MAFIA BOSS'S DYING BABY REFUSED EVERY BOTTLE — UNTIL A GRIEVING MAID DID THE UNTHINKABLE

The suite adjacent to the nursery was larger than any home Hunter had ever set foot in.

It featured floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the roaring Atlantic ocean, a king-sized bed wrapped in silk sheets, an en-suite bathroom with marble fixtures, and a private room designed specifically for nursing. High-end clothes—cashmere sweaters, soft cotton dresses, expensive lounge wear—had been placed in the walk-in closet, all tailored to her exact measurements within hours of her meeting with Lorenzo.

Yet, as Hunter stood in the middle of the room, listening to the soft click of the electronic lock engaging on her door, she knew exactly what this place was.

It was a golden cage.

For two weeks, her life collapsed into a strict, relentless rhythm. Every three hours, night and day, she would walk through the connecting door into the nursery. She would lift Leo from his crib, cradle his warm, tiny body against her chest, and feel him feed.

The change in the child was nothing short of miraculous.

The hollows in his cheeks filled out. The pale, translucent hue of his skin was replaced by a healthy, glowing pink. He began to gain weight—half a pound every four days. His dark brown eyes, so remarkably similar to his father’s, began to focus on Hunter’s face, recognizing her scent, her voice, and the soft humming tunes she sang to him in the dark.

She was becoming his whole world. And against every rule she had set for herself, he was becoming hers.

One rainy afternoon, as a thunderstorm rattled the heavy bulletproof glass of the nursery, Hunter sat in the oversized glider chair, nursing Leo. He was fast asleep, his small mouth still loosely latched, his tiny fist clutching the edge of her soft wool sweater.

The heavy oak door opened softly.

Lorenzo stepped inside. He had made a habit of visiting the nursery every evening, though he rarely spoke. He would stand near the door, his arms crossed over his massive chest, watching Hunter and the boy in absolute silence before leaving as quietly as he had arrived.

Today, however, he walked over to the glider chair and sat down on the leather ottoman opposite her.

"He looks bigger," Lorenzo said softly. His deep voice carried a rare, uncharacteristic warmth.

"He gained another six ounces yesterday," Hunter replied quietly, without looking up. She carefully adjusted the blanket over her shoulder to cover her chest. "The doctor says his blood work is completely clear."

Lorenzo watched his son’s chest rise and fall. "He has his mother's nose. But he has my hands. Look at those knuckles... he’s going to be a fighter."

"He shouldn't have to fight," Hunter murmured, her fingers gently caressing the baby’s arm. "He’s a child, Mr. Rossi. He should be safe."

Lorenzo let out a low, humorless breath. "In my life, safety is an illusion, Hunter. The moment you believe you are safe is the moment someone puts a bullet through your window."

Hunter looked up, meeting his gaze. "Is that how you live? Expecting a bullet every second?"

"That is how I survived growing up on the streets of South Brooklyn," Lorenzo said coldly. "And that is how I am going to make sure my son inherits everything I've built."

He reached out—a rare, hesitant gesture—and touched Leo’s small, soft cheek with the tip of his thick finger. The baby stirred slightly in his sleep, turning his head toward his father's touch.

For a second, Hunter saw past the blood-soaked reputation, the cold-blooded mafia Don, and the billionaire titan. She saw a man drowning in an ocean of grief, desperately clinging to the only piece of his late wife that remained on this earth.

"You haven't held him," Hunter said suddenly.

Lorenzo stopped. His hand froze over the crib blanket. "What?"

"In two weeks, I have never seen you hold your son," Hunter said, her voice gentle but firm. "You stand over there like a stranger. You look at him like he’s made of glass."

Lorenzo’s face hardened, the shutter closing over his emotions instantly. "I am a busy man, Miss Vance. I have an empire to run."

"You're afraid," Hunter stated plainly.

Lorenzo’s eyes snapped to hers, a dangerous fire igniting in their dark depths. "Be careful."

"You're afraid that if you hold him... if you let yourself love him... someone will take him away from you the way they took his mother," Hunter said, refusing to back down from his glare. "You think if you stay cold, it won't hurt when the bullet comes."

Lorenzo stood up abruptly, his massive frame looming over her. The air in the room instantly turned toxic with tension.

"You know nothing about my life, girl," he growled softly, bending down until his face was inches from hers. "You are here to feed my son. Do not pretend to be my psychiatrist."