finds out who has been stealing twenty percent off the top."

Corban’s face went pasty white. The defiance evaporated instantly, leaving behind a hollow, defeated shell.

"Ethan Vance is on his own," Corban whispered, clutching the damp envelope to his chest. "I wash my hands of him."