She tapped the screen of her phone again.

“I have a man sitting in a sedan outside her building right now,” she said. “He is waiting for my call.”

“Why are you doing this to Leo?” I asked. “He is just a baby.”

“He is a DeLuca,” she said, her voice hardening. “And his father has ruled this city for too long.”

She picked up the glass of warm milk from the silver tray.

“Now,” she said, holding the glass out to me. “Give this to him.”

I looked at the white liquid, feeling a sick dread rise in my throat.

“No,” I said.

“If you do not feed him, I will make the call to Astoria,” she said.

Her eyes were dead, devoid of any warmth or mercy.

“You have five minutes to make your decision,” she said, placing the glass back on the tray. “Either the boy drinks, or your mother stops breathing.”

She turned and walked toward the door.

Before she opened it, she paused and looked back over her shoulder.