141 By the time I aimed my gun at the young maid holding my dying son against her bare chest, Leo had already done what twenty doctors, three private clinics, and millions of dollars could not make him do. He swallowed. Once, then again. And in that instant, I realized someone inside my own home might have been slowly killing him.

The Eastbridge Community Center was a low-slung, red-brick building nestled between a defunct warehouse and a twenty-four-hour diner. The neon sign outside flickered weakly in the pre-dawn fog.

I parked the battered SUV in an alleyway two blocks away. We moved quickly through the shadows, Hunter cradling Leo inside her coat while I kept my hand on the holster beneath my jacket.

Hunter knocked three times on the metal back door of the kitchen.

After a tense moment, the door slid open, revealing an elderly woman with silver hair and a sharp, suspicious gaze. Her expression softened instantly when she saw Hunter.

"Hunter? Child, what is going on? We saw you on the news—they’re saying there was a shooting at the Rossi estate."

"Miss Clara, please," Hunter begged, her voice cracking. "We need a room. A clean room. The baby... he’s sick, and we’re being followed."

Clara looked at me, her eyes taking in my expensive, blood-stained suit and the hard, dangerous set of my shoulders. She knew exactly who I was. In New York, the Rossi name was whispered with fear. But she looked at the bundle in Hunter's arms and stepped aside.

"In the basement. The old storage room. It has a lock from the inside," Clara said, her voice firm. "I’ll bring down clean water and clean towels. Move."

The storage room was small, filled with boxes of donated clothes and canned goods, but it was warm and dry. I immediately went to work, dragging a heavy wooden shelving unit across the door to barricade us inside.

Hunter sat down on a pile of folded blankets, gently unwrapping Leo. The boy's face was pale, his lips slightly blue. He was shivering.

"He's too cold," Hunter said, her tears finally spilling over. She quickly unbuttoned her shirt, pulling Leo against her bare skin to share her body heat. "Come on, sweet boy. Come on, eat."

Leo whimpered, his small head rolling side to side. For a terrifying minute, he wouldn't latch. His body was too weak, his energy depleted from the frantic escape.

"Leo," I knelt beside them, my large, scarred hand gently stroking his tiny head. "Listen to me, son. You have your mother’s fire. You don't give up. Not tonight. Eat."

As if hearing my voice, Leo opened his eyes. They were the same deep, storm-blue eyes as Sophia’s. He let out a tiny, determined grunt, turned his head, and began to nurse.

The sound of his steady, rhythmic swallowing filled the small room.

I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for eight years. I looked at Hunter, whose face was illuminated by the single overhead bulb. Her expression was one of pure, raw devotion. She was looking at my son as if he were her own—as if the space left by her stillborn daughter was being filled, ounce by ounce, by the life she was saving.

"He’s going to make it," she whispered, looking up at me.

"Because of you," I said softly.

I reached out, my fingers brushing a stray strand of dark hair from her forehead. In the middle of this dark, dirty room, surrounded by concrete and cardboard boxes, I felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation in my chest.

It wasn't the cold, burning desire for revenge that had consumed me since Sophia’s death.

It was peace.

But the peace was short-lived.