Chapter 3 - Bound by Blood and Milk
By sunrise, the third floor of the Rossi mansion had been completely transformed.
The master guest suite—a sprawling wing featuring vaulted mahogany ceilings, a private balcony facing Lake Long Island, and velvet sofas—was now Hunter’s. Her worn canvas bag containing three faded t-shirts and an old photograph of her late mother sat on a velvet chair that cost more than her former home.
In the center of the room sat a white nursery cradle.
Leo was fast asleep inside it, his stomach full for the first time in his life, his little hands curled into tight fists against his cheeks.
Hunter sat on the edge of the plush king-sized bed, wearing a soft cream cashmere robe that the household staff had laid out for her. Her wet hair fell over her shoulders in dark waves.
A sharp knock sounded at the double oak doors.
Mrs. Gable, the senior housekeeper who had spent the last two weeks yelling at Hunter for leaving water spots on the silverware, walked in. Her face was pale, her hands shaking as she pushed a silver trolley laden with fresh berries, poached eggs, avocado toast, and hot organic tea.
“Miss... Miss Hunter,” Mrs. Gable stammered, refusing to meet her eyes. “Mr. Rossi ordered breakfast for you. He insisted you finish everything on the tray to maintain your... your strength.”
Hunter looked at the woman who had made her scrub toilets twelve hours earlier. “Mrs. Gable, please. You don't have to call me 'Miss.' I’m still just Hunter.”
“No, you aren't,” a deep voice rang out from the doorway.
Lorenzo walked into the room, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, his dark hair freshly styled, looking every bit the ruthless billionaire. He motioned for Mrs. Gable to leave. The housekeeper bowed her head frantically and scrambled out, shutting the heavy doors behind her.
Lorenzo walked over to the silver trolley, poured a cup of tea, and handed it to Hunter.
“Drink,” he said softly. “You need the fluids.”
Hunter took the delicate porcelain cup, her fingers brushing against his warm, broad hand. An electric spark shot up her arm, making her breath catch.
“You don't have to treat me like royalty, Mr. Rossi,” Hunter said, looking down at the amber tea. “I’m doing this for Leo. Not for luxury.”
“I know why you’re doing it,” Lorenzo replied, sitting down on the edge of the mattress beside her. The mattress dipped under his heavy frame, bringing him close enough that she could smell the clean scent of his soap. “And that is precisely why you will receive everything this family has to offer.”
He looked toward the cradle where Leo was sleeping peacefully.
“Dr. Gallagher came in two hours ago while you were resting,” Lorenzo said, his jaw setting into hard lines. “He ran a quick blood panel on Leo. His red cell count is up four percent. His hydration levels are normal. The doctor called it a medical impossibility.”
“It’s not impossible,” Hunter said softly. “It’s just human nature.”
Lorenzo turned his head to look at her. His gaze drifted down to her pale throat, then up to her swollen, exhausted eyes.
“Tell me about your baby,” Lorenzo whispered suddenly.
The air in the room grew instantly heavy. Hunter felt a lump form in her throat, her chest tightening with the familiar, crushing grief she had been running from.
“His name was Noah,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioner. “He was born three weeks ago in a storm. The cord was wrapped around his neck. By the time the doctor got him out... his heart had already stopped.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the wave of hot tears.
“I didn't even get to hear him cry once,” Hunter choked out. “I stayed in that hospital room for two days with milk coming in, holding a silent bundle, watching other mothers in the hallway laugh with their babies. I thought I was going to lose my mind. So I took the first job I could find far away from Manhattan.”
Lorenzo didn't speak for a long time.
Then, slowly, his large, scarred hand reached out and wrapped around her trembling fingers. He didn't pull away. He held her hand with an intense, steady pressure that felt like an anchor in a roaring sea.
“Sophia was eight months pregnant when the bomb hit my car,” Lorenzo said, his voice flat, stripped of all armor. “She died on the pavement outside the St. Regis. The surgeons cut Leo out of her body in the middle of a pool of blood. He never heard his mother’s voice either.”
Hunter looked up at him through her tears.
Two broken survivors, sitting in a billion-dollar palace built on violence, linked by the ghosts of the people they couldn't save.
“Noah didn't die for nothing, Hunter,” Lorenzo whispered, his dark eyes burning into hers with a fierce, absolute conviction. “He gave you the power to save my son. Which means as long as I draw breath, no one will ever hurt you again.”
Before Hunter could answer, the heavy oak doors burst open without a knock.
Mateo stood in the threshold, his face grim, his hand resting on his jacket.
“Boss,” Mateo said urgently. “We have a problem downstairs. The toxicology report on the formula just came back from our private lab in Jersey.”
Lorenzo’s hand tightened around Hunter’s until it nearly hurt. His face hardened instantly back into stone.
“And?” Lorenzo growled.
“The formula wasn't bad, Boss,” Mateo said, stepping into the room and closing the door. “It was spiked. Someone was micro-dosing the baby’s milk with a synthetic neurotoxin that causes severe gastric paralysis.”
Hunter gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in horror. “What? Someone was poisoning him?!”
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Lorenzo stood up slowly, his tall frame blocking out the sunlight from the balcony. A terrifying, lethal calm settled over his features—the calm of a predator about to destroy an entire world.
“Someone in this house,” Lorenzo whispered, his voice dangerously soft, “was trying to kill the Rossi heir.”
