He crossed to me in three strides, his hands framing my face. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Dante, what—"
"You left the penthouse without your full security detail this morning." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "And Viktor said you looked pale."
Oh.
Understanding dawned. He'd been worried. Actually worried.
Something in my chest cracked open.
"I'm okay," I said softly. "Better than okay, actually."
His eyes searched mine. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
The word choice was deliberate. I watched recognition flicker—then confusion.
"Jules—"
I took his hand and pressed it against my stomach. "I'm pregnant."
The world stopped.
Dante froze, his eyes going wide. His hand splayed across my abdomen, fingers spreading like he could feel the life inside.
"You're..." His voice broke. "We're..."
"Yes."
He dropped to his knees.
The motion was so sudden, so unexpected, I gasped. Dante Taviani—the man who ruled this city's underworld, who'd murdered rivals and built an empire on blood and strategy—knelt before me with his forehead pressed to my stomach.
His shoulders shook.
"Dante?" I threaded my fingers through his hair.
"You've given me everything." His voice was muffled against my dress. "Everything I never knew I wanted. Everything I thought I'd destroyed the right to have."
Tears burned my eyes. I pulled him up, and he came willingly, rising to crush me against him. His kiss was desperate, reverent, claiming.
When we broke apart, his eyes were wet.
"I love you," he said. "God, Jules, I love you so much it terrifies me."
"I know." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "I love you too."
He kissed me again, slower this time. Savoring. When he pulled back, his hand returned to my stomach.
"When did you find out?"
"An hour ago. I wanted to tell you privately."
"Does anyone else know?"
"Just us."
