Six bikers walked out of the maternity ward with my dead sister’s newborn baby, and the nurse didn’t lift a finger to stop them. I watched the whole thing on the security feed — six huge men in leather vests, boots thudding like they owned the place, carrying my nephew as if he belonged to them. The leader held the baby against his chest, steady and protective, like he’d done it a hundred times before. My stomach dropped. My sister Sarah had been dead for less than an hour. She bled out on the delivery table. Hemorrhaging. Twenty-three years old....
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