“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think every single second in that restaurant, I was thinking about the baby? About what they’d do to both of us?”
“Then why did you go?”
“Because I’m tired of being afraid! I’m tired of looking over my shoulder and jumping at every shadow and feeling like I’m in prison even though I didn’t do anything wrong.” She puts her hand on her stomach. “I wanted one hour. One conversation to close a chapter of my life. And instead, I got men with guns and Mason bleeding on the floor and you looking at me like I’m some stupid child who can’t be trusted.”
“Right now, you can’t be trusted.”
She steps back like I’ve hit her. “Wow.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being cruel.”
“I’m being realistic. You made a choice that endangered our family. That put my security team at risk. That created a national news story. And you did it all because you felt trapped.” I move closer. “Well, guess what? It’s about to get a lot worse. Because after today, you’re not leaving this penthouse without a full detail. You’re not going anywhere without me knowing where, when, and who you’re meeting. And you’re not making decisions about your safety without my approval.”
“So I’m your prisoner now. Officially.”
“You’re my wife. And I’m keeping you alive whether you like it or not.”
She stares at me. Then turns and walks down the hall toward our bedroom. The door closes with a slam.
I stand in the living room, hands clenched at my sides, trying to breathe through the rage and fear still coursing through me.
My phone buzzes. Silas.
“Turn on the news.”
I grab the remote and turn on the TV. Every channel is covering the shooting. Aerial shots of Marelli’s, police cars everywhere, crime scene tape cordoning off the entire block.
“—at least five dead in what authorities are calling a gang-related shooting at the upscale Marelli’s Restaurant in downtown Manhattan,” the anchor says. “Witnesses describe a chaotic scene with multiple gunmen exchanging fire inside the crowded restaurant. At least a dozen civilians were injured in the cross fire.”
They cut to footage of paramedics loading a stretcher into an ambulance. I catch a glimpse of Mason’s face before they close the doors.
“Police have not yet identified the shooters or confirmed any gang affiliation, but sources say this may be connected to ongoing organized crime activity in the area.”
Another cut. A reporter standing outside the restaurant, talking to a woman who was inside.
“It was terrifying,” the woman says, shaking. “Men with guns just started shooting. Tables were flying. People were screaming. I thought I was going to die.”
“Did you see what started the shooting?”
“I don’t know. There was this young woman—pregnant, I think—and these men were trying to take her. Another man tried to stop them and got shot. Then it was just chaos.”
The reporter looks excited. “A pregnant woman? Can you describe her?”
“I didn’t really see her face. Everything happened so fast. But I hope she’s okay. She looked terrified.”
Silas comes back on the line. “We’re keeping her identity sealed. I’ve got people working on the witness statements, making sure her description stays vague.”
“Good. What about the Kozlov man in surgery?”
“Still alive. But the doctors don’t think he’ll make it through the night. Lost too much blood.”
“And Mason?”
“Critical but stable. They’ve got him in the ICU under police protection. He’s not talking yet.”
“When he does, I want to know what he says.”
