My Premature Son Finally Fed in My Maid’s Arms—Then She Found a Syringe Cap Hidden Beneath His Nursery Cart.

The basement beneath the Rossi estate was a place where screams died against solid granite. Elena stood near the top of the stone stairs, her fingers digging into the iron railing until her knuckles turned bone-white. Down below, Marcus’s voice cut through the muffled thud of flesh and iron, followed by a wet, choking gasp from Dr. Cole.

Lorenzo did not look down. He stood directly behind Elena, his chest nearly touching her shoulder blades, an anchor of burning heat against the freezing draft rising from the cellar. His hand reached out, wrapping firmly around her wrist, gently pulling her back toward the warmth of the hallway.

"Don't look into the pit, Elena," Lorenzo whispered, his voice low, gravelly, and unyielding. "Leave the blood to me. You need your strength for what comes next."

"I heard him, Lorenzo," she choked out, her breath hitching as tears burned the rims of her eyes. "He said Connecticut. He said she’s alive. If he’s lying to buy himself five more minutes—"

"He isn't lying," Lorenzo interrupted. His jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched beneath his scarred cheek. "Cole values his skin above all else. He knows Marcus will peel it from him layer by layer if he wastes our breath."

Heavy boots echoed on the stairs. Marcus emerged, wiping his crimson-stained knuckles with a white linen handkerchief that looked grotesque in the dim corridor lighting. He didn't blink. He extended a folded piece of paper toward Lorenzo.

"Greenwich," Marcus said bluntly. "Secluded property off North Street. Registered under a shell corporation owned by Julian Moretti’s brother-in-law. There’s an elderly couple living there acting as caretakers, along with four armed guards on rotating twelve-hour shifts. The girl is there."

Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. "My baby. She’s there right now?"

"Yes," Marcus replied, his hard eyes softening just a fraction as he looked at her. "Cole confirmed the identity. A girl, three months old. Healthy. They were keeping her isolated, waiting for Julian Moretti to give the order to use her as leverage against our family."

Elena turned instantly toward the foyer, but Lorenzo caught her by the waist, lifting her almost off her feet before setting her down firmly facing him.

"You stay here," Lorenzo ordered, his dark eyes fierce with protective command. "Leo is upstairs. He needs you. The house is on lockdown, and I am taking two full strike teams to Greenwich. I will bring her to you."

"No!" Elena snapped, her voice cracking with a raw, primal fury that made even Marcus stiffen in surprise. She grabbed the lapels of Lorenzo’s dark wool coat, refusing to shrink back. "For three months, I mourned an empty grave! For three months, I believed my milk dried up for a ghost! If you think I am going to sit in a gilded cage while someone else holds my child, you don't know who I am, Lorenzo Rossi. Shoot me if you want, but you will not leave me behind."

Lorenzo stared down at her. In the criminal underworld of New York, men trembled at the sound of his footsteps. Billionaires begged for mercy on their knees. Yet here was a twenty-three-year-old nurse with dirt on her apron and fire in her eyes, daring him to defy her.