Chapter 5 - The Covenant of Blood and Milk
The feared head of the Rossi family, the man who had ordered the destruction of three Brooklyn docks and the execution of five men in the last forty-eight hours, knelt on the carpet like a beggar.
His hands, which had been clenched into fists for two months, lay open on his knees.
"He was dying," Lorenzo whispered.
"Yes," Hunter said, her hand continuing to stroke Leo's back. "He was."
"The doctors said... they said he didn't have the will to live," Lorenzo said, his voice cracking. He reached out, his thick, scarred finger hovering over the baby’s small, curled hand. "They told me his nervous system was too damaged by the shock of the explosion. They told me to prepare myself."
"Babies don't care about medicine, Mr. Rossi," Hunter said softly. "They care about the skin. They care about the warmth. When everyone who touches them is afraid of their death, they feel it. They think the world is a place where they cannot breathe."
"I was not afraid," Lorenzo muttered, though his eyes were wet.
"You were terrified," Hunter corrected him. "You still are."
Lorenzo did not deny it. He looked at his son’s tiny hand, which had released Hunter’s thumb and was now reaching out, his fingers brushing against his father’s rough, scarred knuckle.
Lorenzo let out a long, ragged breath—a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh.
"He's eating," he said.
"He’s going to be fine," Hunter said. "But he needs to stay on me for a while. He needs to know that the milk isn't going to stop."
Lorenzo stood up slowly, his movements careful, as if he were afraid of waking a sleeping giant. He walked over to the leather chair where the nurse was still snoring, her face red from the wine.
He did not yell. He did not call his guards.
He simply took the nurse by the shoulder and pulled her out of the chair.
The woman woke with a start, her eyes widening in terror as she saw Lorenzo’s face.
"Mr. Rossi!" she gasped, scrambling to her feet, her hands reaching for her collar. "I... I was just—"
"Get out of my house," Lorenzo said. His voice was very quiet, very flat. "If I see your face on this property in five minutes, you will not need to worry about your nursing license. You will need to worry about the harbor."
The nurse did not pack her bag. She did not look at the baby. She ran out of the room, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the hardwood corridor.
Lorenzo turned back to Hunter.
He stood in the center of the nursery, the morning light beginning to break through the bulletproof windows, casting a cold, gray glow across the marble and mahogany.
"You will not work in the kitchen anymore," Lorenzo said.
Hunter looked up. "Mr. Rossi, I need the work. I have bills—"
"You will live here," he interrupted, his voice returning to its normal, authoritative tone, though there was no anger in it. "You will have the room next to the nursery. You will wear your own clothes. You will eat what I eat. Your only job in this house is to keep my son alive. I will pay you five thousand dollars a week."
Hunter stared at him. "Mr. Rossi, that’s... that’s too much."
"It is not enough," Lorenzo said. He walked over to the crib and looked down at the medical monitor, which was now showing a steady, green line of seventy beats per minute—the sleep rhythm of a satisfied, healthy infant. "You have done what my money could not do. You gave him a reason to stay."
He looked at her, his dark eyes softer than they had been since the afternoon his wife died.
"I cannot bring your daughter back, Hunter," he said. "But I can promise you this: the man who pushed you down those stairs... he will never see the sun rise again."
Hunter felt a cold chill run down her spine. She looked at the man who ruled Brooklyn, the man whose hands were stained with blood and Scotch.
"No," she said.
Lorenzo frowned. "He hurt you. He killed your child."
"I don't want his blood," Hunter said, her voice firm. "I want to forget his name. I want to look at this baby and not think about the stairs. If you kill him, you bring his ghost into this room. And Leo doesn't need ghosts, Mr. Rossi. He needs milk."
Lorenzo stared at her for a long time. The silence in the room returned, but it was no longer the heavy, suffocating silence of grief. It was the quiet of a contract being rewritten.
"Very well," Lorenzo said. He reached down and picked up his gun from the floor, checking the safety before sliding it into the holster beneath his arm. "Tommy Vance will live. But he will live in a place where he cannot see the sky."
He walked to the door, his hand resting on the brass handle.
"Welcome to the family, Hunter," he said.
May you like
He left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft, heavy click.
Hunter sat in the quiet nursery, the morning light warming the white leather sofa, her daughter’s name a silent prayer in her heart as Leo Rossi fell asleep against her breast, his small, warm breaths the only sound that mattered.
