Two months after our divorce, my ex-husband cornered me in a Manhattan hospital and demanded to know why I was there alone. When I finally put my hand over the curve beneath my coat and told him I was sixteen weeks pregnant, Adrian Moretti, the man half of New York feared, went pale as he realized the impossible truth: the baby could be his.

The air inside the room instantly turned to liquid ice.

Antonio Moretti.

Adrian’s ruthless uncle who had contested the leadership of the Moretti family business ever since Adrian’s father passed away five years ago. Antonio controlled the waterfront shipping unions and the darker, less legitimate branches of the family enterprise. Under the terms of the elder Moretti's will, if Adrian died without a direct legitimate heir, sixty percent of the family's voting shares and assets would automatically revert to Antonio.

For three years, Antonio had treated our childless marriage as a ticking clock.

"Marco," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly smooth tone. "Secure the floor. Call the primary security detail from the Tribeca residence. I want six armored vehicles at the basement loading bay in three minutes."

"Already done, Boss," Marco replied, stepping back into the hallway and pulling a heavy black radio from his coat.

Adrian turned back to me. All trace of vulnerability vanished, replaced by the lethal predator that had made him the most feared power broker in New York.

He reached down, picked up my wool coat from the chair, and held it out for me.

"Put this on," he commanded softly.

"Adrian, I am not going anywhere with you," I said, trying to swing my legs over the side of the table. "I have my own apartment in Brooklyn Heights—"

"Your apartment in Brooklyn Heights has a single deadbolt and no bulletproof glass, Claire," Adrian interrupted, leaning down and slipping the coat gently over my shoulders, his fingers lingering briefly against the back of my neck. "Antonio’s men don't play by civil rules. Half an hour ago, you were my ex-wife living a quiet life. Right now, you are carrying the two most valuable human beings on the East Coast. You are coming with me to the estate."

"The estate?" I gasped.

The Moretti estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, was a fifty-acre fortified compound surrounded by ten-foot stone walls, armed guards, and state-of-the-art security systems. I had refused to live there during our marriage, preferring the city penthouse.

"It is the only place in this state where I can guarantee your absolute safety," Adrian said, reaching down and taking my hand.

His grip was warm, solid, and unyielding.

Before I could argue further, three heavy gunshots echoed from the far end of the hospital corridor, followed by the sound of screaming nurses and smashing glass.

"They're on the floor!" Marco shouted from the hallway, drawing a silenced nine-millimeter pistol from beneath his jacket.

Adrian didn't flinch. In a single fluid motion, he pulled me off the examination table, lifted me into his arms, and cradled me against his heavy chest, shielding my head and belly with his body.

"Hold onto my neck, Claire," he ordered quietly against my ear.

I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck, burying my face into the crook of his collarbone, smelling his familiar scent of expensive sandalwood, rain, and leather.

Adrian kicked open the secondary emergency stairwell door, carrying me down the concrete steps three at a time while Marco and two armed guards fired suppressor shots into the hallway behind us.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins made my stomach churn. "Adrian... the babies..."

"I have you, Claire," he whispered rasply, his heavy arms tightening around me like iron bars as we burst through the basement doors into the underground parking garage. "I will burn this entire city to ashes before I let anyone put a finger on you or our children."

A sleek, black armor-plated SUV slammed its brakes beside us.

The rear door flew open. Adrian slid inside, keeping me cradled in his lap, pulling the door shut just as three heavy-caliber bullets slammed against the reinforced, bulletproof glass of the window.

The SUV roared out of the garage, tires screaming against the concrete, speeding into the Manhattan rain.

Inside the quiet, leather-scented interior of the vehicle, Adrian leaned back against the headrest, his chest heaving, his dark eyes fixed entirely on my face. His hand rested firmly over my belly, feeling the slight firmness beneath my clothes.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice rough with raw emotion.

"No," I whispered, resting my hand over his on my stomach. "I'm okay."

Adrian closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. "They're twins, Claire... two of them."