69 "The Divorce Papers on the Table, a Positive Test in the Dark, and the Husband Who Walked Away for Six Months Just to Keep Me Alive: How a Fake Separation Turned Into a War for Our Unborn Child"

The red laser sights danced across the dashboard, painting tiny, lethal dots of light against the steering wheel and my own trembling hands.

“Keep your head down!” Marcus barked, his hand dropping swiftly toward his hip, where a concealed Sig Sauer rested in a shoulder holster.

“Marcus, don't!” I grabbed his arm, my voice breaking. “There are three of them, and they have automatic weapons. If you draw, they'll turn this car into Swiss cheese.”

“My job is to get you out of here alive, Mrs. Cross,” Marcus replied calmly, his eyes narrowing as he evaluated the angles. “Mr. Cross trusts me with his life. I am not about to hand his wife over to whoever’s pulling Moretti’s strings.”

Moretti.

The name hit me like a splash of ice water. Vincent Moretti. The ruthless shipping tycoon and underground syndicate boss who had been locked in a silent, bloody corporate war with Dorian for control of Chicago’s shipping lanes and financial district for the past two years.

“Moretti?” I whispered. “Is that who’s been hunting us?”

“Moretti is just the attack dog,” Marcus muttered under his breath, his thumb clicking the safety off his weapon. “The person pulling the strings has been sitting inside Dorian’s inner circle for over a year.”

Before I could ask what he meant, the lead gunman stepped forward, the barrel of his submachine gun tapping sharply against the driver’s side window.

“Roll it down, old man,” a distorted voice hissed through the glass. “Unless you want your brains painted across the upholstery.”

Marcus slowly turned his head, his face an impenetrable mask of stone. He didn't roll the window down. Instead, with terrifying speed, he kicked his door open with full force, catching the gunman squarely in the chest and sending him sprawling backward onto the concrete.

At the same exact second, Marcus drew his pistol and fired twice through the open door frame.

Pop-pop!

The second gunman staggered backward, clutching his shoulder as a spray of blood hit the pavement.

“Hold on!” Marcus roared, slamming the accelerator down.

The SUV lunged forward, smashing directly into the side of the blocking sedan with a deafening screech of crumpled metal and shattering glass. The impact threw me violently against my seatbelt, knocking the wind straight out of my lungs.

For a second, the world spun in a blur of smoke, burning rubber, and flashing lights.

Then, the driver’s side window of our SUV shattered in a shower of glittering diamonds. A hand reached inside, gripping Marcus by the collar with brutal force and yanking him halfway out of the vehicle.

“Marcus!” I screamed, lunging across the console to grab his jacket.

A silenced gunshot echoed sharply inside the confined space of the garage.

Marcus went completely limp in the attacker’s grip.

My breath caught in my throat. A hot, metallic spray of blood splattered across the passenger side window.

“No… no, please…” I choked out, paralyzed by sheer, unadulterated horror.

The door beside me was jerked open. A gloved hand grabbed my arm, wrapping around my wrist like a steel vice and dragging me out of the vehicle onto the cold, wet concrete of the garage floor.

“Get up,” a cold, feminine voice hissed in my ear.

I struggled blindly, kicking and thrashing, trying to pull away. “Let me go! Get away from me!”

A sharp blow to the back of my head sent a blinding flash of white light exploding behind my eyes. The concrete rushed up to meet me, and as the darkness dragged me under, the last thing I heard was the familiar, terrifying voice of someone I thought I could trust, whispering softly into the gloom: