My Son Finally Ate in My Maid’s Arms—Then a Symbol on His Bottle Pointed to One of My Most Trusted Men.

"Lock down the estate," Lorenzo ordered Marco, never taking his eyes off the terrified nurse. "Nobody leaves. Cut the front gate power and confiscate all staff phones. Now."

Marco bowed his head stiffly. "Right away, boss." He turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, his radio already buzzing with tactical commands.

Amelia’s throat went bone dry. The man Lorenzo trusted with his life—the man who held the keys to every door and security feed—wore the exact mark etched onto the poisoned bottle.

Helena was on her knees now, weeping openly. "Mr. Rossi, please! I have twenty years of exemplary service in Boston! I would never harm a child!"

Lorenzo crouched in front of her, the handgun resting casually on his knee. The menace rolling off him was suffocating. "Who gave you the formula canisters, Helena?"

"The... the courier from St. Jude’s Medical Supply," she choked out. "Delivered every Monday morning. Stored in the private pantry downstairs. Only the medical staff has the code!"

"And who else has that code?" Lorenzo asked softly.

"Mr. Bellini," Helena sobbed. "He manages the inventory logs."

Lorenzo stood up slowly. He looked at Amelia, his eyes dark, unreadable, and intensely evaluating.

"Amelia," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into an intimate, commanding register. "Hand Leo to Helena."

"No!" Amelia snapped before she could stop herself.

The silence that followed was deafening. No maid spoke to Lorenzo Rossi like that and kept her position—or her freedom.

Amelia held Leo closer, her maternal instinct completely overriding fear. "She fell asleep while an infant was starving. Whether she poisoned him or not, she is negligent. If you hand him back to her, I will walk out of this house and call the state authorities myself."

Lorenzo’s eyebrow arched slightly. A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his lips. For months, everyone in his orbit had walked on eggshells, terrified of his grief, terrified of his power. This fragile-looking girl with sorrow in her eyes was standing between him and his own son.

"Helena," Lorenzo said without turning around. "Pack your bags. Marco’s men will hold you in the guest quarters until the lab tests come back. If there is poison in that bottle, you won't live to see sunrise."

Two armed guards entered and hauled the weeping nurse out of the nursery.

Lorenzo closed the door, remaining inside with Amelia and the sleeping baby. The room suddenly felt very small.

"You have milk," Lorenzo said, stating it as an indisputable fact.

Amelia lowered her head, a wave of grief hitting her chest. "I lost my daughter, Grace, six weeks ago. Sudden infant fever. The doctors couldn't stop it."

Lorenzo watched her carefully. His hard features softened by an imperceptible fraction. "My wife, Clara, died three months ago in an ambush on the turnpike. Leo survived in the back seat. Since then, he hasn't gained an ounce."

He stepped closer, towering over her. The faint scent of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and rain clung to him.

"You fed him," Lorenzo said. "Will you do it again?"

"I'll feed him every hour he needs," Amelia said softly. "But you need to check the pantry cameras, Mr. Rossi. Right now."

"Why?"