"The most feared mafia boss in the city stood over me with a gun aimed at my heart while I cradled his dying baby against my bare chest. He was convinced I had betrayed him—until his son swallowed for the first time in weeks, and I realized someone inside his own mansion might have been trying to let that little boy die.

The heavy mahogany door rattled in its frame as the brass lock clicked shut from the hallway. Outside, the whisper echoed through the keyhole—soft, raspy, and chilled with malice:

“Elena…”

My heart slammed against my ribs. Beside me, Lorenzo Rossi’s tall frame went completely rigid. The air in the dim nursery instantly turned into ice.

Lorenzo didn't panic. He moved with the terrifying speed of a seasoned predator. In a single fluid motion, his arm swept out, shielding me and little Leo behind his broad back while his gun swept toward the closed door. His thumb clicked the safety off with a sharp, lethal metallic sound.

“Step away from the door, Elena,” Lorenzo commanded, his voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous it made the floorboards vibrate.

I clutched baby Leo tighter against my bare chest, my hands trembling as I buttoned the top two buttons of my maid’s uniform to shield his frail body. Leo whined softly, disturbed by the sudden shift in energy, but he didn't scream. For the first time in weeks, his little stomach was full.

Lorenzo closed the distance to the door in two long strides, grabbing the heavy silver handle and twisting it. It didn't budge.

“Nurse!” Lorenzo snapped, turning his glare toward the velvet armchair near the crib.

The night nurse, Evelyn, was still slumped in the chair. Her head hung at an awkward angle, her mouth slightly open. On the small glass table beside her sat the half-empty glass of red wine you’d expect a tired woman to sip during a long shift.

Lorenzo stepped over to her, pressing two fingers firmly against her neck. His jaw tightened.

“She’s not asleep,” Lorenzo growled, pulling his hand back. “She’s sedated. Heavy sedatives.”

My eyes widened. “The wine...”

“Someone spiked her drink to make sure she slept through the night,” Lorenzo said, his sharp hazel eyes scanning every corner of the lavish, silk-wallpapered nursery. “And whoever locked that door knew I came up here.”

Suddenly, the smell of burnt sulfur began to seep under the bottom of the oak door.

A thin trail of grey smoke drifted into the room, swirling around our feet like a phantom. Then came the soft crackle of rising flames.

Someone was burning the east wing.

“They’re burning the evidence,” I whispered, panic rising in my throat. “Mr. Rossi, the baby—we need to get him out!”

Lorenzo didn't hesitate. He reached down, grabbed a heavy brass floor lamp, and smashed the thick glass of the floor-to-ceiling balcony window with a deafening crash. Night air rushed into the room, carrying the cold scent of the Texas countryside and the unmistakable smell of gasoline burning below.

“Hold him tight,” Lorenzo ordered, sliding his gun into his shoulder holster and stepping out onto the narrow stone balcony.

He looked down into the courtyard sixty feet below. Flames were already licking the ivy-covered walls of the lower floor. But running along the side of the mansion was a heavy wrought-iron drainpipe.

Without asking for permission, Lorenzo wrapped one massive arm around my waist, pulling me flushed against his chest. I held Leo against my shoulder, tucking his little head beneath my collar.