The Mafia's Wet Nurse

hild died, the

the hospital's sterile white blanket that mocked the warmth she never got to give.

't even

e doors burst open - not with more staff, but with men in black coats and leat

the hollow ache between her legs tearing wider with every step

she

, and the cold fire of grief clawing through her. By the time morning touched the horizon, she had

hen she

market square. Too thin. Pale. Eyes sunken. But it wasn't pity that made he

lp?" she ask

eak. Just tu

foll

il, and after two streets and a broken fence, she found herself in front

opened the door

blood on Isolde's legs. She simply looked at her - rea

me was

attress that smelled like lavender and dust, w

baby?" the wom

lled, but no tea

he said a moment later, touching Isolde's dam

e a baby," s

ward the back r

infant with gray eyes and quiet hands. Orphaned, Magda sai

Isolde

ived in her bones. She gave the child - Magda called him Nico - wh

she sa

egetables, trying to blend in beneath a borrowed

didn't glance at her,

in the

Monti

ill. Tall. Immaculate. Eyes sharp as broken glass. He was the ghost in every backroom

was. Fifteen

see her.

et tighter as she turned away. She didn't need to draw his atten

care what a bro

ning, he was

ing hands. "Mr. Monticelli," sh

n the kitchen, clutch

once, then landed on her.

hiding," he

aught. "You'

ts ago. You left a trail of blood to the north district. The woman who stitched

nees nearl

to the child in her arms. "Feeding someone els

ou want?"

..." His gaze dropped to the infant, then ret

her heart thudde

ot for

w and deliberate. "Eve

olde knew her life was

use she