The three weeks waiting for Sofia's mission felt like three years.
I spent most of my time confined to the mansion or the restaurant, surrounded by guards, going stir-crazy from the restrictions.
Dante had turned into an overprotective nightmare tracking my every movement, questioning everyone who came near me, sleeping with one hand on his gun and the other on my stomach.
"You're going to give yourself a heart attack," I told him one morning when I found him reviewing security footage from the restaurant at 4 AM.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're being paranoid."
"Someone threatened our baby. Paranoid is the appropriate response." He pulled me onto his lap. "How are you feeling? Any nausea? Cramping? Spotting?"
"I'm fine. The baby's fine. Dr. Bennett checked me three days ago, remember?"
"That was three days ago. Things can change."
I cupped his face, forcing him to look at me.
