At 12:03 a.m., eight-month-old Nico Bellaro started screaming like his tiny body was fighting something no one could see. I had been in the house for only four hours, but while Chicago’s most feared crime boss watched his baby turn pale and a famous doctor insisted it was another “immune episode,” the bottle in my hand told me someone inside that mansion was lying.

I stayed by Nico’s side in the nursery. The baby had finally fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep, his color returning to a healthy, warm pink. Every time I checked his vitals, my mind raced with the implications of what we had uncovered.

Around 10:00 AM, the heavy oak door creaked open, and Rosa stepped inside carrying a fresh tray of sterile supplies. She forced a tight, polite smile when she saw me standing by the crib.

"Good morning, Maya," Rosa said, her voice smooth and maternal. "How is the little man today?"

"Better," I answered neutrally, watching her hands. "His fever broke around dawn. Dr. Crane’s latest treatment protocol seems to have finally taken effect."

A flicker of surprise—and something resembling disappointment—passed through Rosa’s eyes so quickly most people would have missed it. But I didn't miss it.

"Ah, excellent," Rosa murmured, walking closer to the feeding station. Her eyes darted toward the cap container where I had inspected the modified bottle the night before. She noticed immediately that the decoy cap we had left in place was missing its hidden compartment.

Her breathing hitched for a fraction of a second. She knew something was wrong.

"Is something the matter, Rosa?" I asked, tilting my head.

"No, no. Just... glad to hear he’s recovering," she stammered, setting the tray down with a clatter that betrayed her nerves. "I should check on the laundry downstairs. You let me know if he needs anything else."

She turned and practically hurried out of the room.

Ten minutes later, my burner phone buzzed on the rocking chair. It was a text message from an unknown encrypted number—likely Lorenzo’s secure line.

She’s heading to the east wing service stairs. She’s trying to use an old burner phone to contact Crane’s outside associate.

I slipped out of the nursery, keeping a safe distance behind her as she descended into the labyrinthine stone corridors of the mansion's lower levels. The walls here were thick, damp, and isolated from the rest of the grand estate.

Rosa stopped near the brick wine cellar, frantically pressing buttons on a small, prepaid phone.

"It’s compromised," she hissed into the receiver, her voice echoing off the stone arches. "The night nurse found the cap. Crane is locked in the guest wing. Get rid of the remaining inventory before—"

She stopped dead.