Luca took another step toward me.
Every bodyguard inside the boutique reacted instantly.
Hands disappeared beneath tailored jackets. Eyes sharpened. The air itself seemed to tighten around us.
The saleswoman near the register went pale before quietly backing away.
Nobody in Manhattan failed to recognize Luca Moretti. And nobody misunderstood what it meant when armed men suddenly prepared for violence.
But Luca barely noticed any of them.
His attention remained fixed entirely on me. On my stomach. On the child growing beneath my coat.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said quietly.
His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that used to terrify rival families during negotiations.
I forced myself to breathe evenly. “You don’t get to ask me questions anymore.”
Vanessa’s expression shifted carefully. Not emotional. Strategic. Like she was analyzing a dangerous business complication.
“You were married?” she asked.
