Chapter 2 - The Contract of Blood and Milk
By dawn, the atmosphere inside the Rossi estate had transformed from a wake into a high-security lockdown.
Hunter sat in the grand leather armchair of Lorenzo’s private study, wrapped in a plush cashmere robe that had once belonged to Sophia Rossi. The contrast between the luxurious garment and Hunter’s bruised, calloused hands was stark. Across the heavy mahogany desk, Lorenzo reviewed a thick dossier compiled by his head of security, Marco.
"Hunter Vance," Lorenzo read aloud, his voice devoid of emotion. "Twenty-four. Arrived in New York four months ago from a small town in Pennsylvania. No living family. No criminal record. Hired through an agency three weeks ago to work secondary housecleaning shifts." He raised his eyes, fixing her with an intense, analytical gaze. "Your medical records from Pennsylvania show a admission to a emergency clinic three weeks ago. Stillbirth at thirty-two weeks."
Hunter winced as if struck. She gripped the armrests of the chair, her knuckles turning white. "I don't want your money, Mr. Rossi. I didn't plan to go up there. I just... I heard him crying through the vents while I was cleaning the linen closets downstairs. It was the same cry my baby made right before..." She swallowed hard, turning her face away. "I couldn't let him die if I could stop it."
Lorenzo closed the folder with a heavy thud. He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grey, churning waters of the Atlantic.
"My son took three ounces from you last night," Lorenzo said quietly. "For the first time since he was cut out of my dead wife's womb, he kept food down. He didn't vomit. His fever dropped two degrees."
He turned back to face her, his tall frame blocking the pale morning light.
"You are not going back to scrubbing floors, Hunter. You are not leaving this estate. From this second forward, you live on the third floor, in the suite connected to the nursery. You eat what my personal chefs prepare for you. You are watched twenty-four hours a day by my private guard."
Hunter’s eyes widened in alarm. "Are you making me a prisoner?"
"I am making you my son's lifeline," Lorenzo corrected, his tone razor-sharp. "You will feed him. You will nurse him until he is strong. In return, I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars for every month he thrives under your care. And when he is weaned, you will receive a new identity, a house anywhere in the world, and enough wealth to ensure you never have to work another day in your life."
"And if I refuse?" Hunter asked softly.
Lorenzo walked over, leaning down until his dark eyes were inches from hers. The scent of expensive cologne and faint tobacco enveloped her. "You won't refuse. Because you need him just as much as he needs you."
He was right. Her body had been burning with grief and physical pain, burdened by milk meant for a child who was buried in a unmarked grave in Pennsylvania. Feeding Leo had relieved her physical agony, but more than that, it had filled the gaping void in her soul.
"I have one condition," Hunter said, her voice unexpectedly steady despite the terrifying man hovering over her.
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. "You are in no position to negotiate, maid."
"I nurse him myself. No formulas mixed in, no doctors poking him with needles every hour. And you let me hold him when he sleeps. He isn't a machine, Mr. Rossi. He's a lonely, terrified baby."
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Lorenzo stared at her for a long, heavy moment. A flicker of something complex—admiration, perhaps, or dangerous fascination—passed through his eyes.
"Agreed," he whispered. "Welcome to the family, Hunter."
