Vincent looked at her over the edge of his heavy porcelain mug, his dark eyes steady, holding the silent gravity that made even seasoned syndicate captains hesitate before speaking in his presence.

The term Territorial Peace Treaty of 2014 hung in the air like a death sentence.

Emma looked between Vincent and Grant, seeing the sudden, grave shift in the room's energy. Even Grant—a man who usually possessed the emotional demeanor of a marble statue—was sweating slightly at the temples.

"Explain," Emma demanded, standing up from her chair, her nursing instincts rejecting the sudden wave of fear trying to paralyze her. "What does a twelve-year-old medical report have to do with a peace treaty?"

Vincent didn't look at her. He pulled his leather glove back onto his hand, snapping the leather wrist cuff into place with a sharp, metallic sound.

"Twelve years ago," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a hard, clinical tone, "the Moretti family and the Lucchesi syndicate fought a war that left eighty men dead across three states. My elder brother, Mateo, was killed in the bombing that injured me. The syndicate Commission in New York stepped in to force a cease-fire."

He turned to face the arched window, looking out at the stormy lake.

"The terms of the treaty were simple," Vincent continued. "Because I had no living brothers, and because my medical evaluation proved I could never father an heir, the Commission granted me life-tenure control over the Midwest shipping corridors. But under one absolute condition: upon my death, the Moretti territory would automatically revert to the Lucchesi family, because there would be no direct bloodline to inherit it."

Emma’s breath hitched. "They were waiting for you to die."

"They have been waiting twelve years for me to die," Vincent corrected quietly. "They tolerated my control because they believed it had an expiration date. But if I have a child—a son or a daughter of my blood—the territory stays with the Moretti family forever under traditional syndicate law."

"Which means," Grant added grimly, "Lucchesi thinks Vincent secretly hired a surrogate or faked his medical records twelve years ago to secure a permanent dynasty. To them, this child isn't just a baby, Mrs. Moretti. It's a declaration of war."

Emma felt a cold hand wrap around her heart. "Sarah... how did Lucchesi get the lab results from Sarah’s private computer?"

"It wasn't a computer hack," Grant said, tapping his tablet. "The data packet was routed through a server inside Mercy Harbor Medical Center. Someone inside the hospital was paid two hundred thousand dollars this morning to flag any lab work involving your name or the Moretti account."

"A mole," Vincent growled, his eyes flashing with deadly intent.

"We’ve already secured the hospital staff member," Grant noted calmly. "Frank is currently... questioning him in the basement of our West Side facility."

Emma shuddered, knowing precisely what "questioning" meant in Vincent's world.

"Vincent," Emma said, stepping up to him, taking his gloved forearm in her hands. "What are you going to do?"

Vincent turned his head, looking down at her. The lethal coldness in his eyes softened slightly as he looked at her face, then glanced down briefly toward her flat stomach.

"I am going to Detroit," Vincent said simply. "I will face the Commission tomorrow at noon."

"No!" Emma exclaimed. "It’s a trap! If Lucchesi called the meeting, they’re going to ambush you!"

"If I do not attend," Vincent explained patiently, "the Commission will declare me a rogue capo. They will authorize every syndicate family in the country to launch an open contract on my life—and on the life of anyone associated with me. Including you."

He reached out, his gloved thumb gently tracing her jawline.

"I will go to Detroit," Vincent repeated. "And Grant will take you to our safehouse in upper Michigan. A fortified estate deep in the woods. You will stay there under heavy guard until I return."