Page 103 of Masked Seduction

She nods. “Scare them first. A burned warehouse. No fatalities unless absolutely necessary. My people will handle the accelerant—no fingerprints.”

“Fine. But I want eyes on their lieutenant. If he tries to relocate, I want him stopped at the county line.”

Isabella tips her head, studying me. “Always efficient, Abram. I like it.”

“Efficiency works.”

Her smile turns gentler. “How is Jenna? I believe your child is overdue?”

“Three days,” I reply. Saying it aloud makes my chest tighten with anticipation. “The doctor says it’s normal.”

“Some babies are like Sicilian judges,” she laughs. “Stubborn until bribed.” I return the laugh and she goes on. “Enjoy these quiet hours, Abram. Parenthood shifts the weight of every trigger. I thought myself ruthless—until I held my first son. I’m still ruthless, but now there are nightmares to match.”

I remember Jenna’s ultrasound image taped above my desk, the tiny silhouette, the pulse that sounded like a hummingbird. “We don’t always have the luxury of softness,” I say. “Not in our line of work.”

“True. But softness will find you anyway. Embrace it or drown in bitterness.” She glances off-screen, someone calling for her. “I must go. We’ll coordinate the warehouse job through the usual channels.”

We exchange a nod—professionals, partners, occasionally reluctant friends—and end the call.

A new message pings from Denis.Got intel on the Albanian importer. Sending dossier.

I’ve barely skimmed the attachment when I hear a startled gasp echo down the hallway.

“Abram!”

Jenna’s voice—breathless, excited, and afraid all at once.

I’m out of my chair in half a second. She’s in the living room, standing beside the sofa, leggings soaked, one hand braced on the small of her back. Her eyes are wide but shining.

“It’s time,” she says, half laughing, half crying.

For a heartbeat I just stare—at her wet leggings, at her flushed cheeks, at the way she bites her lip the moment another contraction grips her. All the planning evaporates. There is only her.

“Okay,” I breathe, crossing the room and cupping her face. “Okay,malen’kaya,we’ve got this.”

She nods, squeezing my wrist when the pain hits. “Hospital bag’s by the door. Contraction timer’s on the counter.”

I move automatically, sending a text to the driver, grabbing the overnight bag, barking a quick order to the security guard outside the elevator. “Car downstairs in two minutes.” My pulse hammers harder than it ever did facing a gun.

Jenna exhales shakily. “Abram?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget the car seat.”

“Right.” I almost laugh as I snatch the infant carrier from the hallway bench and return to her side, sliding an arm around her waist. Another contraction steals her breath, and she clutches my shoulder, forehead pressed to my chest.

Six minutes since the last one. The number ricochets around my skull as if it’s lit in neon. Too close. Too damned close.

“Six minutes isn’t bad,” Jenna says. I help her ease into the passenger seat before slamming her bag into the trunk on my way around the car.

“It’s too close for my liking,” I say, sliding behind the wheel.

She laughs, bright and breathy, then curls a hand behind my neck. When I lean in, my intention to buckle her belt, she tugs me the extra inch and kisses me—slow and confident—as if we’ve got all the time in the world.

“I love you,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“I love you more if you don’t deliver in my Maybach.” I try for stern though it comes out teasing.