The most feared mafia boss in the country pointed a gun at my head while I cradled his dying baby against my chest, convinced I was kidnapping his son. Then the child swallowed for the first time in weeks, and I realized the real danger wasn't standing in front of me—it was already living inside his mansion.

A massive king-sized bed sat in the center of the room, surrounded by security monitors displaying every inch of the twelve-acre estate. Outside, heavy rain beat against the windows, but inside, the only sound was the soft crackle of the gas fireplace and Leo’s steady, deep breathing from the bassinet beside the bed.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, wrapped in a plush black silk robe Lorenzo had given me to replace my torn, milk-stained maid's uniform.

A private female physician, Dr. Chen, had just finished examining both me and Leo.

"He's gained three ounces since last night, Don Lorenzo," Dr. Chen reported, setting her stethoscope into her bag. She looked at me with profound respect. "The baby isn't sick. He never was. His system was being systematically paralyzed by high doses of Phenobarbital mixed into his donor milk."

Lorenzo stood by the fireplace, a crystal glass of amber scotch held tightly in his hand. His jacket was off, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos creeping up his neck—symbols of the Sicilian syndicate he commanded.

"And the nurse?" Lorenzo asked, his tone deceptively soft.

"Nurse Clara confessed before she died of her own overdose," Dr. Chen replied quietly. "She was paid two hundred thousand dollars to make sure the baby didn't survive his second month. The money was wired from an offshore account in the Cayman Islands."

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened until the muscle twitched. "Who signed the wire?"

"The account belongs to a holding company," Dr. Chen hesitated, glancing nervously at me before continuing. "Registered under the name of Julian Rossi. Your brother."

GLASS SHATTERED.

The heavy crystal tumbler in Lorenzo’s hand shattered into a hundred pieces under his bare grip. Scotch and blood dripped onto the white sheepskin rug, but Lorenzo didn't even flinch. He didn't blink.

"Julian," Lorenzo whispered, a terrifyingly cold laugh escaping his lips. "My own blood. He couldn't kill me in the ambush six months ago, so he went after a motherless child."

Dr. Chen bowed her head quickly. "I have prescribed antibiotics and vitamins for Miss Vance to keep her strength up. Her body has experienced severe trauma from her recent... loss, but her lactation is healthy and strong. She is literally the only reason your son is alive tonight."

"Leave us, Doctor," Lorenzo commanded.

Dr. Chen gathered her equipment and quietly exited the suite, locking the heavy steel door behind her.

Lorenzo stood motionless by the fire, blood slowly dripping from his palm onto the floor. I watched him, my heart pounding in my chest. He was a monster to the outside world—a man whose name made hardened criminals drop to their knees—but right now, looking at his bleeding hand, I saw a father suffocating under the weight of utter betrayal.

Without thinking, I stood up from the bed, grabbed a clean white cloth from the side table, and walked over to him.

"You're bleeding," I said softly.

Lorenzo looked down at me as I approached. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back entirely to meet his eyes. He didn't pull his hand away as I gently reached out, taking his wounded palm in mine.

Carefully, using my fingertips, I picked out two small shards of crystal embedded in his skin. He didn't make a sound, his dark eyes tracking my every movement with an intensity that made my skin tingle.

"You aren't afraid of me," Lorenzo noted, his voice a low vibration against the quiet room.

"I spent three years being afraid of a coward who hit me when I couldn't hit back," I whispered, wrapping the white cloth around his palm and tying a tight knot. "You hold a gun like a man who knows what death costs. I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Rossi."

"Lorenzo," he corrected, his voice dropping into a intimate whisper. "Call me Lorenzo."

He raised his uninjured hand, his long fingers gently touching the fading yellow bruise on my jaw—the mark left by Marcus a week before he shoved me down the stairs.

"Who did this to you?" Lorenzo asked, his thumb lightly stroking my cheekbone. "Was it the trash in my basement?"

"Yes," I shuddered, tears pricking my eyes as the memory of that terrible night returned. "He wanted my savings to pay off his gambling debts. When I told him the money was for the baby's crib... he shoved me."

Lorenzo’s hand slid down to the nape of my neck, his grip possessive, warm, and absolute.

"He stole your daughter, Elena," Lorenzo murmured, stepping closer until our chest met. "And tonight, he tried to steal my son. Do you know what the law of the Rossi family is for a crime like that?"

"No," I breathed, mesmerized by the sheer power radiating from him.

"Blood for blood," Lorenzo said, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. "He will never see the light of day again. I will make sure he suffers for every tear you shed for your little girl."

Suddenly, the security screen on the wall flashed red.