Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Cradle
The sixth floor of the east wing smelled of stale dust, fresh paint, and heavy bleach. Construction plastic hung over doorframes like yellowed shrouds.
Roman moved ahead of Elena with silent, predatory efficiency, a suppressed pistol held low against his thigh. Behind them, three of his men swept the corridors, cutting power wires to the local CCTV cameras with swift, practiced movements.
At the end of the long hallway, a single double door was sealed with a keypad lock. A faint, rhythmic sound drifted through the heavy wood: the rhythmic, mechanical hum of a portable ventilator.
Roman didn't bother trying to hack the lock. He stepped back, raised a heavy boot, and shattered the frame with a single brutal kick.
The door burst open.
Inside, the scene was stark and clinical. A makeshift nursery had been constructed inside an abandoned operating room. Portable monitors blinked in the dim light, surrounded by crates of medical supplies.
Standing beside a high-tech portable incubator was Dr. Adrien Sloan, holding a syringe filled with a clear fluid. Beside him stood a woman in scrubs—a private nurse Elena recognized from the night shift roster who had abruptly resigned two weeks ago.
"Step away from the glass, Adrien," Roman growled, bringing his firearm up to target Sloan’s forehead.
Sloan froze, his face going chalk-white. The syringe slipped from his fingers, shattering against the linoleum floor. "Roman—how did you—"
"Where is he?" Roman demanded, his voice dangerously calm.
Elena rushed past Roman, ignoring the danger, and threw herself toward the incubator. Inside lay a baby—tiny, pale, but breathing steadily under an oxygen hood.
She quickly placed her hand inside the port, pressing two fingers against the infant's neck, then checking the left foot.
The second toe was distinctly splayed outward.
"It's him," Elena gasped, tears springing to her eyes as she looked at the heart monitor. "Roman, it's him! His vitals are stable! He's hydrated, his blood oxygen is good—he's alive!"
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Roman's breath caught in his throat. For the first time, the terrifying, iron-clad mafia boss wavered. His eyes shifted from Sloan to the glass box, staring at the tiny, breathing child—his true son, Nico.
"Why?" Roman whispered, turning his gaze back to Sloan, the blood draining completely from his expression, replaced by a cold, apocalyptic fury. "Why steal my son and leave another child to die in his place?"
