Fine, perfect.
I'd find Chloe, pin her back on that desk, or a bed, or any surface she couldn't escape, make her retract it in ways her body understood. I'd have her crying to stop, leave her too weak to stand.
Desk phone rang. I took a deep breath, steadied, then answered.
"Enzo." Luca's voice, urgent. "Julian's guys hit our New Jersey logistics hub. Morning count showed two shipments' routes leaked. Midpoint confirmed two key guys met Julian's people—might be flipped."
I closed my eyes.
Chloe Bennett and my empire—clear priorities, and I, Enzo Falcone, never fucked up priorities.
I fired up the computer and pulled New Jersey logs for the past three months.
Julian needed time, Frankie's interrogation needed time, Vito's negotiations needed time. But it'd all wrap up. Everything does.
Once the mess was cleared, I'd go after that audacious woman.
Chloe Bennett, you'd pay dearly for your recklessness.
Chapter Four
Chloe
"Ms. Bennett, your follow-up results are in. All your markers are within normal range. We found no pathological findings consistent with the initial diagnosis."
The doctor paused, took off his glasses, wiped them clean, and slipped them back on before offering me a small smile. The kind of smile that left me confused—like what he was about to say next was some kind of gift.
"And your latest bloodwork shows you're pregnant."
His eyebrows lifted, smile expectant. Like he'd just announced winning lottery numbers, and I happened to be holding the ticket. But I sat there in that cold plastic chair, face probably blank as a wall.
I didn't know what expression to make. Everything I'd done for the past two months was built on the premise that I was dying. I'd burned through my savings, torched my career, screwed my boss in an elevator—because I thought I'd never get another chance to be touched.
But I wasn't dying.
And I was fucking pregnant.
Before I could process any of it, the chair beside me scraped violently across the floor.
Martha shot to her feet. Face gray, jaw locked tight. She didn't even look at me. Just grabbed her purse from her lap, turned, and headed for the door.
"Martha." I jumped up, reached for her arm.
She yanked away hard. My fingers slipped off her sleeve. The force of it made me stumble back a step.
"You're not my daughter."
Her voice came out low and cold, each word bit off clean. She didn't even turn to look at me. Just said it and shoved through the door.
It slammed shut behind her, frame buzzing from the impact.
I stood there, feeling like everything had just gone to hell.
My mother, Martha Bennett, was a devout believer. In her world, premarital sex was sin. Getting knocked up out of wedlock was unforgivable corruption. She already hated me. Now she probably found me revolting.
This was bad.
I'd come back home to spend my final days with her for one reason—to get information about where my dead father was buried. I wanted to be laid next to him. He was the only person in my memory who'd ever actually loved me.
