CHAPTER 31
THE GLASS WOMB
POV: SILAS
The penthouse smells of rubbing alcohol and latex.
It used to smell of expensive candles, oil paint, and the faint, intoxicating scent of Ivy’s skin. Now, it smells like a hospital.
I stand in the doorway of the guest wing, which is no longer a guest wing. In the span of six hours, I have transformed it into a Level 4 medical facility.
Dr. Aris, a man whose medical license was revoked three years ago for "unethical experimentation" but whose skills are unmatched, is calibrating an ultrasound machine.
Two nurses—vetted by Luca, background checked by the NSA, and terrified by me—are organizing a cabinet of prenatal vitamins and emergency equipment.
There is a fetal heart monitor. An incubator. A crash cart.
I look at the crash cart. The defibrillator paddles. The adrenaline needles.
My chest tightens. It’s a physical sensation, like a band of steel constricting my lungs.
If she dies...
The thought is a parasite. It burrowed into my brain the moment she whispered the word "positive" in the bathroom. It feeds on my blood. It whispers to me in the silence.
Women die in childbirth. Hemorrhage. Eclampsia. Infection.
Nature is chaotic. Nature is cruel. I have spent my life controlling chaos, bending the world to my will, but biology? Biology is the one enemy I cannot intimidate.
So I will fortify. I will build a wall of science and steel around her so thick that death cannot find the door.
"Mr. Vane," Dr. Aris says, turning to me. He adjusts his glasses. "The suite is operational. We have enough blood plasma on hand to replace her entire volume three times over. The equipment is state-of-the-art."
"Is it enough?" I ask.
"It is more than most hospitals have in their VIP wings," Aris assures me. "But sir... she is healthy. She is young. There is no indication of high risk yet."
"She is pregnant with my child," I say, my voice cold. "That makes her the highest risk target on the planet."
I turn and walk away. I can't look at the crash cart anymore.
I walk through the penthouse. It feels different now. The shadows seem deeper. The windows, once a symbol of my dominion over the city, now look like vulnerabilities. Sniper angles. Entry points.
I find Ivy in the kitchen.
She is standing at the island, reaching for the coffee machine.
"Don't," I say.
She freezes. Her hand hovers over the 'Brew' button. She turns to look at me. Her eyes are shadowed, defiant. She is wearing a silk robe I bought her, cinched tight at the waist.
"It’s decaf," she says.
"It still has trace amounts," I counter, walking over to her. I take the mug from her hand and pour the water into the sink. "Caffeine restricts blood flow to the placenta. It increases the risk of miscarriage."
"Silas," she says, her voice tight with frustration. "One cup of decaf is not going to kill the baby."
"I’m not taking that chance."
I open the cabinet above the machine. I take out the bag of coffee beans—imported, single-origin, her favorite.
I throw it in the trash compactor.
Ivy stares at me. Her mouth opens, then closes.
"You’re insane," she whispers.
"I am thorough."
I reach for the fruit bowl. I pick up an apple. I inspect it. It’s organic, washed, perfect.
"Eat this," I say, handing it to her.
"I want coffee."
"You get apples. And water. Alkaline water, pH balanced."
She takes the apple, but she doesn't bite it. She grips it like she wants to throw it at my head.
"I’m going to the studio," she says, turning on her heel.
"No," I say.
She stops. She turns back slowly. The air in the kitchen drops ten degrees.
"Excuse me?"
"The studio is off-limits," I state calmly.
"You promised," she hisses. "You said I could have the studio. You said it was mine."
"That was before," I say. "Paint fumes contain volatile organic compounds. Turpentine. Lead. Cadmium. They are neurotoxins, Ivy. If you breathe them, the baby breathes them."
"I use non-toxic solvents!" she argues, her voice rising. "I keep the ventilation on!"
"Ventilation fails. Filters clog." I cross the distance between us. I tower over her, using my height, my width, my shadow to encompass her. "You are not stepping foot in that room until the child is born."
"That’s nine months!" she screams. "You expect me to sit on the couch and stare at the wall for nine months?"
"I expect you to incubate my heir," I growl. "I expect you to keep yourself safe. I expect you to prioritize the life inside you over your need to smear pigment on canvas."
"You’re suffocating me."
"I am protecting you."
"There is no difference with you!"
She throws the apple. It hits my chest and bounces off, rolling across the floor.
She tries to push past me.
I grab her arm. Not hard enough to bruise—never again—but hard enough to stop her.
"Let me go," she warns.
"Where are you going?"
"To the library. Or is reading dangerous too? Does ink poison the blood?"
I ignore the sarcasm. "Read. Rest. Watch TV. Do whatever you want, Ivy. As long as it doesn't involve toxins, exertion, or leaving this floor."
I release her.
She glares at me. Her eyes are filled with tears of rage.
"You think you’re keeping us safe," she whispers. "But you’re just making me hate you again."
She storms out of the kitchen.
I watch her go.
Hate me, I think. Hate me all you want. As long as you’re alive to feel it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s Luca.
Meeting in 20. The Board is waiting.
I look at the empty kitchen. I look at the trash compactor where the coffee beans are destroyed.
I hate leaving her. Every minute I am not in this apartment is a minute where something could go wrong. A fall. A choke. A fire.
But I have an empire to run. And I have to run it harder now. I have to amass more power, more money, more walls. Because now I have two vulnerabilities instead of one.
I walk to the front door.
"James," I say to the head of my personal security detail, who is standing guard in the foyer.
"Sir."
"No one in or out," I order. "Not even for a fire alarm. If the building burns, you take her to the roof and call the chopper. Do you understand?"
"Understood."
"And James?"
"Sir?"
"If she tries to enter the studio... lock the door from the outside."
I walk out.
The elevator ride down is a descent into hell. My mind is still upstairs, hovering over her womb, calculating risks.
Vane Enterprises headquarters has moved.
We took over the Sokolov Tower in Midtown. It is a monolith of black glass that pierces the skyline like a shard of obsidian. I took Nikolai’s office on the top floor. I burned his furniture. I replaced it with steel and leather.
I walk into the conference room.
It is full.
My lieutenants are there. Luca. The heads of the gangs I bought—Chen, Marcus King, Diego. And O’Malley.
O’Malley is still wearing a bandage on his neck where Ivy cut him. He sits slouched in his chair, picking at his fingernails with a switchblade.
The atmosphere is wrong.
Usually, when I walk into a room, the air changes. Men straighten up. Eyes drop. There is a current of fear that I ride like a wave.
Today, the air is stale. There is a murmur of conversation that doesn't stop immediately when I enter.
They are comfortable.
Too comfortable.
I walk to the head of the table. I don't sit. I stand.
"Report," I say.
Chen speaks first. "Distribution is back to 100%. The ports are clear. The cops are still chasing their tails over the shipyard explosion."
"Good," I say. "Diego?"
"We secured the Jersey warehouses," Diego says. "But we’re having trouble with the local unions. They’re asking for a bigger cut."
"Crush them," I say dismissively. "Find the union rep. Find his family. Explain the new economics."
"Right," Diego says slowly. "About that..."
"About what?"
"Word on the street is... things are changing," O’Malley pipes up. He doesn't look at me. He looks at the knife in his hand.
I turn my gaze to him. "Elaborate, O’Malley."
He looks up. His eyes are beady, wet, and filled with a insolence that wasn't there last week.
"We hear you’re going domestic, Vane," he says with a sneer. "We hear the Queen got knocked up."
Silence slams into the room.
My blood goes cold.
Only Luca knows. And Dr. Aris. And the nurses.
Who talked?
"Where did you hear that?" I ask. My voice is very quiet.
"People talk," O’Malley shrugs. "Nurses talk. Maids talk. It’s hard to keep secrets when you turn your penthouse into a maternity ward."
He leans back, spinning the knife on the table.
"A baby changes a man," he muses. "Makes him soft. Makes him cautious. You can't run a war when you’re worried about changing diapers."
He laughs. A few of the men behind him—his Irish enforcers—chuckle nervously.
I look around the table.
Chen is watching me, his face impassive. King is studying his hands. Diego is looking at O’Malley with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
They are testing me.
They smell blood. They think fatherhood is a weakness. They think that because I have created life, I have forgotten how to take it.
I unbutton my suit jacket.
I walk slowly down the length of the table.
The chuckling stops.
O’Malley watches me come. He stops spinning the knife. He grips the handle.
"You think I’m soft, O’Malley?" I ask, stopping behind his chair.
"I’m just saying," O’Malley says, his voice losing some of its bravado. "The streets need a wolf. Not a dad."
"A wolf," I repeat.
I reach out.
I grab the back of his head.
I slam his face into the mahogany table.
CRACK.
It sounds like a gunshot. Wood splinters. O’Malley screams, a garbled, wet sound.
I don't let go. I hold his head down.
I pick up the switchblade he was playing with.
"You’re right," I whisper into his ear. "A father has a lot to lose. Which means..."
I stab the knife into the back of his hand, pinning it to the table.
O’Malley shrieks.
"...which means a father has to be twice as vicious as a man with nothing."
I lean my weight onto his head, grinding his broken nose into the wood.