The billionaire heiress slapped me hard enough to send six champagne glasses crashing across the ballroom floor, then looked at my seven-month-pregnant stomach like I was the inconvenience. Seconds later, the most feared man in New York picked up my broken name tag, read “Abigail Foster,” and went so still that even the photographers lowered their cameras.

By three o'clock in the morning, the snowstorm over Manhattan had intensified into a blinding white blizzard. Heavy gusts of wind howled against the panoramic glass windows of the Riverside penthouse, blurring the lights of the city below into soft, smeared halos of white and yellow.

Inside the master suite, Abigail tossed and turned restlessly beneath her heavy silk duvet.

Her stomach felt tight, a dull, aching pressure building across her lower back that had nothing to do with her baby kicking. She sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, resting her hands against her swollen belly as another small contraction rippled through her abdomen.

"Not tonight, little one," she whispered to her stomach, managing a faint, nervous smile. "Wait until your uncle Matteo gets back."

She reached for her glass of water on the nightstand, but before her hand touched the crystal tumbler, every light in the penthouse flickered once, twice, and went completely dark.

The soft hum of the central heating died away.

Silence—thick, heavy, and unnatural—settled over the penthouse.

Abigail froze, her hand hovering in the dark.

A second later, the quiet electronic chime of the private elevator echoed down the long, carpeted hallway.

The elevator?

Matteo’s private elevator required a high-security biometric keycard and a personal passcode to operate from the garage. Only three people held those credentials: Matteo, Geno, and Isabella.

Abigail slipped out of bed, pulling a heavy wool robe around her shoulders, her heart beginning to pound in her throat. She stepped silently across the dark bedroom, opening the door an inch to peer into the long, dark hallway.

Emergency red backup lights clicked on along the floorboards, casting a dim, crimson glow across the walls.

At the far end of the hallway, near the foyer, stood three tall figures dressed in dark tactical clothes, heavy winter boots, and face masks. They held suppressed pistols raised low, their movements quiet, methodical, and practiced.

In the center of the group stood a woman in a long black mink coat, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun.

Vanessa Sinclair.

She was out on a two-million-dollar emergency bail, awaiting her federal trial under strict house arrest at her aunt's estate in Long Island.

"Search the rooms," Vanessa whispered, her voice laced with a bitter, venomous rage that echoed down the quiet corridor. "Find the girl. I don't care about the apartment or the art. Just find her."

Abigail’s breath hitched in her throat.

Vanessa had used the remaining offshore funds from her Apex accounts to hire a rogue tactical team, paying off a building maintenance technician to cut the penthouse's primary power lines and disable the internal alarm system.

Abigail backed away from her bedroom door, her mind racing desperately.

She couldn't run. She was nine months pregnant, her contractions were starting to hit every six minutes, and the fire exit stairs were fourteen floors down.

She pulled her phone from her robe pocket, her fingers shaking as she speed-dialed Matteo's private line.

It rang once. Twice.

"Abigail?" Matteo’s voice came through the speaker, low, crisp, and instantly alert. "What's wrong?"

"Matteo..." Abigail whispered into the phone, backing into her walk-in closet, hiding behind a rack of heavy wool coats. "They're inside the house. Vanessa... she brought men with guns."

Over the satellite line, Abigail heard a sound that chilled her to the bone—a low, terrifying roar of absolute, unbridled fury from Matteo Romano that vibrated through the speaker.

"Geno! Turn the cars around!" Matteo screamed into his radio in the background, the sound of heavy engine acceleration echoing through the line. "Abigail, listen to me! There is a safe room behind the bookshelf in my study! The door is reinforced steel! Lock yourself inside! I am four minutes away!"

"I can't reach the study, Matteo," Abigail wept softly, clutching her stomach as another sharp contraction squeezed her abdomen. "They're in the main hallway... they're outside my room..."

The heavy wooden door of her bedroom swung open with a loud, metallic crash.

Heavy footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.

"Abigail..." Vanessa’s sickly sweet, mocking voice floated into the closet space. "Come out, come out, little catering girl. Let's finish the conversation we started at the Astoria."