Not every time.

Just enough.

Then one afternoon, she saw Mrs. Higgins standing at the kitchen island with Leo’s cup in one hand and a tiny unmarked vial in the other.

Cameron had only caught the end of it from behind the pantry door.

Three quick drops into the apple juice.

A stir.

Then the cup placed on a tray with the ordinary precision of a woman folding napkins.

Cameron’s blood turned cold.

She said nothing.

Not because she was uncertain.

Because certainty was not enough in a house like this.

Mrs. Higgins had roots here. History. Trust. Ten years of polished service. Cameron was still, in the eyes of most staff and maybe even in Matteo’s practical mind, the girl from Queens who got lucky with a damaged child.

If Cameron accused the wrong woman without proof, she would lose everything.

Worse, Leo would stay in danger.

So she started watching.

Then she started planning.

Under the excuse of documenting Leo’s progress, she used her access to buy a tiny surveillance camera from a Manhattan electronics store. That night, long after the staff had gone quiet and the security team had settled into its sleepy rotation, she sewed the micro-lens into the button eye of an old teddy bear on the highest shelf in the pantry.

From there, it had a clear view of the kitchen island.

For three days, Cameron intercepted everything meant for Leo.

She made his breakfast herself. Poured his juice herself. Carried his snacks herself. Smiled when Mrs. Higgins watched her. Apologized sweetly whenever she took over a tray the housekeeper had arranged.

Mrs. Higgins’s expression sharpened by the day.

Matteo noticed Cameron’s tension.

He asked twice.

She lied twice.

And each time, she hated herself a little more.

By the fourth morning, she got what she needed.

The penthouse was in full motion for a charity gala that evening at the Pierre. Florists moved through the halls. Garment bags arrived. Security checked routes and guest lists. The house hummed with the choreographed pressure of wealth preparing to be admired.

Leo was napping.

Cameron locked herself in her bathroom with her laptop and loaded the footage.

The timestamp read 5:02 a.m.

Mrs. Higgins appeared in the frame carrying a tray of blueberry muffins. She placed them on the marble island, glanced once toward the hall, then drew the vial from her apron.

Three drops into the glaze.

Then more.

Cameron’s stomach dropped.

Mrs. Higgins capped the vial, put it away, and took out a burner phone.

When she spoke, her voice was low and clipped, but the kitchen was quiet enough for the microphone to catch every word.

“The boy is stabilizing,” she said. “The new girl won’t leave him alone.”

A pause.

“No, Sylvio, listen to me. If Dominic Rossi wants Matteo embarrassed in front of the commission tonight, the child needs to lose control publicly. At the gala. Yes. I tripled the dose.”

Cameron stopped breathing.

Sylvio.

Matteo’s underboss.

His right hand.

And Dominic Rossi was not just a business rival. Even Cameron knew that name. Brooklyn. Shipping routes. Old blood feuds wearing new suits.

The room seemed to tilt.

They were doing it on purpose.

Not just hurting a child.

Using him.

Weakening Matteo. Making his heir look unstable. Turning private grief into public vulnerability and using it as leverage in a war grown men would dress up as business.

Cameron ripped the storage drive free.

She had to find Matteo.

Now.

She opened her bathroom door and ran.

The hallway blurred past in cream carpets, gold light, and framed art she did not see. She reached the grand staircase, turning too fast—

A gloved hand slammed over her mouth.

Cameron kicked and twisted, but the arm around her waist lifted her clean off the floor.

The drive slipped from her hand and skidded under a console table.

“Snooping is a dangerous habit,” a man muttered into her ear.

She knew the voice before she saw his face.

Sylvio.

He dragged her backward into the library.

Mrs. Higgins stood inside, calm as Sunday service, with limp little Leo in her arms.

The sight nearly broke Cameron’s mind.

His head lolled against the housekeeper’s shoulder. His lashes lay still against his cheeks. He looked too heavy. Too slack. Too drugged.

Mrs. Higgins looked at Cameron with open contempt.

“You should have kept cleaning floors.”

Cameron tried to scream against the leather glove.

Sylvio tightened his grip.

“The boss is already occupied,” Mrs. Higgins said. “And by the time he understands what happened, the child will be gone.”

Cameron thrashed harder.

Mrs. Higgins smiled.

“Take her downstairs.”

The wine cellar beneath the penthouse felt less like a luxury amenity and more like a bunker.

Thick concrete walls. Steel door. Climate control. Rows and rows of bottles under dim amber strips. The air smelled of cork, dust, and old money.

Sylvio threw Cameron hard enough that her hip hit stone.

He did not bind her hands.

He didn’t need to.

The door locked with Matteo’s biometric system. From inside, it may as well have been a vault.

Sylvio looked down at her with bored contempt.

“Enjoy the quiet.”

Then the door sealed shut.

For one second, maybe two, panic rose so fast Cameron thought it would choke her.

Then she saw Leo again in her mind.

Drugged.

Carried away.

Used like a prop in a war he could not understand.

Something colder than fear moved in.

She stood.

The room swayed once, then steadied.

No windows. No useful vents. The control panel sat behind reinforced casing beside the steel frame. Too strong for a chair. Too secure for bare hands.

She turned slowly until her eyes landed on the wine racks.

If you grew up poor, you learned early that expensive things still broke.

Cameron walked to the back row and reached for the heaviest bottle she could lift, a massive old Bordeaux with a thick glass base and a price tag she did not want to imagine.

She wrapped part of her sweater around both hands, took the bottle by the neck, and swung.

The first strike cracked the protective cover.

The second shattered it.

The third slammed into the wiring hard enough to spray sparks across the stone.

Her arms screamed. Glass cut through the sweater into her skin. Red wine splashed across the floor, dark and shining under the low lights.

The access light stayed red.

“Come on,” she hissed.

She swung again.

This time something metal snapped inside the panel.

The lock clicked.

Cameron dropped the ruined bottle, shoved the heavy door open with both hands, and ran.

Up the service stairs.

Past the kitchen.

Through the mechanical corridor.

Toward the private elevator access to the rooftop helipad.

If they were taking Leo out of Manhattan fast, they would do it by air.

By the time she burst through the rooftop doors, the helicopter blades were already spinning.

Wind slammed into her.

The whole roof shook with noise.

Sylvio was heading toward the aircraft with Leo slung over one shoulder like luggage. Mrs. Higgins hurried beside him, clutching a handbag to her chest.

“Stop!”

Cameron ran barefoot across the helipad, slipping on the painted surface, hair whipping across her face. Sylvio turned, cursed, and dropped Leo onto the ground as he reached for his gun.

Then the rooftop doors behind her exploded open.

“Sylvio!”

The voice cut through the engine roar like a blade.

Matteo.

He stood framed in the doorway in a black overcoat and dark suit, face carved from fury. In his hands was a compact weapon Cameron refused to look at too closely. Behind him came men in dark suits moving with terrifying efficiency.