Chapter 26
Julietta
The chandeliers of The Apex Casino cast gold across marble floors so polished I could see my reflection. Six weeks had passed since Lorenzo bled out in that cathedral. Six weeks since I stopped being anyone's pawn and became a queen.
My heels clicked a sharp rhythm as I crossed the main floor. Conversations paused. Eyes tracked me—not with lust or dismissal, but deference. Men in thousand-dollar suits straightened their spines. Dealers kept their focus on cards but their awareness stayed fixed on me.
"Mrs. Taviani." The pit boss, Viktor, materialized at my elbow. His bow was slight but genuine. "The high-roller room is ready for your inspection."
I nodded, watching a roulette wheel spin. Red seventeen. The same number Dante bet the night we met, when I was still playing at being Lorenzo's obedient daughter.
"Thank you, Viktor. I'll review the security protocols with you in twenty minutes."
"Of course."
He melted back into the crowd. I continued my circuit, noting the new cameras positioned at angles I'd suggested, the additional guards stationed near exits. This casino had been Lorenzo's once. Now it was ours—mine and Dante's—and I'd redesigned every vulnerable corner.
My phone buzzed. Two messages.
The first from Marcos: Miami route clear. Product moved without incident.
The second from Elena—yes, I'd named the safe house network coordinator after my mother: Elena: Four rescues from the Newark docks. All safe. Youngest is twelve.
Twelve.
I typed back to Marcos first: Good. Double surveillance anyway.
Three dots appeared, then: Yes, ma'am.
Then to Elena: I'm coming. Have medical ready and get her anything she asks for. Anything.
The criminal enterprise funded the rescue operations. Lorenzo's casinos, his shipping routes, his offshore accounts—all of it repurposed. We moved product, yes. But we also moved people. Out of darkness. Into safety.
That was the difference between his empire and ours.
Ma'am. Not Jules. Not even Julietta.
Ma'am.
Power settled in my chest like warm brandy.
The restroom gleamed white and chrome, empty except for me and the Louis Vuitton bag I'd left with the attendant earlier. I retrieved it, locked myself in the largest stall, and pulled out the small box I'd purchased that morning from a pharmacy three districts away where nobody knew my face.
My hands trembled as I unwrapped the plastic.
I'd been late. Ten days late. My body felt different—tender breasts, exhaustion that sleep couldn't touch, a strange metallic taste coating my tongue. I'd ignored it, blamed stress, blamed the reorganization of two criminal empires.
But this morning I'd vomited before dawn, and Dante had pressed his palm to my forehead, concern darkening those sexy blue eyes.
"You're not sick," he'd said. "You're never sick."
"I'm fine."
His thumb had traced my cheekbone. "Liar."
Now I sat on expensive porcelain in a bathroom worth more than the house I'd grown up in, and I peed on a stick.
Three minutes. The box said three minutes.
I set a timer on my phone and stared at the test balanced on the marble counter. White plastic. Pink cap. A tiny window that would tell me everything.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
What if it was positive? What if I was carrying Dante's child—carrying a life we'd created in those hours when the world fell away and only we existed?
What if it was negative? What if this strange hope blooming in my chest was just stress and wishful thinking?
The timer buzzed.
I looked.
Two pink lines. Clear and unmistakable.
Pregnant.
I pressed my hand to my stomach—still flat, still unchanged. But inside, cells were dividing. A heart would soon beat. A person was forming from our combined DNA, our shared darkness and determination.
A laugh bubbled up, half-sob. I covered my mouth, overwhelmed.
I'd spent my whole life being used. Being moved like a chess piece. Being told my value existed only in what I could provide others.
But this… this was mine. Ours.
I wrapped the test in tissue, tucked it back in the box, and slipped it into my bag. Then I stood, smoothed my black Armani dress, and checked my reflection.
My eyes were bright. My cheeks flushed.
I looked happy.
The realization hit like lightning—I was happy. Truly, genuinely happy for the first time in my entire life.
I walked back into the casino with my head high and my secret burning warm beneath my heart.
Viktor walked me through the high-roller room's new security measures. Biometric scanners on the doors. Panic buttons wired directly to Dante's security team. Cameras with facial recognition software that flagged anyone on our watch list.
"Excellent work," I said, reviewing the specs on the tablet he'd handed me. "Implement the same system in the Monaco room by next week."
"Already scheduled, ma'am."
I signed off on the documentation and handed it back. "One more thing. I want quarterly audits of all cash handlers. Randomized. No warning."
Viktor's expression didn't change, but I caught the brief tightening around his eyes. "Of course. May I ask why?"
"Because trust is earned continuously, not once." I met his gaze. "And because anyone who thinks they're above scrutiny becomes a liability."
He nodded slowly. "Understood."
"Good." I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. Dante would be finishing his meeting with the West Coast distributors. "I'll be in my office if anything requires my attention."
My office. The words still felt surreal.
It had been Lorenzo's once—all dark wood and intimidation. I'd gutted it. Now cream walls held abstract art, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. A glass desk sat angled to catch afternoon light. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with strategy texts and legal codes.
I'd claimed this space. Made it mine.
I settled into the leather chair and pulled up the quarterly reports. Revenue was up eighteen percent since we'd absorbed Lorenzo's operations. Legitimate businesses—the casinos, three hotels, a chain of upscale restaurants—provided clean income and laundry services for the underground economy.
The underground itself had shifted. Dante's anti-trafficking network had expanded. We'd intercepted four shipments in the last month alone, redirecting sixty-three people to safe houses and legitimate employment.
Blood money funding salvation. The irony wasn't lost on me.
My phone rang. Dante.
"Where are you?" His voice was rough, edged with something I couldn't identify.
"My office. Why?"
"Stay there. I'm coming to you."
He hung up before I could respond.
I frowned at the phone, then at the closed door. Dante sounded...off. Worried? Angry?
I opened my bottom drawer and checked the Glock 19 nestled inside. Loaded. Safety on. Exactly as I'd left it.
Paranoia was survival in our world.
Three minutes later, my door opened. Dante filled the frame—six-three of controlled violence in a charcoal suit that cost more than most people's cars. But his tie was loose, his hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it.
His eyes found mine, and relief flickered across his face.
"What's wrong?" I stood, instincts firing.
He crossed to me in three strides, his hands framing my face. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Dante, what—"
"You left the penthouse without your full security detail this morning." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "And Viktor said you looked pale."
Oh.
Understanding dawned. He'd been worried. Actually worried.
Something in my chest cracked open.
"I'm okay," I said softly. "Better than okay, actually."
His eyes searched mine. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
The word choice was deliberate. I watched recognition flicker—then confusion.
"Jules—"
I took his hand and pressed it against my stomach. "I'm pregnant."
The world stopped.
Dante froze, his eyes going wide. His hand splayed across my abdomen, fingers spreading like he could feel the life inside.
"You're..." His voice broke. "We're..."
"Yes."
He dropped to his knees.
The motion was so sudden, so unexpected, I gasped. Dante Taviani—the man who ruled this city's underworld, who'd murdered rivals and built an empire on blood and strategy—knelt before me with his forehead pressed to my stomach.
His shoulders shook.
"Dante?" I threaded my fingers through his hair.
"You've given me everything." His voice was muffled against my dress. "Everything I never knew I wanted. Everything I thought I'd destroyed the right to have."
Tears burned my eyes. I pulled him up, and he came willingly, rising to crush me against him. His kiss was desperate, reverent, claiming.
When we broke apart, his eyes were wet.
"I love you," he said. "God, Jules, I love you so much it terrifies me."
"I know." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "I love you too."
He kissed me again, slower this time. Savoring. When he pulled back, his hand returned to my stomach.
"When did you find out?"
"An hour ago. I wanted to tell you privately."
"Does anyone else know?"
"Just us."
His smile was fierce. Possessive. "Good. Let's keep it that way until you're through the first trimester."
I nodded. Smart. Pregnancy made me vulnerable in ways I wasn't ready to broadcast.
"We'll need to adjust security," Dante continued, his mind already working. "And your schedule. No more late nights at the casino. No field work—"
"Dante."
He stopped, hearing the warning in my tone.
"I'm pregnant, not fragile." I held his gaze. "I'll be careful. But I'm not stepping back from our operations."
Conflict warred across his face. The protective instinct battling the respect he'd learned to show my autonomy.
Finally, he nodded. "Compromise. You stay out of active danger. But you keep running strategy and operations from here."
"Agreed." I kissed him softly. "Thank you for not trying to cage me."
"I learned that lesson." His smile was rueful. "You'd just pick the lock anyway."
I laughed, and he gathered me close. We stood like that, wrapped in each other, until my phone buzzed.