The penthouse was dark when Elena finally made it home, baby Lidia asleep in her arms after the nanny had texted about the evening routine. The city sprawled below their windows like scattered diamonds, beautiful and cold.

Dante was in his study, door half-open, amber light spilling across hardwood floors. Elena could see him through the gap, jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, that posture of controlled tension that meant he was anticipating confrontation.

Good. So was ...