12 Paramedics Couldn’t Save the Mafia Boss’s Baby — Until the Maid Did Something Unthinkable

A collective gasp went through the room.

“Oxygen!”

Arya barked, snapping her fingers at the paralyzed medical team.

“Attach the bag to the hub. Now! 100% flow!”

The paramedics scrambled like frightened children. They connected the oxygen line to the small catheter in Leo’s neck.

The bag inflated. Leo’s chest rose again.

And then the gray pallor began to fade. The blue lips turned pink.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The heart monitor, which had been slowing to a terminal rhythm, picked up speed. 80 beats per minute, 100, 120.

Leo opened his eyes. He let out a weak, sputtering cough, then a cry.

It wasn’t a loud cry, but it was the most beautiful sound Rocco Marchetti had ever heard. Rocco dropped the gun.

It hit the carpet with a dull thud. He fell to his knees beside the changing table, burying his face in the mattress, sobbing uncontrollably.

The tension that had held him upright snapped, leaving him a wreck of relief.

“He’s alive,”

Rocco choked out.

“He’s alive.”

Arya didn’t cry. She didn’t celebrate.

She stepped back, her adrenaline crashing. The room spun.

She grabbed the edge of the dresser to steady herself. The lead paramedic, regaining his senses, rushed forward to take over.

“Okay, we have an airway. Let’s get him to the ambulance. We need to transport him to the clinic immediately.”

He tried to push past Arya.

“Careful with the tube,”

Arya said, her voice dropping back to a whisper.

“It’s not sutured. If you dislodge it during transport, you won’t get it back in. The swelling is totally occluding the upper airway.”

The paramedic glared at her, humiliated that a house cleaner had just done the job he couldn’t.

“I know how to do my job, lady. Step back. You’ve done enough damage.”

“Damage?”

Rocco’s voice cut through the air. He stood up, wiping the tears from his face.

His eyes were red, but the ruthless glint was back. He turned to the paramedic.

“She saved his life. You were going to let him die.”

“Sir, it was a high-risk procedure—”

“Get out,”

Rocco said calmly.

“Take my son to the hospital. Stabilize him. If he dies on the way, don’t bother coming back. I’ll find you.”

The paramedics hurriedly loaded Leo onto the stretcher. As they wheeled the baby out, Arya watched them go, her heart aching.

She wanted to go with him. She wanted to check his vitals, order blood work, figure out why his throat had closed up.

But she was just the maid again. Vanessa stormed into the room as the medics left.

Her face was flushed, her eyes darting around frantically.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s alive,”

Rocco said, staring at the door where his son had just exited.

“Oh, thank God,”

Vanessa said, though her voice sounded thin. She turned her venomous gaze on Arya.

“And you! You crazy bitch! You cut him! You could have killed him! Rocco, look at her. She’s dangerous. She assaulted a medical professional. We need to call the police!”

Rocco turned slowly to look at Arya. Arya stood against the wall, her hands trembling now.

She looked down at her uniform, stained with soapy water and a few drops of Leo’s blood. She knew what this looked like.

She knew that once the shock wore off, the questions would start.

“Bruno,”

Rocco said. The massive head of security stepped forward.

“Boss?”

“Take Vanessa to her room. She’s upset.”

“What?”

Vanessa screeched.

“Rocco, I’m talking about her! She held a knife to our son!”

“Go, Vanessa,”

Rocco said, his voice leaving no room for argument. Bruno gently but firmly guided the protesting woman out of the nursery.

The Ghost of Hopkins

Then it was just Rocco and Arya. The silence stretched for a long time.

Rocco walked over to where Arya was standing. He towered over her.

He smelled of expensive cologne and fierce sweat. He reached out and took her hand, the one that had held the scalpel.

He turned it over, looking at the calluses, the rough skin, the lack of a manicure.

“Who are you?”

He asked. It wasn’t a question of her name.

It was a question of her soul.

“I’m Annie, sir. The maid.”

Rocco squeezed her hand hard enough to hurt.

“Don’t lie to me. I saw how you moved. I saw how you held that blade. You didn’t hold it like a killer. You held it like a god. Paramedics panic. Doctors hesitate. You didn’t either.”

Arya tried to pull her hand away, but he held fast.

“I used to work in a clinic,”

She lied.

“In the Philippines, before I came here.”

Rocco studied her face, searching for the truth in her tired hazel eyes.

“A clinic? And in this clinic, do maids perform emergency cricothyrotomies on infants with improvised equipment?”

Arya looked down.

“I just did what I had to do.”

Rocco released her hand. He walked to the window, looking out at the ambulance lights fading into the distance.

“You’re not going anywhere, Annie,”

He said.

“You’re off cleaning duty. From now on, you stay in the guest wing. Bruno will guard your door.”

“Am I a prisoner?”

Arya asked, a spark of her old defiance flaring up. Rocco turned back to her, his face unreadable.

“Until I find out who you really are, yes. Because if you’re an enemy, I’ll kill you for touching my son. But if you’re who I think you might be, then you’re the most valuable thing in this house.”

Traces of Poison

The guest wing was a euphemism. It was a gilded cage.

Arya had been locked in a room that cost more per night than she made in a year. It had silk sheets, a marble bathroom, and a balcony overlooking the cliffs, but the door was locked from the outside, and a heavy-set guard named Tony stood watch in the hallway.

She had paced the room for three hours. Her mind was racing.

Leo didn’t just have an allergic reaction, she thought, replaying the events in her head. There was no hive outbreak on his torso, no swelling of the lips until the very end.

It was localized edema in the larynx. And the smell—when she had put her mouth over the catheter to breathe for him, she had tasted something on his breath.

Bitter almonds. Cyanide? No, too fast.

Maybe a caustic agent or a concentrated allergen oil rubbed on the crib sheets. She stopped pacing.

Someone had tried to kill Rocco Marchetti’s baby, and they had done it in a way that mimicked natural causes. If Leo had died, the doctors would have called it SIDS or a severe allergic reaction to formula.

No one would have looked closer. The door clicked and swung open.

Rocco walked in. He had changed his clothes.

He was wearing a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing tattoos on his forearms that spoke of a violent past. He held a manila folder in his hand.