Chapter 1 The night her child died

The night her child died, the sky bled crimson.

Isolde could still feel the weight of him in her arms - small, unmoving, wrapped in the hospital's sterile white blanket that mocked the warmth she never got to give. His face was perfect. Peaceful. As if he'd chosen not to stay in a world like this.

She hadn't even named him.

There hadn't been time to cry. The nurse had barely closed the curtain when the doors burst open - not with more staff, but with men in black coats and leather gloves. They weren't there for condolences. They were there to silence her.

She ran barefoot down the corridor, bleeding, half-conscious, the hollow ache between her legs tearing wider with every step. Alarms didn't sound. No one stopped them. No one helped her.

But she lived.

Hours blurred into the sound of footsteps and hiding in alleyways, the smell of blood and concrete, and the cold fire of grief clawing through her. By the time morning touched the horizon, she had nothing - no phone, no ID, just a hospital gown clinging to her sweat. But she was still breathing.

That's when she saw him.

A boy, maybe ten, staring at her from behind a row of trash bins near an old market square. Too thin. Pale. Eyes sunken. But it wasn't pity that made her stop - it was the way he looked at her. Like he recognized something in her.

"You need help?" she asked hoarsely.

He didn't speak. Just turned and ran.

She followed.

It wasn't rational. Nothing was. But something told her to trust the trail, and after two streets and a broken fence, she found herself in front of a worn-down townhouse with a crooked door. The boy disappeared inside.

An older woman opened the door seconds later.

She didn't ask questions. Didn't flinch at the sight of blood on Isolde's legs. She simply looked at her - really looked - and then stepped aside. "Come in," she said.

Her name was Magda.

Within the hour, Isolde had collapsed onto a mattress that smelled like lavender and dust, while Magda pressed a wet cloth to her forehead.

"Where's your baby?" the woman asked gently.

Isolde's eyes welled, but no tears came. "Gone."

Magda only nodded. "Your milk's coming in," she said a moment later, touching Isolde's damp shirt. "You'll be in pain if you don't feed."

"I don't have a baby," she whispered.

Magda looked toward the back room. "But I do."

That night, Isolde nursed a child who wasn't hers. A tiny infant with gray eyes and quiet hands. Orphaned, Magda said. The mother died in childbirth. The father? No one knew.

And so, Isolde stayed.

Each day bled into the next. Her body healed, though grief still lived in her bones. She gave the child - Magda called him Nico - what she could. Milk. Warmth. Her arms. For a while, that was enough.

Until she saw him.

It was raining. She had gone to the market for vegetables, trying to blend in beneath a borrowed coat, when a black car pulled up beside the curb.

The man who stepped out didn't glance at her, but she knew who he was.

Everyone in the city did.

Luca Monticelli.

His name was always spoken in whispers. The kind of man who didn't need to shout to kill. Tall. Immaculate. Eyes sharp as broken glass. He was the ghost in every backroom deal, the blood behind every silk curtain. The mafia lord people prayed never to meet.

And there he was. Fifteen feet from her.

He didn't see her. Not yet.

But something in her stomach twisted. Her hands gripped the basket tighter as she turned away. She didn't need to draw his attention. Didn't want to know why the air around him felt like winter.

But fate doesn't care what a broken woman wants.

The next morning, he was at the house.

Magda opened the door with shaking hands. "Mr. Monticelli," she murmured, voice taut with fear.

Isolde stood frozen in the kitchen, clutching Nico to her chest.

Luca's eyes swept the room once, then landed on her. He didn't look surprised.

"You've been hiding," he said calmly.

Her breath caught. "You're mistaken."

He walked in like he owned the place. "You escaped Saint Jude Hospital six nights ago. You left a trail of blood to the north district. The woman who stitched your leg is dead now. And the man who smuggled you out of the city is missing."

Isolde's knees nearly buckled.

"Yet here you are," he continued, eyes flicking to the child in her arms. "Feeding someone else's baby like you weren't hunted for a reason."

"What do you want?" she rasped.

He didn't smile. "Answers. But more than that..." His gaze dropped to the infant, then returned to her face, unreadable. "A proposition."

She hated the way her heart thudded when he said it.

"I'm not for sale."

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "Everyone's for something."

And in that moment, Isolde knew her life was about to shift again.

Not because she chose it.