The divorce had not been a negotiation; it had been an eviction masked as an amicable settlement. In the second week of September, Adrian had arrived at their loft on Franklin Street with two junior partners from his firm and a set of non-disclosure agreements. He had not raised his voice. He had simply sat across the marble kitchen island, refusing to meet her eyes, and told her that staying with him would ruin her.

“The Russo business isn’t going away,” he had told her, staring at his own manicured nails. “You need to take the Flatbush brownstone, take the allowance, and get your name off the accounts. If you fight this, you get dragged into a grand jury subpoena by November.”

Claire had refused the brownstone. She had taken her grandmother’s jewelry, her savings from her five years managing a Chelsea art gallery, and signed the decree. She had spent the last two months furnishing a third-floor walk-up off Cortelyou Road, painting the baseboards herself, ignoring the nausea that struck every afternoon at four o’clock.

Now, sitting on the paper-covered examination table as Elise wiped the clear gel from her stomach, Claire felt the fragile sanctuary of those sixty-three days dissolve.

“Heart rate is one-forty-eight,” Elise said, printing out a strip of thermal paper. “Everything looks right on schedule for sixteen weeks and two days. Bones are measuring well. Have you experienced any cramping or spotting?”

“No,” Claire said, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “Just tired.”

“Drink more water, keep taking the folate,” Elise said, handing her the sonogram images. “And Claire? That gentleman outside... do you need me to call building security before you leave?”

Claire looked down at the tiny, gray-and-white silhouette curved inside her body. “No. Security won’t make a difference with him.”

When Claire opened the door, Adrian was still there. He had moved to the adjacent alcove, his hands jammed deep into his coat pockets, watching the doorway with a fierce, unwavering focus. Marco was gone.

“We need to talk,” Adrian said, stepping forward as she pulled her coat together and fastened the top two buttons. “Not here. My car is downstairs.”

“I’m taking the Q train back to Brooklyn,” Claire said, walking toward the reception desk to settle her copay.

“Claire, please.” The word sounded alien on his tongue. Adrian Moretti did not ask; he allocated resources. He stepped between her and the desk, his gray eyes searching hers for some crack in the armor. “You’re sixteen weeks. That means Rhode Island. That means the night before I went to the meeting in Queens.”

Claire handed her credit card to the receptionist without looking at him. “It doesn’t mean anything to your life, Adrian. You spent three hours convincing me that you couldn’t afford to have a wife. You definitely can’t afford this.”

“I lied,” he said, his voice dropping so low the receptionist pretending not to listen tilted her head away. “I did what I had to do to keep the district attorney’s office away from you. The Russo faction was pushing an audit on our offshore accounts. They wanted leverage.”

“And you gave them leverage by throwing me away,” Claire replied. She took her receipt, slid her card into her wallet, and walked toward the elevators.

Adrian matched her pace, his jaw set in a hard line. “Where is Marco?” she asked suddenly, realizing the hallway was empty behind them.

Adrian frowned slightly, glancing over his shoulder toward the private consultation suites down the hall. “He had business with the clinic director. Administrative.”

“Administrative?” Claire paused at the elevator bank, her hand hovering over the down button. “Marco Bellini doesn’t handle administration. He handles payoffs and quiet removals. Why is he carrying a file for Vanessa Russo into an obstetrics practice?”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed, a momentary flicker of confusion crossing his features before his guard came up again. “That’s family business, Claire. It has nothing to do with this.”

“Everything you touch is family business,” Claire said as the elevator doors parted. “Stay away from Cortelyou Road, Adrian. If your black town car shows up outside my stoop, I’ll call the 70th Precinct, and I won’t care about your pending federal audits.”

She stepped into the cab, turned to face him, and let the doors slide shut on his outstretched hand.