I HELD A SCREAMING MAFIA HEIR AGAINST MY BARE CHEST TO SAVE HIS LIFE — THEN HIS FATHER HEARD MY LAST NAME AND LOCKED THE DOOR

The quiet in the dim room was heavier than the screaming had been.

The baby’s head rested in the small dip right above my collarbone. He was so tiny that his entire chest fit in the palm of my hand, his soft, dark fuzz sticking to my skin where sweat had pooled from the heat of the room and the sudden spike of adrenaline. His small, shallow breaths hitched every few seconds—a residual reflex from two weeks of nonstop crying—but his body had finally stopped fighting.

I didn't move. I didn't dare to breathe normally. My arms held him securely against my bare skin, feeling every micro-fluctuation of his heart rate against my ribs.

Across the room, Daniel Russo hadn't moved either.

His gaze moved from the rising and falling back of his son to my face. The man looked tailored even in a crisis, his dark suit crisp, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat just enough to reveal a sliver of dark ink creeping up his neck. But his eyes were terrifying. They were a pale, translucent shade of amber, devoid of warmth or panic, leaving behind only an icy, calculating sharpness.

"Tommy Jenkins," Daniel repeated. His voice was low, smooth, and lacked any raised inflection, which somehow made it ten times worse than a shout. "Your brother?"

My throat felt dry, coated in dust and fear. "He's my brother."

The man who had spoken—the right-hand who looked more like a brick wall in a three-piece suit—shifted his stance slightly, his jacket pulling back just enough to show the dark leather holster tucked under his arm.

"Boss," the man murmured, keeping his eyes on me. "Marco’s crew is already on their way to Tommy's apartment in Little Italy. Execution was set for 3:30 AM. It’s 3:18."

Twelve minutes. My brother had twelve minutes left to live.

Tommy was an idiot. He was twenty-two, addicted to sports gambling, and possessed a talent for picking the absolute worst people to borrow money from. I had spent three years using my salary as a specialized NICU nurse to pay off his debts, clear his tabs, and pull him out of back-alley beatings. But fifty thousand dollars to the Russo syndicate wasn't a debt you paid off with monthly installments. It was a death sentence.

"Please," I said. My voice trembled, but I kept my arms completely steady around the baby. "He doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't know anything about my work. Please call them off."

"You want me to grant a mercy," Daniel said, stepping closer. His shoes made no sound on the heavy rubberized floor of the private suite. He stopped inches away, towering over me. The smell of high-end sandalwood, faint tobacco, and cold rain drifted off him. "To a thief who took from my family?"

"I just saved your son," I spat, the anger cutting through my terror before I could filter it. "Your doctors were letting him choke on his own stress. They were overloading his nervous system until his heart gave out. I stopped it. I am the only person in this hospital who made him stop screaming."

The right-hand man stepped forward, his face darkening. "Watch your mouth, nurse—"

Daniel held up one long, calloused finger. The guard went instantly silent.

Daniel looked down at his son. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand. His knuckles were slightly scarred, his skin warm as the back of his fingers brushed softly against the baby's tiny, dark hair. The infant made a soft, snuffling sound, nestling deeper against my bare chest, seeking the heat of my skin.

Daniel watched the interaction with an unreadable expression.

"What is his name?" Daniel asked softly.

I blinked, thrown off by the question. "Your... your son?"

"You stripped off his leads. You took him out of an incubator I spent two million dollars installing in this wing. You held him to your skin like he belonged to you." Daniel looked up, his amber eyes locking onto mine. "If you know how to save him, you should know his name."

"They... the chart just says Baby Boy Russo," I whispered.

"Leo," Daniel said. "His name is Leo."

He turned his head slightly toward his right-hand man without looking away from me. "Matteo."

"Yes, Boss?"

"Call Marco. Tell him to hold Tommy Jenkins in the basement at the warehouse on 14th Street. Uncut. Unharmed."

Matteo hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Hold him, Boss? Not clear him?"

"Hold him," Daniel repeated coldly. He turned his full attention back to me, taking a half-step closer until his chest almost brushed my bare shoulder. "Your brother's life is now tied to my son's heartbeat, Nurse Jenkins. Every hour Leo sleeps, your brother breathes. Every time Leo screams, your brother bleeds. And if my son dies..."