Chapter 4 - The Gun and the Maid
The monitor beside the crib changed its rhythm.
Beep....... beep....... beep
became
Beep... beep... beep
It was a steady, stronger cadence.
Leo pulled a second time, his jaw moving with a sudden, surprising force. A tiny, wet sound escaped his throat as he swallowed.
Hunter closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her nose and dripping onto the baby’s forehead.
"That's it," she whispered, her hand cradling his tiny, warm head, her fingers tracing the soft curve of his ear. "That's my good boy. You stay right here. Nobody is going to take you."
For twenty minutes, the only sound in the nursery was the rhythmic, wet click of the baby swallowing and the steady hum of the heart monitor. The heat in Hunter’s chest began to subside, replaced by a deep, cool relief that she had not felt since the stairs in Queens. It was as if Lily’s ghost were standing beside her, approving of the transfer, passing her life to the boy who needed it more than the grave did.
Then, the nursery door swung open.
The wood did not creak, but the change in air pressure was immediate.
Hunter did not look up right away. She was holding Leo’s hand—his fingers had curled around her thumb, holding on with a grip that was remarkably tight for a dying child.
When she did look up, she saw the barrel of a gun.
It was a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol, held by a large, pale hand that was stained with dry, dark red blood.
Lorenzo Rossi stood in the doorway.
His black silk shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his eyes were wild—not with the anger of a crime boss, but with the hollow, manic desperation of a man who had reached the end of his rope. His gaze went from the sleeping nurse in the corner to Hunter’s face, and then down to his son, whose small cheek was pressed flat against the bare skin of her breast.
The gun did not shake, but Lorenzo’s chest was rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.
"Put him down," Lorenzo said. His voice was a whip-crack in the quiet room.
Hunter did not move. She looked at the gun, then up at his face. She saw the scar on his temple, the dark, bloodshot eyes that had seen more death than she could imagine, and the faint, dry smear of blood on his cheek.
"If I move him now," she said, her voice steady, "he will stop. And he won't start again."
"You are a maid," Lorenzo said, his step forward slow, deliberate, and heavy. The muzzle of the gun pointed directly at the space between her eyes. "You entered this room without permission. You touched my son. I could have you thrown off the cliffs before the sun rises."
"Your nurse was asleep," Hunter said, her eyes moving to the woman in the leather chair, who had not even stirred at the sound of Lorenzo’s voice. "There was a bottle of wine. She didn't hear him crying."
"I did not authorize this," Lorenzo growled, his jaw tightening. "You have not been tested. You have not been screened by my doctors. You could be carrying a disease. You could be trying to poison him."
"I am healthy," Hunter said. "And he was starving. Look at his face, Mr. Rossi."
Lorenzo’s gaze shifted down.
He looked at his son.
The baby’s cheeks, which had been pale and yellow for weeks, were flushed with a faint, healthy pink. His small jaw was moving in a slow, determined rhythm, and his forehead was dry, the fever seemed to have broken. The monitor above them showed a heart rate of one hundred and twenty—stronger than it had been since the night he was delivered.
The gun lowered one inch.
"What did you give him?" Lorenzo asked, his voice losing its dangerous edge, replaced by a strange, hollow curiosity.
"Milk," Hunter said.
"What kind?"
"Mine."
"You have a child?"
The question was simple, but it hit the wound that Hunter had been trying to keep sealed. She felt the tears return to her eyes, hot and fast, but she did not lower her head.
"No," she said.
One word.
It was a small sound, but it filled the room with the weight of her own tragedy.
Lorenzo stared at her. He saw the way she held his son—not like a servant performing a task, but like a woman who knew the exact value of the life she was holding. He saw the raw, red skin of her knuckles, the cheap, stained uniform, and the wet, white circles of milk on her apron.
And then, he saw the grief.
It was the same grief he saw in the mirror every morning—the hollow, quiet rot that remained after the fire had burned itself out.
"My daughter died three weeks ago," Hunter said, her voice dropping to a whisper, though it did not lose its strength. "Her father pushed me down the stairs because I wouldn't give him her crib money. She never drew a breath. But my body didn't care. It kept the milk anyway."
She looked up, her green eyes locking onto his.
"I heard your son crying from the library. My body heard him too. If you want to shoot me for saving his life, Mr. Rossi... then go ahead. But let him finish first."
Lorenzo’s hand fell to his side.
The pistol slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft, heavy thud on the plush rug near his boots.
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He did not look at the weapon. He did not look at the sleeping nurse.
He slowly fell to his knees beside the sofa.
