The first time the mafia boss’s baby reached for me, I thought he wanted the silver necklace around my throat.

The nursery looked more like a boutique luxury suite than a baby's room. Hand-painted murals of clouds drifted across the pale blue ceiling, and a crib carved from solid white oak stood in the center, looking completely untouched.

For four hours, I sat in the oversized velvet rocking chair beside the window, afraid to move. Leo slept deeply, his cheek pressed flat against my collarbone, his breathing a steady rhythm against my chest. Outside, rain lashed against the reinforced glass.

Around three in the morning, my back began to seize with dull spasms. Very slowly, inch by painstaking inch, I tried to lower Leo into the crib. The moment his back touched the mattress, his eyes snapped open. Panic flared in his gray-blue irises. His mouth opened to scream.

"No, no, I'm here," I whispered frantically, scooping him back up against my neck. "I’m right here, little bird."

He shuddered, burrowing his face into my throat, his hands locking back into my shirt. Within seconds, his breathing evened out again.

"He won't let you put him down," a deep voice spoke from the shadows near the open doorway.

I jumped. Luca was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a black Henley shirt and dark trousers, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. The dim nightlight illuminated the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the dark stubble shadowing his jaw.

"You move like a ghost," I whispered, wincing as another cramp hit my spine.

"Old habits." He stepped into the nursery, his boots making no sound on the plush Persian rug. He pulled a heavy leather armchair across the floor, positioning it directly beside my rocker, and sat down. "You’re exhausted."

"I’m fine."

"You're lying. Your shoulders are up around your ears." Luca set his glass on the side table and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Give him to me for twenty minutes. Try to stretch."

"He'll wake up."

"Let me try."

I hesitated, then slowly leaned forward. Luca reached out, his massive hands sliding under Leo's small frame with surprising gentleness. But the instant Leo felt the change in hands, his body stiffened. A sharp whimper broke from his chest. His eyes fluttered, filling with immediate terror.

"It's okay, Leo," Luca whispered, his voice cracking with a frustration that broke my heart. "It’s Baba. I’m here, kiddo."

Leo began to thrash, his face turning bright red.

"Give him back," I murmured, reaching out.

The second Leo felt my arms around him, he collapsed against my chest, gasping for air, sobbing silently until the rhythm of my heartbeat calmed him once more.

Luca sat back, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He picked up his glass, drained the whiskey in one swallow, and stared at the dark window.

"I can conquer this city," he said, the words bitter and venomous. "I can make five hundred grown men drop to their knees with a phone call. But I cannot comfort my own blood."

"It’s not personal, Luca," I said softly, the informality slipping out before I could censor myself. "He’s an infant. He doesn't know you’re powerful. He just knows that the person who smelled like life and safety vanished, and every time someone hands him off, he thinks it's happening again."

Luca turned his head, staring at me with an intensity that made the room feel suffocatingly small. "And what does he smell when he’s on you?"

"Patience," I said quietly. "My mother died when I was twelve. I spent ten years raising my younger brother while working three jobs. I know what grief feels like in a child's bones. It feels like falling through open air without a floor."

Silence settled between us, thick and fragile. For a moment, the dangerous mafia don disappeared, leaving only a grieving father trapped in an empty house.

"Stay," Luca said suddenly.

"I told you, I have—"

"I don't care what you have," he interrupted, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register that brooked no argument. "Twenty-five thousand a month. A private suite in the east wing. A dedicated car and driver. Complete security clearance for your brother, whatever debts he has, paid by dawn."

My breath caught. "How do you know about my brother?"

"I had Dante run your background before the appetizers arrived at Aurelia," Luca said, entirely unapologetic. "Twenty-seven years old. Degree in literature you couldn't afford to finish. Marcus Chen, age twenty-two, currently drowning in thirty thousand dollars of debt to loan sharks in South Philly following a failed garage business."

"You had no right—"

"I have every right when it comes to the safety of my son," Luca said, rising to his feet. He stepped toward me, placing one hand on the arm of my rocking chair, trapping me in his personal orbit. "You are broke, Avery. You are drowning. And my son needs you to breathe. This isn't charity. It’s an exchange."

"And what happens when Leo doesn't need me anymore?" I asked, looking up into his dark, ruthless eyes. "Do I just disappear?"

"No one disappears from this house unless I say so," Luca murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before meeting my eyes again. "Sign the contract tomorrow. Or walk out with fifty grand and spend the rest of your life wondering if you left this child to wither."

Before I could answer, a sharp, muffled sound echoed from the courtyard below.

*Crack.*

It wasn't thunder.

Luca’s demeanor transformed in a millisecond. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by an apex predator’s cold, absolute focus. He drew a black semi-automatic pistol from his waistband before I even realized he was armed.

"Stay in this chair," he ordered, his voice flat as ice. "Do not move. Do not go near the glass."

"Luca, what was that?"