Chapter 1

The Bratva wanted one woman as payment.

My husband had two to choose from.

His first love. His wife.

He chose her.

He didn't even look back.

And he never knew I was carrying his child.

The warehouse on the South Side smelled like diesel and river rot. My knees were bleeding through my gown from where Roman Sokolov's men had forced me down onto the concrete beside Bianca Russo.

Twenty feet away, Nico Castellano stood in his black overcoat. My husband. The Don of Chicago.

He looked at Bianca first.

He always looked at Bianca first.

"Your men burned my shipment and killed two of mine," Roman Sokolov said. His voice was quiet, accented, bored. "Old law, Castellano. A woman of your house stays under my roof until your debt is paid. Thirty days. Unharmed. You have my word." He tilted his head toward us. "Choose which one goes home."

Bianca was sobbing. Mascara everywhere. Shaking so hard her diamond earrings clicked.

I wasn't crying.

I was thinking about the pregnancy test in my clutch. Two pink lines. I'd taken it that morning. I'd planned to tell him tonight, after the gala, in the car, with my hand in his.

Nico crossed the floor.

For one stupid, beautiful second, I thought he was coming to me.

He walked past me.

He knelt in front of Bianca, wrapped his coat around her shoulders, and pulled her to her feet.

"I've got you," he murmured into her hair. "I've got you, Bee."

Something inside my chest went very, very quiet.

Then he finally turned to me.

"Aria." He said my name like an apology he'd already decided not to mean. "She has panic attacks. She won't survive this. You're strong. You'll be fine. Thirty days, and I'll bring you home."

You're strong.

Three years of marriage, and that was his reason.

Not because he loved me less. Because I'd never made it hard enough for him to leave me behind.

"Nico," I whispered. "Please. I need to tell you something—"

"Not now." He was already walking Bianca toward the door. "Sokolov, if one hair on her head is hurt, I'll burn your whole organization to the ground."

Roman's gray eyes moved slowly from Nico to me.

"Which her?" he asked.

Nico didn't answer.

The steel door slammed. Engines roared. Tires screamed on wet asphalt.

And then it was just me, on my knees, on the floor of an enemy warehouse, in a silver gown I'd bought because Nico once said silver was his favorite color.

He'd been talking about Bianca's car.

I realized that now.

Footsteps approached. Polished shoes stopped in front of me.

Roman Sokolov crouched down until we were eye to eye. Up close, he was younger than the stories. Thirty-four, maybe. A scar through one eyebrow. Eyes the color of Lake Michigan in January.

"You're shaking, Mrs. Castellano," he said. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No."

"Then what?"

I looked at the door my husband had just walked through.

"I'm afraid of how little I feel."

Something flickered across his face. Then he stood and offered me his hand.

Not a grip. Not a grab.

An offer.

I didn't take it. I stood up on my own, bleeding knees and all.

The corner of his mouth moved. "Good."

His car was warm. His driver didn't speak. Chicago blurred past in streaks of gold and black, and I pressed my palm flat against my stomach where no one could see.

At his penthouse, a silver-haired doctor was waiting to check me for injuries. Roman's rule, apparently. He did not return damaged goods.

The doctor cleaned my knees. Took my blood pressure. Frowned. Asked quiet questions in careful English.

Then he stepped into the hall and spoke to Roman in Russian.

I didn't understand the words.

But I understood the silence that followed.

Roman walked back into the room slowly. He looked at me. Then at my hand—still resting over my stomach.

"Does Castellano know?"

My throat closed. "No."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Then tonight," Roman Sokolov said softly, "your husband didn't just trade away his wife."

His eyes darkened.

"He traded away his heir."