Chapter 2 - The Penthouse Cage
The black Escalade glided silently through the rain-slicked streets of the Gold Coast, cutting through the evening traffic like a shark through dark water.
Inside the cabin, the only sound was the soft hum of the climate control and the steady, rhythmic thrum of the tires against the asphalt. Maeve sat pressed into the buttery black leather of the captain's chair, Donovan’s heavy wool overcoat still draped over her shoulders. The heat from the seat warmed her aching lower back, but inside, her nerves were vibrating at a pitch high enough to shatter glass.
Donovan sat beside her. He had shed his suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt to reveal forearms corded with muscle and crisscrossed with faded silver scars. He held a crystal glass of neat bourbon in one hand, but he hadn't taken a sip since they left the café.
He was staring directly at her stomach.
Maeve involuntarily shifted, pulling the edges of the coat tighter around herself. "Donovan... please don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" he asked, his voice low, gravelly, and tight with suppressed emotion.
"Like I'm a crime scene you're investigating."
Donovan set the glass into the center console holder with a dull clink. He turned his body toward her, leaning across the space between the seats until his broad shadow eclipsed the streetlights outside.
"Nineteen weeks, Maeve," he said, the words measured, heavy as lead. "You disappeared from the Grand Harbor the morning after. Left a fake forwarding address with hotel management. Changed your phone number. Resigned from your event agency three days later. Do you have any idea how many men I put on the street looking for you?"
"That’s exactly why I ran!" Maeve choked out, the tears she had held back in the coffee shop finally threatening to spill. "Donovan, look at you! Look at who you are! You have armed men following you everywhere! You have scars on your face from people trying to assassinate you! I grew up in a double-wide in southern Illinois! I plan birthday parties and corporate banquets! I don't belong in your world!"
"You belong wherever I put you," he snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.
Then, seeing her flinch, he closed his eyes and exhaled a ragged breath through his nose. When he opened them, the cold criminal boss had receded, replaced by something raw and desperate.
He reached out, his warm, rough hand covering hers where it rested on her lap. "Why didn't you tell me, Maeve? When the test came back positive... why didn't you pick up the phone?"
"Because I knew what would happen," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I knew you’d take control. I knew you’d decide everything for me, just like Derek did. For five years, Derek dictated what I wore, what I ate, who I talked to. When I finally broke free, I promised myself I would never belong to another man again. And then... and then I had one incredible, reckless night with the most dangerous man in Chicago, and six weeks later, the stick turned blue."
She looked down at her lap, her throat aching with raw emotion. "I wanted this baby to be mine, Donovan. Just mine. Not a mafia heir. Not a target for your enemies. Just my baby."
Donovan didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he slid his fingers down until his palm rested directly against the swell of her belly.
Beneath his skin, right on cue, a tiny, distinct flutter pushed back.
Donovan froze.
The man who had survived three turf wars, federal grand juries, and rival hit squads completely stopped breathing. His jaw went slack, his dark eyes widening in unadulterated shock as the tiny life beneath Maeve’s sweater kicked against his palm a second time.
Slowly, Donovan looked up at Maeve. His eyes were shining with an emotion so fierce, so reverent, that it took her breath away.
"That's my son," he whispered, awe coloring every syllable.
"Or a daughter," Maeve managed a tiny, watery smile. "I haven't had the anatomy scan yet. The clinic on 22nd Street didn't have an opening until next month."
The tenderness in Donovan’s face vanished, replaced instantly by an icy fury that made the cabin feel sub-zero. "A free clinic? On 22nd Street? You've been standing in line at a public clinic while carrying my flesh and blood?"
"Donovan, I don't have health insurance!" she argued, exasperated. "I work freelance! Do you think prenatal care grows on trees?"
Donovan pulled out his gold-plated phone, tapped a single speed-dial button, and brought it to his ear.
"Dr. Vance," Donovan commanded the moment the call connected. "Clear your schedule for tomorrow morning at eight. Open the private maternal wing at Northwestern Memorial. My wife is having her anatomy scan."
Maeve gasped, grabbing his wrist. "Your what?!"
Donovan ignored her, keeping his gaze locked on hers. "And Vance? If there is so much as a five-minute wait when we arrive, I will buy your medical building and turn it into a parking lot."
He hung up, slipping the phone into his pocket, completely indifferent to the shock paralyzing her face.
"You can't just call me your wife!" Maeve hissed, her face burning. "We spent eight hours together in a hotel room five months ago!"
"Then we have a lot of time to make up for," Donovan replied smoothly as the SUV pulled into the subterranean private garage of the most exclusive high-rise on Lake Shore Drive.
May you like
The hydraulic gate slammed shut behind them, sealing them off from the city, the rain, and the past.
"Welcome home, Maeve," Donovan said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "You spent five years being treated like an inconvenience. Let's see how you handle being treated like a queen."
