The Wife He Froze, The Don He Failed to Kill

Eight months pregnant, I carried a folder of papers up to Cassian's private office in the Falcone tower.

Inside, the air was scorching, some forty-six degrees, thick enough to choke on. Just as I reached for the climate control on the wall, the girl at his side stopped me. She'd been placed there by the family, a courier who'd learned to smile at the right men.

"Signora," she said sweetly, "it's my time of the month. I get cold so easily. Please, don't touch it."

I looked at her from the side. My child was growing inside me, and heat like this could kill us both.