Chapter 2 - The Ghosts We Carry
The silence hanging over Restorante Orelio felt like a drawn bowstring, stretched so tight it threatened to snap the air in half.
My heart hammered against my ribs as nine-month-old Leo buried his small face into the crook of my neck. He released a quiet, fluttering sigh, his tiny fingers tangling firmly into the cotton strap of my dark server apron. He didn't cry. He didn't squirm. He simply clung to me as though I were the only solid anchor in a world made of tempestuous storms.
The mafia don, Lucian Vane, took a single step back. His broad shoulders remained tense, but the ruthless, unyielding edge in his dark eyes shattered into something terrifyingly vulnerable.
"Boss," muttered one of the bodyguards behind him, his hand surreptitiously slipping inside his tailored suit jacket toward a concealed shoulder holster. "Who is she? Is this a setup?"
"Shut up, Marco," Lucian rasped, his voice rough as unrefined gravel. He never broke eye contact with me. His gaze traced every line of my face, from my dark hair down to the subtle dimple on my left cheek—the exact mirror image of the woman in the vintage photograph hanging beside the bar. "Look at her."
Marco glanced at me, then at the faded portrait of the dark-haired woman in the black dress. The bodyguard swallowed hard, his skin paling instantly. "Jesus... boss..."
"Who are you?" Lucian asked me, stepping so close I could smell the distinct aroma of cedarwood, rain, and expensive leather surrounding him. "What is your real name?"
"Elina," I stammered, holding the baby tighter as my knees wobbled beneath my weight. "Elina Valdez. I... I've worked here for eight months. I’m just a waitress, sir. I swear to God, I don't know who that woman in the picture is!"
Lucian stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. He reached out a large, calloused hand. For a terrifying moment, I thought he was going to grab my throat. Instead, his fingers hovered half an inch from my jawline, as if testing whether I was made of flesh and bone or merely an illusion born of his own grief.
"Her name was Clara," Lucian murmured, his deep voice carrying a hollow ache. "She was my wife. She died nine months ago, the night Leo was born."
Before I could digest his words, the quiet hum of the restaurant was violently shattered.
CRACK!
A high-caliber sniper round blew through the restaurant's front glass window, showering the dining room in sparkling shards. The bullet slammed into the wooden pillar right behind where Lucian had been standing a split second before.
Screams erupted from the handful of terrified patrons. Plates crashed, chairs turned over, and my manager threw himself behind the service counter.
Without a second of hesitation, Lucian moved with lethal efficiency. He didn't duck; he stepped directly into the line of fire, wrapping his massive body around me and his son. His heavy arm clamped around my waist, dragging me down toward the floor as a second bullet whistled overhead, embedding itself into the bar.
"Dante! Marco! Suppress!" Lucian roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a war horn.
The two bodyguards drew silenced pistols from their suits, firing rapidly out into the dark street toward a black SUV parked across the avenue.
Down on the carpeted floor, pressed tightly against Lucian's broad chest, I was shaking uncontrollably. But baby Leo didn't scream. Pressed between my chest and his father's arm, the child buried his face deeper into my apron, seeking comfort in my touch even as gunfire echoed outside.
"Look at me, Elina," Lucian commanded, hovering over me like an immovable mountain.
I looked up into his dark, fierce eyes. The fear was there, but beneath it was an absolute, terrifying resolve.
"My enemies know I came here tonight," Lucian growled softly, wiping a piece of stray glass from my hair. "They just saw you holding my son. They saw how he reacted to you. In my world, that makes you a target, a weakness, and a key."
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"I... I have nothing to do with your world!" I cried out, my voice trembling.
"You do now," Lucian replied coldly, reaching down to effortlessly scoop both me and Leo up into a crouch as Marco threw open the restaurant's rear kitchen exit. "If you stay here, you’ll be dead before midnight. You're coming with me."
