PART 1
Three months after divorcing the only woman I had ever truly loved, a hospital called me at ten o’clock at night to tell me that she had been found unconscious with a severe head injury. My name was Lucas Moretti, and I was the undisputed underworld boss who ruled Detroit with more than eight hundred armed men answering my every command.
“Mr. Moretti, this is Nurse Amanda Foster from Wayne County General,” the woman said over the speaker, her voice ringing clearly through my quiet penthouse. “You are currently listed as the primary emergency contact for Hannah Campbell.”
My hand froze halfway to my mouth, the crystal tumbler suspended in midair as the smell of Kentucky bourbon mingled with the polished mahogany of my private desk. “Hannah Moretti,” I corrected her immediately, staring out through the heavy glass windows at the snow falling over Woodward Avenue.
“Sir, her legal identification card says Hannah Campbell,” the nurse answered evenly, refusing to budge on the point. “She was brought into our trauma ward approximately forty minutes ago after losing consciousness.”
A cold panic seized my ribs, making me drop my usual calm facade while my senior captains suddenly stopped their loud argument across the room. “Is she alive?” I demanded, gripping the phone tightly enough to crack the casing.
“Yes, she is breathing, but she has suffered a significant trauma to her skull,” Nurse Foster replied. “Mr. Moretti, there is another matter that our medical team must verify with you before the attending physician takes over.”
“Tell me what it is,” I commanded, waving my free hand to motion my captains toward the outer hallway. “Whatever care she requires, charge it directly to my personal account and get the finest neurosurgeons in Michigan into that room right now.”
“We need to know if you were aware that Mrs. Campbell is currently pregnant,” she said softly.
The heavy crystal glass slipped right through my fingers, crashing against the hardwood floorboards and sending amber liquor splashing across the carpet. Six of my men stared at me in stunned silence, completely shocked because none of them had ever seen their boss lose his composure in public.
“How far along is she?” I asked, my voice dropping into a desperate gravel that barely sounded like my own.
“Our bedside ultrasound indicates that she is approximately sixteen weeks along, sir,” the nurse stated with clinical precision.
Sixteen weeks meant our baby had been conceived well before the divorce papers were ever placed onto that courthouse conference table. Our unborn child had been growing beneath her heart while she sat across from me in that cold room, weeping so violently that her silver pen fell to the floor twice.
“Is our baby alive?” I asked, leaning heavily over the dark wood of my desk as my knees threatened to buckle.
“The fetal heartbeat is currently stable, Mr. Moretti, but her severe head trauma places both lives under critical observation,” Nurse Foster explained carefully. “The attending physician strongly advises you to come down to the medical center immediately.”
“I am leaving right now,” I said before cutting the connection and grabbing my heavy wool overcoat from the nearby rack.
My younger sister, Paige, had been standing near the stone fireplace, watching the liquor pool on the floorboards with wide, terrified eyes. “Lucas, what on earth just happened on that phone call?” she whispered, hurrying across the room to block my frantic path to the door.
“Hannah was brought into the emergency room unconscious with a terrible head injury,” I told her, my hands trembling as I pulled on my dark leather gloves. “And the trauma team just informed me that she is sixteen weeks pregnant with my child.”
Paige covered her parted mouth with both hands, instantly doing the exact same mathematical calculation that had just torn through my chest. “Wait, sixteen weeks means she was already carrying your baby before the divorce was finalized, but are you absolutely certain it is yours?”
“Hannah never looked at another man during the six years she was by my side, Paige,” I replied, staring hard into my sister’s tearful eyes. “She gave me her complete loyalty every single day of our marriage, and I am the one who repaid her with a brutal lie.”
I vividly remembered our final night together in our quiet suburban home, when she had fallen asleep with her ear resting against my beating heart. I had stayed wide awake until the winter dawn filtered through the blinds, choosing to swallow my real feelings because I believed pushing her away was the only way to shield her from the violent cartel wars creeping toward our doorstep.
“You should have told her the truth about the cartel threats instead of ripping her heart out,” Paige whispered as she followed me out into the private elevator corridor. “You looked her in the eyes and told her that your entire marriage was an empty farce.”
“I know what I did, Paige, and living with that guilt has choked me every hour since she signed those papers,” I confessed, watching the elevator floor indicator drop rapidly toward the underground garage. “I thought setting her completely free from my dangerous name would keep her safe from the rival crews.”
Within two minutes, four armored black sport utility vehicles sped out into the blinding Detroit blizzard, their tires churning through the fresh snow covering the boulevard. My security detail followed close behind, but the moment the convoy screeched to a halt beneath the bright red emergency bay lights, I kicked my door open and sprinted through the automatic sliding glass doors alone.
