His Baby Refused Every Bottle—Then the Maid Broke One Rule, and Three Days Later the Mob Boss Discovered Who Had Murdered His Wife
Chapter 2
She stepped inside.
The nursery smelled like alcohol, baby powder, and something sterile that did not belong near a living child.
When she reached the crib and looked down, the air left her lungs.
Noah was impossibly small.
His fists were pressed against his cheeks. His lips trembled between cries. His head turned from side to side, mouth open, searching for something—anything—that would make the hunger stop.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Hannah whispered.
Tears filled her eyes before she could stop them.
“You’re starving.”
She slid her arms beneath him carefully, avoiding the wires and leads. He weighed almost nothing. The shock of that nearly undid her.
She sat on the cushioned window seat, turned away from the sleeping nurse, and with trembling fingers unbuttoned the top of her uniform. The bandages beneath were damp and too tight. She loosened them just enough, gathered Noah against her, and guided him toward her chest.
For one suspended, terrifying moment, nothing happened.
Then he latched.
Hannah let out a sob so deep it surprised her. Noah’s first pulls were weak and uncertain. But within seconds they became rhythmic.
Suck.
Swallow.
Breathe.
His tiny body softened against hers.
The monitor beside the crib shifted first. The warning patterns eased into something almost normal.
Then his face changed.
A faint pink appeared in cheeks that had looked nearly gray.
Hannah bent over him, crying openly now.
“That’s it. Good boy. I’ve got you.”
She did not hear the footsteps.
She did not hear the door open wider.
But she felt the shift in the air—the sudden weight of someone standing behind her.
Hannah looked up.
Gabriel Russo stood in the doorway.
Dark slacks. White shirt rolled to his elbows. A pistol with a suppressor aimed directly at her forehead.
Two men flanked him, their weapons already raised.
The nurse in the corner jerked awake, saw the gun, and scrambled upright.
“Mr. Russo, I only—”
“Shut up,” Gabriel said without looking at her.
His eyes never left Hannah.
“What,” he said, “are you doing to my son?”
Hannah had never had a gun pointed at her before.
She thought she would scream. Drop the baby. Beg.
Instead she curled around Noah instinctively, shielding him with her body.
“He was hungry,” she whispered.
“Put him down.”
“He’s eating.”
Gabriel took one step forward.
“He rejects everything.”
“Not this.”
Something in her voice made him stop.
“Look,” she said, voice breaking. “Please. Just look.”
Very slowly, as if any sudden motion might shatter the moment, Gabriel lowered his gaze to the baby.
Noah was not gagging.
Not choking.
Not fighting.
He was drinking peacefully, eyes closed, one tiny hand unfurling against Hannah’s skin.
The room went silent except for the small, wet sounds of a child finally being fed.
Gabriel lowered the gun.
Not all the way.
But enough.
One of his men shifted in disbelief. The nurse made a frightened noise.
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. He looked at the wine glass beside her chair, then back at her.
“Get her out.”
“Mr. Russo, please—”
“Out.”
A guard grabbed the nurse by the arm and dragged her toward the door. She started to protest until Gabriel looked at her once. Then she went quiet.
He walked closer to Hannah.
Up close, grief had marked him more than power ever could. Dark hollows beneath his eyes. A fresh cut across his palm. Dried blood still clinging to his fingers. He did not look like a man who controlled half the city.
He looked like someone standing at the edge of an abyss.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Hannah Brooks.”
“You work downstairs.”
“Yes.”
“You broke three rules tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Hannah looked down at Noah, then back at him.
“Because he sounded like my daughter before she died.”