The hospital administrator pointed at my feverish seven-month-old in front of the entire emergency room and said, “Perhaps you should have chosen his father more carefully.”

The press conference was hailed by media analysts as a masterclass in crisis management. Within hours, Moretti Global’s stock plummeted early in the morning and then rallied to an all-time high as market confidence surged. Volkov Holdings was forced onto the defensive, scrambling to issue retractions as federal marshals served subpoenas at their Midtown offices.

That evening, Giovanni and I stayed at the heavily secured penthouse in Manhattan—the very penthouse I had walked away from fifteen months ago.

It was surreal walking through those marble halls again. But everything felt different now. The furniture had been updated, but more importantly, the atmosphere was no longer cold and suffocating. Luca had been flown down safely from the Berkshires via private helicopter and was now sleeping soundly in a temporary nursery set up in the guest suite.

I stood on the glass balcony overlooking the glowing grid of Manhattan, holding a glass of white wine. The cool night breeze blew through my hair.

The balcony doors slid open, and Giovanni stepped out, holding a glass of scotch. He joined me at the railing, looking out over the city.

“You destroyed them today,” Giovanni said, a quiet warmth in his voice. “The board chairman called me an hour ago. Dmitry Volkov doesn't have the votes anymore. The takeover attempt is officially dead.”

“I didn't do it for your stock price, Giovanni,” I said softly, taking a sip of wine. “I did it so no one ever questions my son’s legitimacy or my character again.”

“I know,” he replied. He turned his body toward me, leaning his lower back against the railing. “And that speech about supporting me as CEO... did you mean it?”

I turned to face him, looking into his dark, searching eyes. “You’re a arrogant, controlling man, Giovanni. But you are brilliant at what you do. And more importantly... I saw how you looked at Luca in that hospital room. You love him. You would burn the world down to keep him safe. That’s the kind of man I want running the company that will one day belong to him.”

Giovanni looked at me for a long time, the silence stretching between us, filled with a sudden, palpable heat.

“I burned the world down once before, Lauren,” he whispered, taking a step closer to me. The space between us closed instantly. “And I lost you because of it. I won't make that mistake twice.”

“Giovanni...” my voice caught in my throat as his fingers gently touched my jawline.

“I haven't touched another woman since the day you left,” he confessed, his thumb softly tracing my lower lip. “I haven't slept a full night since I walked into our empty bedroom fifteen months ago. I thought I could replace you with work, with power, with control. But the moment I saw you standing in that rain-soaked hospital hallway holding our son... I realized I was just an empty shell without you.”

My heart was pounding against my ribs. Everything in my rational mind told me to step back, to remember why I had fled, to maintain the professional boundary we had agreed upon. But looking at the vulnerability in his eyes—the raw, unfiltered love he had kept buried for so long—my resolve completely melted.

I leaned up on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his.

The kiss was explosive. All the pain, longing, rage, and passion of the last fifteen months collapsed into a single, breathtaking moment. Giovanni let out a low groan, his hands wrapping firmly around my waist, pulling me tightly against his hard body. He kissed me with a fierce, desperate hunger, as if trying to memorize every contour of my mouth.

I ran my fingers through his thick dark hair, pulling him closer, surrendering completely to the heat consuming us both.

Suddenly, a loud, sharp crack echoed through the air—like the sound of a heavy whip snapping.

A circular hole instantly spider-webbed across the reinforced ballistic glass panel just inches from my head.

Giovanni’s reactions were instantaneous, honed by years of living in a world of high-stakes violence. Before the echo of the gunshot had even faded, he slammed his weight into me, tackling me to the tiled floor of the balcony and shielding my body with his own.

Thump! Thump! Two more high-caliber sniper rounds struck the exterior stone pillar above us, showering us with fine dust and concrete chips.

“DOWN! STAY DOWN!” Giovanni roared, dragging me backward on our hands and knees through the open balcony doors into the safety of the living room.

The interior lights automatically killed themselves as the penthouse’s automated defense system engaged. Heavy armored steel shutters began descending over the massive glass windows with a terrifying, mechanical screech.

Viktor and four security guards burst into the penthouse living room with drawn weapons, their tactical flashlights cutting through the darkness.

“CLEAR THE ROOM! SECURE THE PERIMETER!” Viktor yelled into his radio headset. He sprinted toward us, helping Giovanni pull me to my feet. “It came from the rooftop of the hotel across the avenue! Distance four hundred yards!”

“WHERE IS MY SON?!” I screamed, my voice high with sheer panic, the euphoria of moments ago instantly replaced by paralyzing horror. “WHERE IS LUCA?!”

“He’s safe, ma'am!” Viktor assured me rapidly, guiding us toward the reinforced safe room in the core of the penthouse. “Guard Team Bravo secured the nursery the moment the acoustic sensors detected the first shot!”

Giovanni pulled me into the safe room—a windowless, steel-lined bunker hidden behind a bookshelf in the master suite. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing us in with a dull, heavy click.

In the center of the room, a security guard was standing guard over Luca’s crib. Luca was crying, frightened by the sudden darkness and the sharp noises, but he was completely unharmed.

I rushed over to the crib, scooping Luca into my arms and collapsing onto the floor, holding him tightly against my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Giovanni stood near the door, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot with an insane, murderous rage. He looked at the bloody scrape on my elbow where I had hit the balcony floor, then looked at our crying son.

The corporate war was over. But Dmitry Volkov had just crossed the ultimate line. He hadn't just tried to ruin Giovanni’s business—he had just tried to assassinate us in our home.