The rain lashed against the bulletproof glass of the nursery window.

Outside, the Long Island sound was a black, churning void.

Inside, the room smelled of sterile lavender and sour milk.

My breasts ached with a heavy, throbbing fullness that had not stopped since my own daughter was born stillborn three weeks ago.

In my arms, little Leo Rossi stopped his weak, raspy wailing.

His tiny mouth latched onto me, desperate and starving.

The silence that followed was the first real peace this room had known in days.

I held him close to my chest, my maid’s uniform unbuttoned at the shoulder.

His skin felt hot against mine, his small hands clutching at the blue cotton of my collar.

He swallowed with a fierce, wet urgency.

The heavy mahogany door clicked behind me.

I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs.

“Step away from my son,” a voice rasped from the shadows near the doorway.

It was Lorenzo Rossi.

The silver barrel of his Beretta pointed directly at my forehead.

His eyes were bloodshot, his dark hair disheveled, and his jaw tight with grief.

He looked like a man who had not slept since his wife died in childbirth.

“Mr. Rossi, please,” I whispered, keeping my body perfectly still.

“What are you doing to him?” he demanded, his voice shaking.

“He was starving,” I said, my voice barely a breath. “They said he was rejecting the formula, but he is just hungry.”

Lorenzo took two steps forward, his heavy leather boots thudding on the hardwood floor.

He looked down at his son.

Leo’s cheeks were already regaining a faint pink color as he swallowed greedily.

The baby’s tiny fingers curled around my thumb.

The gun trembled in Lorenzo’s hand.

He stared at my face, then at the baby, and slowly lowered the weapon to his side.

“He hasn’t eaten in forty-eight hours,” Lorenzo muttered, his voice cracking.

“Dr. Halloran said his stomach was failing,” I said. “But he is nursing fine.”

Lorenzo rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted.

“Where is Angela?” he asked, looking toward the far corner of the room.

I pointed to the white rocking chair in the shadows.