I Fed the Mafia Boss’s Starving Baby on a Private Jet
The baby’s wail ripped through the cabin, a raw, desperate sound that made my stomach twist.
Elena Rossi, still nursing after losing her twins, felt a cold shiver run down her spine.
She had been clutching a blanket, trying to hide the milk‑stained pads beneath her coat, when the cries cut through the polished silence.
“Please… someone, help,” the infant seemed to sob, each note thinner than the last, a plea for life.
Matteo Volkov sat rigid in his leather throne, his eyes flickering between the baby and the flight attendants, his massive hands trembling.
He whispered something in a language Elena didn’t understand, his voice a low rasp.
The attendants glanced up, their faces a mask of practiced indifference, as if the baby’s hunger were just another inconvenience.
Elena’s heart hammered; she could feel the milk pooling beneath her bra, a reminder of what she’d once given.
She swallowed the fear, stepped forward, and whispered, “I have… I have milk.”
