Chapter 2 - THE LIQUID LIFE
The floorboards didn't make a sound beneath my wool socks.
I crossed the vast, quiet room like a ghost, my eyes fixed entirely on the woman slumping in the leather armchair. Her head had fallen to the side, her jaw hanging slightly open, a thin thread of saliva glistening on her lower lip. The sharp, bitter scent of wine hung heavily in the air around her, mixing sickeningly with the smell of the room.
I stood over her for three seconds. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel the blood roaring in my ears, but a strange, icy calm had taken over my limbs.
Gently, without disturbing the glass of wine resting on the armrest, I reached down.
I slid my hands beneath the baby’s tiny frame.
He was so light it terrified me. He felt like a bundle of dry twigs wrapped in silk—no weight, no substance, his little body radiating a unnatural, feverish heat. As I lifted him away from the nurse's lap, his small head fell back helplessly. I caught it instantly, cradling the base of his skull with my palm, pulling him tight against my chest.
The moment he touched me, he stopped whimpering.
His tiny face buried itself into the navy cotton of my uniform—right over the wet, hot stain that had soaked through my shirt. His tiny, paper-thin nostrils flared, snorting in the scent of milk, human skin, and sweat.
"Shh," I breathed, my voice barely a thread of air. "I've got you. I've got you, little one."
I backed away from the sleeping nurse, stepping toward the shadow of the large bay window at the far end of the nursery. A massive white rocking chair sat there, draped in a cashmere throw blanket. I sat down on the edge of the cushion, my knees shaking violently.
My hands flew to the buttons of my uniform.
What are you doing? a voice screamed inside my head. This is Lorenzo Rossi's son. You are a maid. This is crazy. You'll be shot.
I didn't listen. I couldn't.
I unbuttoned the top four buttons of my navy tunic. I reached down, tearing away the wet, blood-stained elastic bandage wrapped around my chest, exposing my swollen, aching breast to the cold air of the nursery.
Leo felt the bare skin against his cheek.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't turn away. He didn't choke or gag as he had done with the glass bottle.
His tiny mouth opened wide, his dark blue eyes snapping open for a fraction of a second—cloudy, unfocused, but filled with a sudden, primal instinct. He lunged forward, his tiny jaw clamping down on my nipple with a strength that took my breath away.
"Ah..." I gasped softly, clutching him closer.
The pain was instantaneous—a sharp, piercing tug that sent a electric shock straight through my lower abdomen. But right behind the pain came a wave of intense, breathtaking relief.
The pressure in my chest burst open.
Swallow.
The sound was tiny, faint, like a drop of rain falling into a bucket.
Leo’s tiny throat contracted. He swallowed once.
Then he drew in a sharp, greedy breath through his nose.
Swallow.
Another drop.
Swallow.
Tears welled up in my eyes, spilling over my eyelashes before I could stop them, falling down my cheeks and dripping onto the baby's pale, soft forehead.
He wasn't rejecting the milk. He wasn't allergic. He wasn't dying of some rare, incurable genetic disease. He was starving—hungry for the one thing his body was built to receive, the raw, living human milk that no laboratory in the world could synthesize.
"Eat, sweet boy," I whispered, my voice breaking into a ragged sob. I reached down, my thumb gently tracing the thin, delicate curve of his jaw. "Eat as much as you want. It's all for you. It was all meant for someone else, but she's gone... so it's all yours."
Leo’s small hands—which had been clutched into tight, desperate fists—gradually began to relax. His tiny fingers stretched out, resting flat against the curve of my chest, his knuckles pale against my skin. His breathing, which had been fast, shallow, and ragged on the monitors, slowed down into a smooth, rhythmic hum.
Swallow. Swallow. Swallow.
The electronic monitor beside the crib chimed softly.
I glanced up, terror spiking through my veins, fearing an alarm had gone off.
On the glowing screen, the heart rate line—which had been hovering at a dangerous, erratic 175 beats per minute—was steadily dropping into the healthy, green zone: 140... 138... 135. The oxygen saturation bar, previously stuck at a critical 88 percent, crept upward: 91... 94... 96 percent.
The baby was stabilizing. In real time, right before my eyes, his pale, yellowish cheeks were flushing with a soft, delicate pink hue.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against his soft, peach-fuzz hair, inhaling the faint, sweet scent of him. For three weeks, my arms had felt hollow, heavy, and dead—like limbs carved from granite that served no purpose in the world. Now, as this tiny, fragile life drew sustenance from my body, the crushing darkness inside me lifted just an inch.
I wasn't useless. My milk wasn't a curse. It was keeping Lorenzo Rossi's son alive.
He nursed continuously for fifteen minutes, swallowing with a steady, desperate rhythm that didn't stop until his tiny belly felt round, soft, and warm against my ribs.
Gradually, his swallows slowed down. His jaw grew heavy, his grip on my chest slipping away as deep, natural exhaustion finally took him over. His eyes stayed shut, his little lips fluttering in a faint, content suckling reflex even in his sleep.
I let out a long, shaky breath, leaning my head back against the leather cushion. I felt drained, physically exhausted, but a profound sense of peace—something I hadn't felt since before Marcus pushed me—settled over my heart.
"Good boy," I murmured, gently lifting him up to rest against my shoulder to burp him.
I patted his tiny back with two fingers. After a few seconds, he let out a soft, wet little burp—a sound so small it made me smile through my tears.
I had to put him back. I had to button my uniform, rewrap my chest, and get down the service stairs before the shift changed at 2:30 AM.
I stood up carefully, cradling Leo against my shoulder, and turned toward the center of the room.
The nurse was still asleep in the leather chair, her mouth wide open, her wineglass leaning dangerously against the fabric of her uniform.
I took three quiet steps toward the crib.
CLICK.
The sound was sharp, metallic, and unmistakable.
It came from the dark doorway behind me.
I stopped dead in my tracks. My blood turned to ice in a single millisecond.
"Do not move," a voice commanded.
It didn't sound like a man's voice. It sounded like an engine grinding gears—low, gravelly, vibrating with a cold, terrifying authority that filled every corner of the vast nursery.
I didn't turn around. I couldn't. Every muscle in my body locked into place. I pulled Leo tighter against my neck, wrapping my arms completely around his small frame, using my body as a shield.
Slowly, deliberately, heavy leather soles stepped across the threshold of the nursery.
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet ten degrees.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him step into the soft amber light of the chandelier.
Lorenzo Rossi.
He was taller than he looked in the newspaper photographs—a towering, broad-shouldered mountain of a man dressed in a charcoal-tailored suit with no tie, the top two buttons of his black shirt unbuttoned. His face looked as though it had been carved out of granite by a butcher who only used straight lines. Sharp, high cheekbones, a harsh jawline covered in dark stubble, and eyes—eyes so dark, so piercing, they looked like polished obsidian sinking into deep sockets of exhaustion.
He didn't look like a billionaire. He looked like a wolf that hadn't slept in three months.
And in his right hand, aimed directly at the back of my head, was a heavy, matte-black semi-automatic pistol.
"Put my son down," Lorenzo said. His voice was terrifyingly calm—a quiet, level tone that promised immediate, absolute violence if I hesitated for a single second. "Put him in the crib, step away, and put your hands on your head. If you make one sudden movement, I will put a bullet through your spine before you hit the floor."
My throat was so dry I couldn't swallow. My knees were shaking so violently I thought I would collapse onto the wool carpet.
"Mr. Rossi..." I managed to whisper, my voice barely audible over the hum of the monitors. "Please..."
"I said put him down!" he growled, taking a fast step forward.
The barrel of the gun was now less than three feet from my forehead. I could see the cold, hollow circle of the steel muzzle. I could see the tiny silver signet ring on his pinky finger—the family crest of the Rossi empire.
He thought I was an intruder. He thought I was an assassin sent by his rivals, or a kidnapper trying to take the last thing he had left in the world.
"Please," I choked out, tears bursting from my eyes, but I didn't step toward the crib. I held Leo tighter against my ribs, refusing to let go of him in the cold air. "Look at him, Mr. Rossi. Please... just look at your son."
Lorenzo’s dark eyes flicked down from my face to the baby cradled against my shoulder.
His jaw flexed sharply.
Leo wasn't whimpering. He wasn't twisting his body in pain. He was resting his little head against the bare skin of my collarbone, his breathing slow, deep, and even, his face flushed a healthy, pale pink.
Lorenzo’s gaze shifted to the electronic monitor beside the crib.
The green numbers glowed brightly in the amber room:
Heart Rate: 132 bpm. Oxygen: 98%. Status: STABLE.
For three long seconds, the absolute silence in the nursery was deafening.
The gun in Lorenzo's hand didn't drop, but the tight, white-knuckled pressure on his trigger finger eased slightly. A subtle, microscopic fracture appeared in his cold, granite facade—a sudden, desperate look of shock that crossed his eyes before he locked it back down.
"What did you do to him?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark whisper. "What did you give him?"
"I didn't give him medicine, Mr. Rossi," I stammered, pulling my unbuttoned uniform slightly higher over my chest, my face burning with shame, but my eyes meeting his dark glare with honest desperation. "He was starving. He's been starving for weeks."
Lorenzo’s dark eyes narrowed into thin, lethal slits. "He has the best formulas in North America. He has four private wet nurses on payroll."
"None of that matters if he won't take it!" I cried out softly, gesturing toward the sleeping nurse in the leather armchair. "Look at her, Mr. Rossi! Look at how your son is being cared for when you aren't in this room!"
Lorenzo turned his head slowly.
His gaze landed on the nurse, who was still snoring softly in the chair, the empty bottle of wine sitting openly on the table beside her chart.
His face didn't register anger; it registered something far worse—a absolute, terrifying stillness that made my hair stand on end.
He lowered the pistol slowly to his side.
He walked past me, his leather shoes making no sound, and stopped beside the nurse's chair. He didn't yell. He didn't shake her. He simply reached down, picked up the glass bottle of wine from the table, and sniffed it once.
Then his dark eyes drifted to the small glass vial with the eyedropper cap sitting beside the chart.
He picked up the vial, unscrewed the cap, and touched the tip of the dropper to his pinky finger. He brought his finger to his tongue.
His dark eyes snapped wide open.
"Sedative," Lorenzo whispered, his voice dangerously low. "A heavy pediatric paralytic."
He turned back to look at the nurse, his face completely devoid of human warmth.
"She wasn't trying to feed him," I said quietly, watching him from the bay window. "She was drugging him so he would sleep through her shift. Every time he cried for food, she put more of those drops in his mouth. It paralyzed his throat muscles, Mr. Rossi. That's why he couldn't swallow the bottle. That's why he was throwing up. His stomach couldn't process the chemical."
Lorenzo stood motionless in the center of the room, holding the tiny glass vial in his massive hand.
In that moment, the feared mafia boss—the man who commanded armies of armed men, who controlled whole cities with an iron fist—looked entirely human. He looked like a man who had been struck by lightning, standing amidst the ruins of his own home, realizing that the enemies he fought on the streets were already living inside his castle.
Suddenly, a loud SLAM echoed from the hallway outside.
The double doors of the nursery slammed shut with violent force.
CLICK.
The heavy iron deadbolt on the outside of the door slid into place.
The lights in the nursery instantly cut out, plunging the room into total, pitch-black darkness, save for the faint green glow of the baby monitor.
Leo startled in my arms, letting out a sharp, frightened whimper.
"Stay down!" Lorenzo barked in the darkness.
I dropped to my knees behind the plush armchair, wrapping my body around Leo, shielding his small head with my arms.
In the dark, I heard the rapid, metallic clack-clack of Lorenzo racking a round into the chamber of his pistol.
May you like
Then, from the other side of the heavy oak door, a raspy, distorted voice echoed through the hallway speaker system:
"Good evening, Mr. Rossi. You should have checked the nurse's bank accounts before you hired her... Elena, if you're in there... Marcus says hello."
