THE NIGHT HIS DAUGHTER WAS BORN, THE MAFIA BOSS WAS IN ANOTHER WOMAN’S BED—BUT BY MORNING, HIS WHOLE EMPIRE WAS BEGGING HIS WIFE NOT TO LEAVE

The heavy oak door of the east wing nursery looked impenetrable.

Pierce strode down the hallway, his long stride eating up the distance, his chest heaving with a strange, foreign panic that he immediately mistook for sheer rage. How dare she? After everything he provided—the absolute security, the endless wealth, the name that made Chicago’s elite bow their heads—she was throwing a domestic tantrum because he had missed a hospital visit?

Women were emotional creatures. That was what Selena always reminded him. They lacked the strategic vision to understand why an empire required sacrifices.

Pierce reached the door and raised his fist, slamming it against the solid wood with enough force to splinter a lesser panel.

"Lara. Open this door right now," Pierce commanded, his voice echoing down the opulent hallway. "This foolishness ends immediately. Unlock it before I have maintenance take the hinges off."

Inside the room, the silence was absolute.

Pierce waited, expecting the familiar sound of hesitation, the soft click of the lock turning, followed by Lara’s gentle voice trying to reason with him. But nothing happened. Only the faint, muffled sound of a baby softly breathing in a bassinet.

"Lara!" he shouted, his patience completely evaporating. He gripped the brass handle and rattled it violently. It was locked tight from the inside. "Open the damn door! You don't lock me out of my own nursery!"

"The nursery belongs to my daughter, Pierce," a voice finally answered from the other side.

It wasn't shaking. It wasn't tearful. It wasn't pleading.

It was flat, cold, and utterly detached. It sounded like a stranger standing behind the wood—a stranger who had already detached her soul from the very walls of the house.

Pierce froze, his hand still gripping the brass handle. "Open the door and let's talk like adults. You're upset because of last night. I had business—"

"You had Selena," Lara’s voice cut through the wood, sharp as a stiletto. "And now you have an empty house. Because by the time you finish your little phone calls today, I won't be here anymore."

"You are not going anywhere," Pierce growled, his authority flaring up, desperate to crush this rebellion before it took root. "You are Mrs. Voss. Your place is here, in this house, under my protection. You think you can pack a bag and walk out into Chicago? Without my permission, every syndicate in this city will view you as a target. You are safe only as long as you are by my side!"

A cold, mirthless laugh drifted through the crack of the door.

"Protection?" Lara asked softly. "Pierce... the only person I ever needed protection from was the man who promised to keep me safe while standing in another woman’s bed."

A heavy thud echoed from inside—the sound of a suitcase zipper being pulled shut.

Pierce felt a sudden, violent lurch in his stomach. For the first time in his ruthless career, absolute terror gripped him—not the fear of rival gangs, not the fear of federal indictments, but the terrifying, paralyzing realization that he was losing the one anchor keeping his dark world human.

"Lara, wait," Pierce said, his voice dropping its commanding edge, slipping into a raw, frantic command. "Don't do something you'll regret. We can talk about this. Name whatever you want. Money, properties, security—"

"I don't want your money, Pierce," her voice interrupted, closer to the door now. "And I certainly don't want your leftovers. Keep Selena. Keep your empire. Keep your casino beds."

The click of a suitcase lock snapping shut echoed clearly through the wood.