Chapter 3 - The Call of the Hungry
The second-floor library was a vast, cavernous room filled with the smell of leather-bound books, old paper, and beeswax. The walls were covered in dark oak paneling, and a large marble fireplace stood cold and dark at the far end. Hunter set the tray of crystal glasses on the sideboard, her movements silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.
She wanted to return to the basement. The damp air of the lower levels was cold enough to soothe the feverish heat in her breasts, and the noise of the laundry machines would drown out the thoughts she couldn't stop.
But as she turned toward the service door, she heard it.
It was a sound so thin, so fragile, that at first she thought it was the wind whistling through the leaded panes of the library windows. It was a rhythmic, rising rasp, followed by a tiny, choking gasp for air.
A baby's cry.
Hunter froze. Her hand remained resting on the edge of the sideboard, her fingers locking onto the polished wood.
The cry came again, clearer this time, drifting down the grand spiral staircase that connected the second floor to the third. It was not the loud, demanding wail of a healthy infant who wanted to be held. It was the dry, exhausted rattle of a creature that had spent its small reservoir of strength and was now crying out of sheer, instinctual panic.
In her chest, the pressure doubled. The heat became a sharp, stinging fire, and she felt the warm, wet rush of milk soaking through her uniform, spreading in two wide, dark circles across her apron.
No, she thought. Don't look. Don't go. It’s not your baby. Your baby is dead.
She took a step toward the service stairs. Her boots made no sound on the thick wool carpet.
But the cry came a third time—weaker now, ending in a wet, rattling cough that sounded as if the child’s throat had gone completely dry.
Hunter looked up the spiral staircase. The third-floor landing was dark, illuminated only by the faint, blue glow of an electronic security monitor mounted on the wall.
There were no guards.
Normally, two armed men in dark suits stood at the foot of the stairs, their hands resting near their lapels, their faces expressionless. But tonight, the landing was empty. Perhaps Lorenzo Rossi had sent them away because he could not bear to have his men hear his son die. Or perhaps, in his grief, he had simply forgotten to order them to stay.
Hunter’s feet moved before her mind could construct a defense.
She climbed the stairs slowly, her hand sliding along the cold bronze handrail. With every step, the sound of the crying grew louder, accompanied by the slow, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a medical monitor.
The door to the nursery was heavy mahogany, carved with reliefs of clouds and sleeping lambs—a mocking touch of innocence in a house built on blood. It was ajar, a single inch of golden light spilling out onto the dark hallway.
Hunter pushed the door open.
The room was larger than the entire apartment she had shared with Tommy. It was filled with white leather furniture, a massive plush rug that swallowed her boots, and a mahogany crib that looked like a small boat floating in the center of the room. Around the crib, three tall medical towers blinked with blue and green lights, their screens displaying lines of numbers and wave patterns that Hunter did not understand.
In a large leather armchair in the corner, a woman in a white nurse’s uniform was asleep.
Her head was tilted back against the leather, her mouth open, a soft snore escaping her lips. On the small table beside her stood a half-empty bottle of red wine and a crystal glass. The nurse had been hired to watch the heir to a two-billion-dollar empire, but she had chosen the easy comfort of the master’s cellar instead of the dry, rattling cries of a dying child.
Hunter felt a sudden, hot surge of anger—a primitive, protective rage that burned away the last of her fear.
She walked past the sleeping nurse, her eyes fixed on the crib.
Little Leo Rossi lay under a white merino wool blanket. He was wearing a blue cotton sleeper that was far too large for him, the sleeves folded back three times to reveal wrists that were no thicker than Hunter’s pinky finger. His skin was translucent, almost blue under the sterile lights of the monitors, and his small, blond-tufted head was turned to the side, his lips parted and dry.
"Oh, baby," Hunter whispered.
She reached into the crib and lifted him.
He weighed nothing. He felt like a bundle of dry twigs wrapped in silk. His small head wobbled against her palm, and his skin was hot, dry, and rough with dehydration.
As she held him against her chest, the baby’s mouth began to move. He didn't have the strength to cry anymore; his head simply turned toward her collarbone, his nose twitching as his instinctual sense of smell detected the warm, sweet scent of milk that had soaked her uniform.
Hunter did not think about Lorenzo Rossi. She did not think about the stone angels or the cameras or the men with guns in the courtyard.
She sat on the edge of the white leather sofa, loosened the tight linen bandages around her ribs with trembling fingers, and pulled the neck of her gray uniform down.
She guided Leo's cheek toward her breast.
"Come on, little one," she murmured, her voice thick with tears she had kept bottled up since the hospital. "I’m here. I’m here."
Leo’s head turned. His small, dry mouth brushed against her skin.
For one agonizing second, he did nothing. He lay there, his breathing shallow, his tiny fingers opening and closing against her apron.
Then, his mouth closed around her.
He pulled.
May you like
It was a weak, hesitant movement—the pull of a child who had forgotten how to live. But the moment his tongue touched her, Hunter felt a sensation like an electric current shoot through her spine, straight to the core of her body.
And then, she felt the milk let down.
