Chapter 1 - The First Drop
The heavy oak door swung inward without a sound. Hunter didn't look at the sleeping nurse, whose breath smelled faintly of cheap Pinot Grigio and neglect. She didn't look at the high-end medical monitors flashing soft blue numbers into the shadows. Her eyes went straight to the mahogany crib, where the tiny blanket seemed entirely flat.
She approached the side of the crib, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Little Leo lay on his back, his face no larger than a teacup saucer. His skin was so thin she could see the delicate network of blue veins running across his temples. His lips were dry, peeling in tiny white flakes, and his little fingers were curled into tight, weak fists. The sound coming from his throat wasn't a cry anymore; it was a rhythmic, clicking gasp for air.
"Oh, baby," Hunter whispered, the words slipping out before she could catch them.
Her body reacted instantly. The burning sensation in her breasts intensified, a fierce, primal reflex that tore through her grief-stricken mind. She didn't care about the cameras anymore. She didn't care about the rules or the terrifying reputation of the man who ruled this fortress. She only saw a hungry child, and she had the one thing that could save him.
With trembling fingers, Hunter reached into the crib. Leo felt weightless, like a bundle of dry leaves. As she lifted him against her shoulder, his head fell into the curve of her neck, his hot, shallow breath brushing against her skin.
She sat down on the edge of the plush velvet rocking chair opposite the sleeping nurse. With her left hand holding the baby secure, she used her right to unbutton the stiff collar of her maid's uniform. She tore at the tight medical bandages she had wrapped around her chest that morning, freeing herself from the painful restriction.
Her skin met the cold air of the nursery, but the moment she pulled Leo close, the heat between them was electric.
"Come on, little one," Hunter murmured, her voice a low, soothing melody. "Come on, Leo."
She brushed her nipple against the baby’s dry upper lip.
For a terrifying three seconds, Leo didn't move. He lay limp against her bare breast, his eyes closed, his breathing irregular. Hunter’s eyes filled with hot, heavy tears. Don't do this, she prayed, thinking of her own little Lily lying in that cold, silent hospital drawer in Queens. Don't leave him too.
Then, a miracle happened.
Leo’s head twitched. His tiny nostrils flared, catching the scent of fresh, warm milk. His mouth opened instinctively, a wide, desperate circle, and he latched.
The sudden sensation sent a sharp ache straight to Hunter’s womb, but she leaned back, a ragged sigh of pure relief escaping her lips. Leo’s jaw moved—once, twice—and then a soft, wet swallowing sound echoed in the quiet nursery.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The heart monitor beside the crib didn't speed up; instead, the frantic, erratic spikes began to level out into a steady, rhythmic cadence. The machine was confirming what Hunter’s body already knew: the boy was fighting his way back to life.
She was so focused on the rhythmic pulse of his jaw that she didn't hear the heavy boots on the carpet. She didn't see the shadow that stretched across the threshold of the nursery door.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The voice was like ice breaking under a heavy boot.
Hunter froze, her head snapping up.
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Lorenzo Rossi stood in the doorway. He was still wearing his dark, tailored trousers, but his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot from weeks of sleepless fury. In his right hand, held with the casual familiarity of a man who had used it a thousand times, was a black semi-automatic pistol.
The barrel was pointed directly at Hunter's forehead.
