The heavy oak door of the nursery didn't just latch; it clicked with the finality of a prison cell.

I turned back toward the crib. Hunter was still sitting in the rocking chair, her posture rigid, her face pale. She had pulled her uniform blouse back over her shoulder, buttoning it with shaking fingers.

She looked exhausted—the kind of exhaustion that went beyond a sleepless night, settling deep into the hollows of her cheeks and the dark circles beneath her green eyes.

"You saved his life," I said, walking over and standing a few feet away from her. I wasn't pointing a gun anymore. My hands were empty, resting quietly at my sides. "You walked into a room you had no business entering, fed a dying child with your own body, and exposed a poisoning plot under my own roof."

Hunter looked up, her jaw tightening. "I didn't do it for you, Mr. Rossi. I did it because I heard a baby crying. And three weeks ago... I lost my own."

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp as broken glass.

I stared at her. "Your baby?"

"Lily," Hunter whispered, her voice cracking as a single tear traced a clean path down her cheek. "I was eight months pregnant. Complications at St. Jude's. She didn't make it. The crib in my apartment is still empty. When I heard your son crying... it sounded like her. I couldn't stop my body from answering."

The silence in the nursery was profound. Two grieving parents, standing in the dark heart of a fortified mansion, bound by tragedy and a starving infant.

"Why were you working here, Hunter?" I asked gently, the hard edge of the mob boss evaporating into something raw. "If you lost your child three weeks ago, you shouldn't be scrubbing floors in my house."

"My rent was due," she said bitterly, looking down at her hands. "My fiancé walked out the day the heart monitor flatlined. The hospital bills piled up. When Moretti Maritime's domestic placement agency offered three times market rate for a live-in housekeeper with a clean background check... I took it. I didn't care who you were or what people whispered about the 'Widower of Manhattan.' I just needed to survive."

I walked over to the oak desk in the corner of the nursery, pulled out a checkbook, and uncapped a fountain pen.

"You're not a housekeeper anymore, Hunter," I said, writing down a figure that would clear every debt she had ever owed twice over, plus a retainer that made her financially independent for the next decade.

She stared at the slip of paper I placed on the table, her eyes widening in disbelief. "What is this?"

"Insurance," I said evenly. "And gratitude. From this moment on, you are Leo’s official head wet-nurse and private guardian. You live on this floor. You eat what my private chef prepares. And nobody touches you while you're under my roof."

Before Hunter could answer, the heavy oak door of the nursery swung open again.

Dante stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame, a dark scowl marring his scarred face.

"Boss," Dante said, stepping inside. "We locked the gates. Security sweep of the perimeter is complete. But we didn't find Brenda Vance."

"What do you mean you didn't find her?" I snapped, stepping forward. "She was in this house ten minutes ago!"

"She was," Dante agreed, holding up a sleek, black corporate tablet. "Until she walked out the ground-floor exit by the loading dock and climbed into a silver Lincoln Navigator idling outside the perimeter sensors. The driver didn't have estate credentials. But the license plate scanner caught the registration."