Chapter 3 - The Brooklyn Safehouse
"Don't touch me, Ethan," I warned, stepping out of reach and pulling a small personal panic transmitter from my coat pocket. "If you try to force me into your car, the Brooklyn federal marshal task force receives an automated emergency distress signal with your GPS coordinates within ten seconds."
Ethan stopped, looking at the device in my palm. A faint, bitter smirk touched his lips. "You always were smarter than my capos."
"I learned from the best," I countered. "I am not returning to your gilded fortress. I have a court date in forty-eight hours to finalize the sole custody petition and seal my daughter's legal records under my maiden name."
"A daughter," Ethan whispered, the word catching in his throat. For a fraction of a second, the cold mafia boss disappeared, replaced by a man looking at the miracle of life he had never thought possible.
Before he could speak, his private encrypted phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his posture stiffened into rigid military readiness.
"Bella, listen to me," Ethan said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into urgent, deadly seriousness. "Victoria’s father isn't just a federal judge. Judge Sinclair is in business with the Moretti syndicate out of New Jersey. Victoria just called her father from the car. If the Morettis find out you're carrying my bloodline, they won't try to sue you in family court. They will use you as leverage to dismantle my entire infrastructure."
My chest tightened in sudden fear. I knew the Moretti family; their brutality was legendary, and their feud with Ethan had claimed a dozen lives over the past three years.
"I can protect myself," I said, though my hands trembled.
"You're thirty-two weeks pregnant and cornered in Midtown Manhattan, Bella," Ethan said firmly, opening his overcoat to reveal his shoulder holster. "My tactical motorcade is outside. You don't have to stay with me, but let me escort you to your safehouse before Sinclair's hit teams mobilize."
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I looked into his eyes—the same gray eyes that had once held me through sleepless nights. I knew the danger of trusting him, but I knew the lethal reality of the streets even better.
"Fine," I said, resting my hand over my stomach. "To my brownstone. Nothing more."
