TAKE THAT RING OFF, YOU LYING LITTLE MAID! MY FIANCÉ'S DEAD BROTHER WOULD NEVER HAVE MARRIED SOMEONE LIKE YOU!

The silence inside the grand dining room of the Moretti estate was suffocating. Above us, the crystal chandelier hummed with a faint electric buzz, casting sharp, fractured light across the mahogany table.

My fingers remained glued to my stomach. Beneath my palm, the baby fluttered again—small, frantic taps, as if sensing the storm raging just inches away.

Leonardo did not stand up immediately. He remained kneeling beside my chair, his tattooed hand still resting gently over my swollen belly. His head was bowed, his broad shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. When he finally looked up, the tenderness in his dark eyes vanished, replaced by an arctic frost that made the air in the room feel twenty degrees colder.

He rose to his full height. Six-foot-three of tailored black Italian wool, lethal stillness, and undisputed authority.

"The first baby," Leonardo repeated. His voice was not loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through the room like a piano wire. He turned slowly toward Bianca, who had backed away until her spine hit the heavy oak sideboard. "Explain that sentence, Bianca. Right now."

Bianca’s polished veneer was completely shattered. Her manicured hands trembled against the red satin of her dress. She darted a terrified glance toward her father, Richard Romano, who stood rigid by the marble fireplace, his face the color of wet parchment.

"Leonardo, darling... it isn't what you think," Bianca stammered, her voice pitching high and breathless. "Matteo was confused. He was sticking his nose into private medical records that belonged to my family. He misunderstood everything!"

"Anthony," Leonardo commanded without looking back.

The silver-haired attorney stepped forward immediately, his tablet clutched tightly in his hands. "Yes, Leonardo."

"Read the rest of Matteo’s letter. Every word."

Anthony adjusted his glasses, his hands shaking slightly. He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the vast, echoing room.

"'Leo,'" Anthony read, his voice heavy with solemn gravity. "'If you are reading this, Richard Romano and Bianca have already made their move. Four months ago, I was looking into the offshore routing for the Romano-Moretti logistics merger. I found an account registered under the name *Aegis Holdings*. It wasn't an investment fund. It was a private funnel into St. Jude’s Women’s Pavilion.'"

Anthony paused, looking up at Leonardo with troubled eyes.

"Continue," Leonardo murmured, his gaze locked onto Richard Romano.

"'Bianca suffered a catastrophic uterine rupture six years ago,'" Anthony continued reading from Matteo’s letter. "'She cannot carry a child. But the Romano family's trust requires a direct blood heir to unlock the family estate of eighty million dollars upon Richard's retirement. Three years ago, they tried to purchase an infant through an illegal private clinic in Zurich—the first baby. It was covered up as a stillbirth when the child died during transit. When Emma got pregnant with my child, Bianca found out through our routine blood work at the public clinic. She paid the receptionist to intercept our file.'"

A gasp tore from my throat. I pressed both hands over my mouth, the room spinning wildly.

Matteo’s words echoed through the room like a voice speaking from beyond the grave:

"'They didn't just want Emma kept quiet, Leo. Bianca wanted Emma’s child. If I died, Bianca planned to marry you, use the Romano clinic to manage Emma’s delivery in complete isolation, declare the child an orphan or pay Emma off, and claim the baby as yours and hers to secure both the Moretti alliance and the Romano trust fund. Don't let Bianca choose the hospital. Protect Emma. Protect my child.'"

When Anthony finished, the silence was absolute.

I couldn't breathe. The air in my lungs turned to ash. Every memory of the last five months rushed through my mind like a torrent of icy water: Bianca offering me the job; Bianca insisting that I see only Dr. Garrett at St. Jude’s; Bianca personally handing me my daily vitamins in little plastic cups every morning; Bianca whispering that Leonardo would throw me out on the street if he ever found out about my past.

She hadn't been hiding me out of shame.

She had been holding me hostage in plain sight. She had turned me into an incubator under her roof, waiting for the day I went into labor so she could steal Matteo’s baby.

"You monster," I whispered. My voice cracked, but the sheer venom in it reached every corner of the room. "You were going to take my baby."

Bianca flinched. She looked at Leonardo, tears finally spilling over her mascara-streaked cheeks. "Leonardo! Matteo was paranoid! He hated that we were merging the families! He made it all up to turn you against me!"

Leonardo didn't scream. He didn't slam his fist onto the table. That was what made him terrifying. When Leonardo Moretti was truly ready to destroy someone, he became completely still.

He walked over to the table, picked up the silver butter knife Bianca had threatened me with minutes earlier, and let it drop onto the linen cloth with a dull, hollow thud.

"Where is Dr. Garrett?" Leonardo asked quietly.

Richard Romano cleared his throat, stepping forward with his hands raised defensively. "Leonardo, let's take a breath. There are business implications here. Matteo was an emotional boy. He never understood the complexities of—"

"Where is the doctor, Richard?" Leonardo asked again, his voice dropping an octave.

"He... he is at his private residence," Richard mumbled, sweat beading heavily along his receding hairline.

Leonardo turned his head toward the shadowy corner near the entrance of the dining room. Two massive men in dark suits stepped forward immediately. Their names were Marco and Dante—Leonardo’s most trusted personal security.

"Bring Dr. Garrett here," Leonardo ordered. "Take the armored SUV. If he refuses to come, drag him. If anyone attempts to intercept you, neutralize them."

"Yes, Boss," Marco replied, both men turning and vanishing through the double doors without making a sound.

Leonardo turned back toward Bianca. His eyes traveled over the diamond ring on her finger—the five-carat platinum band he had given her three months ago.

"Take it off," Leonardo said.

Bianca froze. "Leonardo, please. We've been planning this wedding for a year. The families—"

"Take it off before I have Dante remove your finger with a pair of shears."

A sob hitched in Bianca’s chest. Her shaking fingers clawed at the platinum band, pulling it off her skin and setting it on the edge of the mahogany table. It rolled once and settled against a crystal wine glass.

"Get out of my house," Leonardo whispered. "Both of you. If you step foot on Moretti property again, you will not leave it alive."

"Leonardo, our business contracts—" Richard began in a desperate plea.

"Are void," Anthony interrupted smoothly, stepping between Richard and his employer. "Under the fraud and bad faith clauses of the Moretti-Romano charter, every single joint account is frozen as of thirty seconds ago. My associates are filing the emergency injunctions with the federal circuit as we speak."

Richard stared in utter horror, realizing that forty years of wealth and prestige had just vanished in the span of an hour. He grabbed his sobbing daughter by the elbow and dragged her out of the room, Bianca’s wails echoing down the long marble corridor until the front doors slammed shut.

When the heavy doors clicked, the dining room plunged back into silence.

The surviving guests had long since vanished, slipped out through side exits like shadows. Anthony quietly bowed his head and walked into the adjoining study to continue his legal work, leaving only Leonardo and me in the vast, echoing room.

A wave of dizzying nausea hit me all at once. My vision doubled. The strain of standing for hours in tight shoes, the psychological shock, and the pure horror of what I had just learned crashed into my body like a freight train.

A sharp, stabbing cramp ripped across my lower abdomen.

I let out an involuntary gasp and doubled over, clutching the armrests of the dining chair.

"Emma!"

In a fraction of a second, Leonardo was at my side. He didn't hesitate. He swept one arm behind my shoulders and slid his other arm beneath my knees, lifting me effortlessly from the chair.

"Sir—no—your suit—I'm a maid—" I cried out, my voice delirious from pain and embarrassment.

"Stop it," he snapped, though his tone held no anger, only frantic concern. "You are not a maid. You are Matteo's wife. Look at me, Emma."

I forced my tear-blurred eyes to meet his. Up close, I could see the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the dark stubble along his sharp jawline, and the fierce, unyielding protectiveness burning within him.

"You and this child are Morettis," he said, carrying me out of the dining room and toward the grand central staircase. "And as long as I have breath in my body, no one will ever touch you again."

He carried me up the wide stairs, past the portraits of his ancestors, past the cold gilded mirrors, and straight toward the private master wing—a part of the house the staff was strictly forbidden to enter.

He kicked open the door to a massive suite with tall French windows overlooking the stormy lake. The room smelled of cedar, old books, and clean rain. He laid me gently across a king-sized bed draped in crisp white Egyptian linen, immediately pulling several down pillows behind my back to support my spine.

"Breathe," he commanded softly, unbuttoning his jacket and tossing it onto a leather armchair. He knelt on the floor beside the bed, his face level with mine. "Is the pain sharp or dull?"

"It... it feels like a knot," I whimpered, clutching my belly. "It pulled tight when she screamed at me. I've been having them for three days, but Dr. Garrett told me they were just Braxton Hicks contractions. He told me to keep working."

Leonardo’s jaw clenched so hard I heard the enamel of his teeth grind together. "Dr. Garrett lied to you."

He reached into his pocket and dialed a number on his private phone.

"Dr. Vance," Leonardo said the moment the line connected. "I need you at the manor. Now. Bring a portable ultrasound unit and an obstetric emergency kit. My brother’s wife is seven months pregnant and in distress."

There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by Leonardo’s clipped voice: "Ten minutes, Samuel. Break every traffic law in Cook County. I will pay the fines."

He hung up, tossed the phone aside, and gently reached out. He hesitated, his tattooed hand hovering over my swollen ankles.

"May I?" he asked quietly.

I nodded weakly.

With astonishing gentleness for a man whose name made Chicago’s most ruthless criminals shudder, Leonardo slid off my cheap, worn black work flats. My ankles were swollen twice their normal size, indented with deep red rings from the cheap elastic of my maid socks.

He peeled the socks away and gently lifted my feet, placing them atop a folded velvet blanket to elevate them.

"How long have you been on your feet today?" he asked, his voice thick with guilt.

"Since five this morning," I whispered, closing my eyes as another mild cramp passed over me. "The engagement dinner was supposed to have five courses. Mrs. Romano wanted everything polished twice."

"She made you scrub silver while carrying my brother’s son," he said, staring at the floor. A single tear escaped his eye, tracing a path down his cheek before he wiped it away with the back of his hand. "Matteo must hate me."

I opened my eyes, looking at this terrifying mafia boss who suddenly looked like a grieving, broken boy.

"Matteo never hated you, Leonardo," I said softly, my voice trembling.

He looked up, surprised.

"He talked about you all the time," I continued, tears spilling into my hair. "Every Sunday morning when we had coffee. He told me that when your father died, you took all the blood and the darkness onto your own shoulders so he could go to college. He told me that you were a prince who wore a monster's armor so your little brother wouldn't have to bleed."

Leonardo closed his eyes. His chest heaved once, a silent, jagged sob tearing through him. He reached out and wrapped his large, warm hand around my trembling fingers, holding them against the mattress.

"He was the best of us, Emma," Leonardo whispered. "Matteo had a clean soul. I promised my mother on her deathbed that I would keep him safe from our world. And I failed him."

"You didn't fail him," I said, squeezing his hand back. "He sent me here. He knew that if I could just reach you, we would be safe."

Before he could answer, heavy footsteps hurried down the hall.

A tall, grey-haired man carrying two heavy aluminum medical cases burst through the bedroom doors, followed closely by Dante. Dr. Samuel Vance—the Moretti family's private, trusted physician for over twenty years—took one look at me and immediately set his equipment on the bedside table.

"Leonardo, step back," Dr. Vance said calmly, rolling up his sleeves. "Let me see her."

Leonardo stepped aside, but he didn't leave the room. He stood at the foot of the bed like a towering sentinel, arms crossed, his dark eyes never leaving my face.

Dr. Vance worked quickly and efficiently. He checked my blood pressure, his brow furrowing deeper with every second.

"One-sixty over one-ten," Dr. Vance muttered. "Severe gestational hypertension brought on by acute physical and emotional stress. Emma, I'm going to apply the gel now. Let's see how our little friend is doing."

The cold gel hit my stomach, making me shiver. Dr. Vance placed the ultrasound probe against my belly and moved it slowly.

For ten agonizing seconds, the only sound in the room was the heavy rain beating against the French windows. My heart hammered in my ears. *Please, God,* I prayed frantically. *Please let him be okay. He's all I have left of Matteo.*

Then, suddenly, a sound filled the bedroom.

*Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.*

Fast. Strong. Rhythmic. Like the galloping hooves of a wild horse.

A long, ragged exhale escaped Leonardo’s chest. He turned his face away toward the window for a moment, burying his mouth in his hand, his shoulders shaking with relief.

"Strong fetal heartbeat," Dr. Vance announced with a warm smile, turning the monitor so I could see. "One hundred and forty-five beats per minute. The baby is stressed, Emma, but he is fighting. Look here."

On the grainy black-and-white screen, I saw the curved outline of a tiny spine, a perfectly shaped head, and a tiny hand with curled fingers floating in the dark fluid.

"Oh... Matteo," I wept, reaching out toward the screen.

"Wait a moment," Dr. Vance’s voice suddenly turned sharp. His smile vanished. He leaned closer to the monitor, his eyes narrowing as he adjusted the frequency knob.

Leonardo instantly caught the shift in the doctor's demeanor. He stepped to the side of the bed in one stride. "What is it, Samuel? What’s wrong?"

Dr. Vance didn't answer right away. He moved the probe lower, measuring something on the screen with a digital caliper.

"Emma," Dr. Vance asked, his voice grave. "What medication have you been taking?"

"Just... just prenatal vitamins," I stammered, panic rising in my throat again. "Dr. Garrett gave them to me at St. Jude’s. Bianca brought them up to my room in the servants' quarters every morning."

Dr. Vance reached over, took my hand, and turned my palm upward. He examined the faint bluish tint under my fingernails and pressed a thumb against my inner wrist.

"Leonardo," Dr. Vance said, looking up with an expression of sheer dread. "The amniotic fluid levels are dangerously low for twenty-eight weeks. And there is an abnormal thickening along the uterine wall."

"Speak plain English, Vance!" Leonardo barked.

"Someone has been dosing her with a synthetic hormone inhibitor," Dr. Vance said, each word landing like an artillery shell. "In small doses, it mimics the effects of high-potency vitamins. But over several months, it slowly degrades the placenta."

My breath seized in my throat.

"Why?" Leonardo whispered, his face turning deathly pale. "Why would they do that?"

"Because," Dr. Vance said quietly, "it forces labor early. By eight months, the placenta would have failed completely, requiring an emergency cesarean section in an isolated environment. The mother would likely hemorrhage from the sudden rupture, and the baby would be delivered alive, but completely dependent on the attending clinic for survival."

The horrifying truth struck me like a physical blow.

Bianca hadn't just planned to steal my baby.