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.

My blood ran colder than the winter Atlantic.

I stared at the black ink on the paper, my breath catching in ragged, shallow gasps.

1:55 PM.

I glanced at the gold clock hanging above the conservatory archway. It was 1:15 PM.

Adrian had forty minutes to live.

"Miss Bennett? Is everything alright?" Mrs. Higgins asked, stepping closer, noticing my sudden pallor.

"I need to speak to Marco immediately," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm, shoving the letter into my sweater pocket.

I rushed out of the conservatory toward the security control room in the west wing. Marco was standing before a wall of security monitors, talking into an earpiece.

"Marco!" I called out.

He turned instantly. "Miss Bennett, you shouldn't be wandering around this section of the compound—"

"Antonio planted a bomb under the Commission table at Wall Street," I blurted out, pulling the letter from my pocket and shoving it into his hands. "He sent a courier to the service gate."

Marco’s eyes flew across the parchment. His face turned gray.

"That son of a bitch," Marco hissed, slamming his fist against the control desk. He instantly hit a red emergency toggle on his console. "Primary tactical unit, this is Bellini! Code Red! Secure the perimeter! Clear the service gate immediately!"

"Marco, call Adrian!" I demanded, grabbing his forearm. "Tell him to get out of the building!"

"I'm trying, Miss Bennett!" Marco shouted, dialing an encrypted satellite channel on his radio. "The Wall Street boardroom is buried four levels underground in a soundproof vault! Cell signals and radio frequencies are jammed during Commission proceedings to prevent wiretaps!"

"Then send a team down there!"

"Wall Street is forty-five minutes away in heavy afternoon traffic!" Marco cried out, looking at his watch. "It's 1:20 PM! Even with sirens, my squad won't reach lower Manhattan before 2:00 PM!"

My mind raced wildly.

Fourteen years ago, before I married Adrian, I worked as a junior architectural analyst for the New York Historical Preservation Society. I knew the blueprints of lower Manhattan better than almost anyone in the city.

100 Wall Street wasn't just an office tower; it was built directly over the old 1910 federal gold vault system, connected to the subterranean subway tunnels of the Wall Street 4/5 train station.

"Marco," I said, my voice dropping into an uncanny, icy stillness. "Does Adrian's private helicopter still have landing clearance on the roof of the Federal Reserve building on Maiden Lane?"

Marco blinked, caught off guard. "Yes! The Moretti aviation permit covers the entire Financial District airspace!"

"Get the helicopter on the helipad now," I commanded, turning on my heel toward the entrance foyer. "We can fly from Greenwich to Maiden Lane in twelve minutes."

"Miss Bennett, you are pregnant with twins! Don Moretti explicitly ordered me to keep you in this house!" Marco protested, running behind me.

"If Don Moretti dies in twenty-five minutes, those orders don't mean anything, Marco!" I roared back, turning around to face him with an intensity that made the heavy-set security chief freeze in his tracks. "Get the helicopter ready, or I swear to God I will drive myself!"

Marco stared at me for two long seconds, realizing in an instant that the woman standing before him was no longer the quiet, timid wife who had quietly left Tribeca two months ago.