Chapter 2 - The Secret of the Third Floor
Hunter didn't think about the cameras. She didn't think about the steel gates, the armed guards, or the rumors of the blood-drenched turf war that had turned Lorenzo Rossi into a ghost who ruled by fear. She only thought about the sound—that fragile, fading rasp that echoed from the massive crib like a dying bird trapped in a stone vault.
She pushed the door open. It slid back on oiled hinges, making no sound against the thick Persian rug.
The nursery was chilly, kept cold on the instructions of a specialist who believed a lower temperature would stimulate the infant’s sluggish respiratory system. To Hunter, it felt like a mausoleum. The night nurse, a woman named Nurse Gable who had been hired from a prestigious private agency in Manhattan for ten thousand dollars a week, snored softly in the plush leather armchair. The faint, sweet smell of Pinot Grigio hung in the air, mingling with the sharp scent of medical-grade antiseptic.
Hunter ignored her. She walked straight to the mahogany crib.
When she looked over the railing, her breath caught. Leo Rossi looked smaller than the stuffed silk bears arranged along the wall. He was swaddled in imported Egyptian cotton, but his tiny face was pale, almost translucent, the blue veins beneath his skin tracing intricate, terrifying maps across his temples. His lips were dry and cracked, dusted with the white residue of a specialized, hypoallergenic formula he had rejected hours before.
As if sensing her presence, the baby’s eyelids flickered. His eyes, a deep, dark gray that mirrored his father's, fixed on Hunter. He didn't scream. He didn't have the energy. He simply let out that thin, whistling breath, his tiny chest heaving beneath the cloth.
"Oh, sweet boy," Hunter whispered, her voice barely a vibration in the quiet room.
Before her mind could construct a single logical objection, her hands moved on instinct. She had held her own silent daughter, Lily, for twenty-seven minutes, praying for a heartbeat that never came. She knew the weight of a child who was leaving this world. She could not stand by and watch another one slip away while a paid nurse slept off her wine.
Hunter reached into the crib, her fingers sliding beneath Leo's fragile frame. He felt weightless, like a bundle of dry leaves.
The moment she lifted him against her chest, the burning ache in her own breasts flared into an intense, throbbing heat. The tight linen bandages she had wrapped around her torso felt like they were about to burst. Her milk, triggered by the raw, primal pheromones of the starving child, soaked through the layers of gauze and stained the front of her black uniform.
She sat down on a low velvet ottoman in the deepest shadow of the room, furthest from the doorway. With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned the front of her dress. She pulled down the restrictive cotton bindings that had tortured her for weeks, exposing her bare, milk-heavy breast to the cold air of the nursery.
Leo's head fell back, his neck too weak to support itself. Hunter gently guided his face toward her skin.
"Come on, little one," she breathed, a tear slipping from her eyelashes and landing on his damp forehead. "It's for you. It was always meant for a baby."
For a terrifying five seconds, Leo did nothing. He lay against her warmth, his lips brushing her skin, his small nose twitching. He had been poked, prodded, and forced to swallow synthetic liquids through rubber nipples for weeks; his tiny body had learned to associate feeding with pain.
Then, his mouth opened.
It was a primitive, instinctive reflex. His lips closed around her breast, and he pulled.
It was a weak, trembling attempt, but it was enough. The milk let down instantly. Hunter let out a sharp gasp, half from the physical relief of the pressure leaving her body, and half from the pure, spiritual shock of seeing the dying boy swallow.
Gulp.
It was a tiny, wet sound, but to Hunter’s ears, it was louder than thunder.
The heart monitor beside the crib, which had been chiming a monotonous, sluggish rhythm, suddenly shifted. The line on the screen spiked, stabilizing into a faster, steadier beat. Leo’s tiny hands, which had been curled into tight, defensive fists, slowly relaxed, his fingers spreading out against the bare skin of her chest.
He pulled a second time, stronger now, his small throat moving in a rhythmic, beautiful cadence that no doctor in the state of New York had been able to produce.
Hunter closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall, a sob tearing through her chest. She was feeding the heir to the Rossi syndicate, breaking every rule of the house, risking her life in the dark—and for the first time since her daughter’s stillbirth, she felt like she was alive.
She was so consumed by the miracle in her arms that she didn't hear the heavy, slow footsteps approaching from the hallway. She didn't notice the shadow that fell across the nursery threshold.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The voice was like iron dragging across gravel.
May you like
Hunter’s eyes flew open. Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the corridor, was Lorenzo Rossi. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his rolled-up sleeves revealing dark, intricate tattoos that stretched down his forearms. His face was a mask of cold, exhausted fury, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the medical monitors.
Before Hunter could speak, Lorenzo’s hand moved to the small of his back. In one fluid, practiced motion, he pulled a matte-black semi-automatic pistol from his holster and aimed it directly at her forehead.
