Chapter 1 - The Photograph in the Flame
Mara held the ultrasound over the candle and whispered:
“Goodbye, Declan.”
Mafia boss Declan Voss stepped into the kitchen and saw the burning photograph in her hand.
A handwritten number was visible on the white border.
Room 614.
Declan suddenly realized the engagement was no longer his biggest problem.
The flame climbed the corner of the glossy paper.
Mara did not hear him at first.
Her eyes were fixed on the black-and-white image disappearing between her fingers—the tiny curve the doctor had pointed out less than two hours earlier, the shape so small that Mara had stared at the monitor and wondered how something barely larger than a seed could already rearrange every part of her life.
“Six weeks and four days,” Dr. Patel had told her.
Then the doctor had turned up the volume.
A rapid heartbeat had filled the examination room.
Mara had cried.
Not because she was afraid.
Because for the first time in weeks, something in her life had sounded absolutely certain.
She had driven home believing that certainty would survive until morning.
It had lasted forty-three minutes.
The television behind her still carried the breaking-news banner.
DECLAN VOSS ENGAGED.
The screen showed Declan in a black tuxedo standing beneath crystal lights at the Bellmont Hotel. Beside him stood Vivienne Caruso, blonde, elegant, perfectly composed, wearing a white dress that looked close enough to bridal silk to make Mara’s stomach twist.
Reporters crowded around them.
Vivienne’s hand rested against Declan’s chest.
A diamond flashed on her finger.
Declan had been smiling.
That smile had hurt more than the headline.
Mara had known Declan for eleven months.
She knew the smile he gave businessmen.
She knew the cold expression he wore when men lied to him.
She knew the crooked half-smile he used when he was trying to make her laugh after midnight.
She knew the look that had once appeared in his eyes when he placed his palm against her stomach, weeks before either of them knew a baby was there, and quietly told her that no place in Chicago felt like home until she was standing in it.
But she had never seen the smile on television.
It was polished.
Public.
Final.
The engagement looked real.
So Mara had taken the ultrasound from her purse.
She had lit the candle beside the roses Declan sent every Friday.
And she had decided she would burn the only piece of him that could still hurt her.
“Mara.”
The voice came from behind her.
Her fingers jerked.
She turned.
Declan stood ten feet away.
Not the Declan on television.
The real one.
Black dress shirt.
Top buttons open.
Tattoos visible along his throat and chest.
No tuxedo.
No cameras.
No Vivienne.
His expression was nothing like the smile still frozen on the television screen.
He looked terrified.
Mara almost laughed.
The most feared man in Chicago was terrified of a photograph.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She looked at the flame.
Then at him.
“You tell me.”
Declan moved toward her.
Mara stepped back.
“Don’t.”
He stopped immediately.
That surprised her.
Declan Voss was not a man accustomed to stopping because someone told him to.
According to half the city, doors opened before he reached them.
Restaurants emptied private rooms when his security team arrived.
Men who owed him money suddenly remembered appointments in other states.
But Mara had never cared about the stories.
With her, he had never been the monster whispered about in courtrooms and back offices.
He cooked terrible eggs.
He hated cilantro.
He slept with one arm beneath her pillow.
He remembered that she preferred her coffee with cinnamon but no sugar.
That man had disappeared tonight.
“Is that mine?” Declan asked.
Mara stared at him.
The question cut through her anger.
She held the burning ultrasound higher.
“Mine?” she repeated.
His jaw tightened.
“Our baby.”
“You don’t get to say that.”
The flame reached the edge of the image.
Declan crossed the distance before Mara could react.
He seized the photograph—not from her, but from the burning corner—and slapped it against the marble counter.
The flame died beneath his palm.
For several seconds neither of them moved.
Then he slowly lifted his hand.
Half the ultrasound remained.
The other half was blackened.
The baby was still visible.
Barely.
Declan stared at it.
Mara watched something break across his face.
It happened so quickly that she almost missed it.
His eyes softened.
His breathing changed.
One hand pressed against the counter as though he suddenly needed something solid beneath him.
“How long?” he asked.
“Apparently long enough for you to get engaged.”
“Mara.”
“Six weeks and four days.”
His head snapped toward her.
She hated the wonder in his expression.
She hated that some traitorous part of her wanted to memorize it.
“There’s a heartbeat?”
“There was this afternoon.”
“There still is.”
“You don’t know that.”
He looked at her stomach.
“I know.”
“You know nothing.”
Her voice cracked.
She turned away before another tear could fall.
Declan stepped closer.
Not touching her.
Never touching her unless she allowed it.
That restraint somehow made everything worse.
“I was going to tell you tonight,” she said. “I bought that stupid bottle of sparkling cider you like. I had this ridiculous idea that I’d put the picture under your dinner plate.”
He closed his eyes.
“Mara—”
“And then I turned on the television.”
“I can explain.”
She laughed once.
It sounded empty.
“Men always say that right before they explain why the thing you saw with your own eyes somehow wasn’t what happened.”
“It wasn’t.”
“She was wearing your ring.”
“I know.”
“You announced an engagement.”
“I know.”
“She touched you like I’ve watched you stop men from touching you.”
“I know.”
“Then please, Declan. Educate me.”
He glanced toward the television.
The broadcast replayed the moment.
A reporter shouted a question.
Vivienne smiled.
Declan turned slightly.
The engagement ring caught the light.
Mara watched the real Declan watching the televised version of himself.
There was disgust in his face.
Not regret.
Disgust.
That confused her.
“You weren't supposed to see it like this,” he said.
Mara stared.
“That might be the worst sentence you could have chosen.”
“I didn't mean—”
“You meant I was supposed to find out later?”
“No.”
“After you married her?”
“I’m not marrying Vivienne.”
Mara froze.
The television literally said otherwise.
“She has your ring.”
“A ring.”
“You announced it.”
“I announced what I needed people to believe.”
Something cold moved through Mara.
She knew enough about Declan’s world to understand the difference between a lie and a strategic lie.
The second kind usually involved blood.
She put both hands around her belly.
Declan noticed.
His expression hardened instantly.
Not at her.
At something else.
“You went to Northwestern today?”
“How did you know?”
“The photograph.”
He pointed to the surviving white edge.
Mara looked down.
The appointment information had been printed faintly along the bottom.
She felt suddenly exposed.
“I went alone.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Excuse me?”
Declan walked toward the windows.
His entire posture changed.
The stunned man who had stared at the ultrasound disappeared.
The mafia boss returned.
He checked the skyline.
Then the reflection in the glass.
Then he pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Who knew about the appointment?”
“No one.”
“Mara.”
“No one. I didn’t even tell you.”
“Did you schedule it online?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Why?”
“What time?”
She flinched at the command in his voice.
Declan saw it.
His expression softened immediately.
“Please.”
“Seven fifteen.”
He typed something.
“Did anyone follow you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you notice the same car twice?”
“No.”
“Anyone in the hospital watching you?”
“I was busy discovering that I was pregnant with the baby of a man who apparently got engaged before dinner.”
Declan stopped typing.
“That engagement happened because of you.”
Mara stared at him.
There were sentences so cruel the mind rejected them before understanding them.
This felt like one.
“Because of me?”
“Not the way that sounded.”
“How exactly should it sound?”
Declan walked toward her.
“You’re in danger.”
She laughed.
“Convenient.”
“I mean it.”
“You always mean everything, Declan. That’s the problem.”
He lowered his voice.
“Three days ago, someone inside the Caruso organization intercepted a contract.”
“What kind of contract?”
“For your death.”
Silence.
The television continued talking behind them.
Mara heard none of it.
She looked at Declan.
He did not blink.
She searched his face for some sign that this was another manipulation.
There was none.
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe somebody wants me dead?”
“I know somebody wants you dead.”
“Why?”
“Because they think you matter to me.”
Her throat tightened.
“Do I?”
His answer came immediately.
“More than anything.”
“Then why did you stand beside another woman and tell the city she was going to be your wife?”
“Because if my enemies believe Vivienne is the woman I’m building a future with, they stop looking at you.”
Mara shook her head.
“No.”
“Mara—”
“No. You don’t get to turn humiliation into protection.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking you to survive long enough to hate me.”
That silenced her.
Declan reached slowly toward the charred ultrasound.
He picked it up by the clean corner.
His fingers trembled.
Mara had never seen his hands tremble.
“How many people know?” he asked.
“That I’m pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“The doctor. A nurse. Me.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
His gaze fell to the number visible on the photograph.
Room 614.
His face changed.
Mara saw it.
“What?”
He did not answer.
“Declan.”
He walked closer to the light.
The number was written in blue ink.
Not printed.
Mara frowned.
“I didn’t write that.”
Declan looked up.
“What?”
“That number. I didn’t write it.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Did the doctor?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Room 614,” he murmured.
“What is Room 614?”
Declan stared at the photograph.
Then at Mara.
For the first time since entering the kitchen, he looked genuinely afraid.
“Northwestern doesn’t have an obstetrics room numbered 614 in that wing.”
Mara felt the blood leave her face.
“Then who wrote it?”
Declan was already calling someone.
“Lock the building down.”
A voice answered through the phone.
Declan continued.
“No one leaves. Pull every camera from the lobby, garage, elevators, and street entrances for the last four hours.”
Mara looked toward the hallway.
Something moved beneath the penthouse door.
A shadow.
She stopped breathing.
Declan noticed.
His hand went beneath his jacket.
The doorbell rang once.
Then twice.
Declan moved in front of Mara.
His phone vibrated.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
Mara saw herself leaving Northwestern Memorial.
Someone had taken it from across the street.
Beneath the photograph was one sentence.
May you like
WE KNOW ABOUT THE BABY.
Then the penthouse door began to open.
