Six hours of screaming had pushed Dominic Moretti to the edge, and everyone inside the Chicago restaurant knew better than to go near him. Then I crossed the dining room, looked the most feared mafia boss in the city straight in the eye, and told him, “You’re hurting your own baby.”

The silence in Bellavita felt like a falling blade.

The baby in my arms was turning a violent, shade of slate blue. His tiny lips were dusky, his chest frozen mid-breath, his little knees still locked tight against his abdomen. He wasn't crying anymore because he couldn't get air into his lungs.

Four years of running from the memory of my son, Leo—four years of wiping tables, serving pasta, and hiding behind a waitress apron—evaporated in a single millisecond.

"What did you do?!" Dominic Moretti’s voice exploded across the dining room.

He didn't just stand up; he slammed his hands onto the mahogany table, sending water glasses clattering. The four massive bodyguards around him drew their weapons in unison, the cold metallic clicks echoing against the restaurant's tiled walls. My manager gasped and ducked behind the bar.

"Put the gun away or your son dies," I said, my voice dropping into a flat, icy register I hadn't used since my residency at Chicago Presbyterian.

I didn't wait for his permission. I flipped the baby face-down across my forearm, resting his small jaw between my thumb and forefinger while supporting his chest. I angled his head lower than his body and delivered five sharp, firm back blows between his shoulder blades with the heel of my hand.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Stop touching him!" one of the guards screamed, stepping forward.

"Touch her and I'll kill you myself," Dominic roared, his hand grabbing the guard’s lapel and throwing him back. Dominic was inches from me now, his broad, towering frame blocking out the restaurant lights. His dark eyes were wide, bloodshot, fixed on his blue child with an agony so raw it shattered his iron exterior. "Help him," Dominic rasped, his voice breaking. "Please."

I turned the baby face-up on my arm, supporting his head. His airway was blocked by a thick plug of curdled cow’s milk and swallowed mucus, brought on by the intense arching and screaming of severe infantile laryngospasm.

I placed two fingers on the center of his tiny breastbone, just below his nipple line.

One chest thrust. Two. Three.

I placed my mouth over his tiny nose and mouth, creating a seal, and gave one gentle, controlled puff of air.

Come on, sweetheart. Breathe for me. Don't you dare close your eyes.

I turned him back over. One more firm strike to his back.

A thick glob of formula cleared his throat, spilling onto my forearm.

A second passed. Two seconds.

Then, a harsh, gasping cough echoed through the silent dining room, followed instantly by a piercing, wailing, beautiful scream.

Color rushed back into his skin—bright, rosy pink flushing through his cheeks, his chest heaving as air flooded his lungs once more.

My knees nearly gave out. I collapsed back against the nearest dining chair, holding the screaming infant against my shoulder, gently patting his back as his lungs worked. "I've got you," I breathed, my forehead resting against his soft, fuzzy head, tears stinging my eyes. "I've got you, baby. You're okay."

Dominic Moretti didn't move. He stood over me, his broad shoulders rising and falling rapidly. The most feared mob boss in Chicago—a man who controlled the docks, the unions, and half the city council—was shaking.

He slowly dropped to his knees in front of my chair.

The four guards stared in absolute, jaw-dropping shock. Dominic Moretti never kneeled to anyone.

He looked up at me, his massive, calloused hand reaching out with unbelievable care to touch the baby’s soft head. "He's... breathing."

"He choked on the heavy milk," I whispered, my voice trembling now that the adrenaline was washing out. "His airway spat-off because he was crying so hard while gasping for air. Cow's milk is too thick for a newborn's digestive tract, Mr. Moretti. You're inflaming his stomach."

Dominic's eyes shifted from his son's face to mine. Up close, I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the faint scar running along his jawline, and the intense, burning intelligence in his dark gaze.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly.

"I'm Clara," I said, keeping my rhythm as I rocked the baby, who was slowly settling down into a rhythmic hiccup against my chest. "Clara Vance. I work here."

"You aren't just a waitress," Dominic said flatly. "A waitress doesn't do infant airway clearance in five seconds flat without blinking."

I closed my eyes briefly, the ghost of Leo's hospital room flickering behind my eyelids. "I used to be a pediatric nurse."

Dominic stood up in one fluid motion, though his gaze never left my face. He turned to the lead bodyguard, a giant of a man named Frank with a scarred neck.

"Frank," Dominic commanded.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Pack the baby's bag. We're leaving."

"Right away, Boss."

Dominic looked down at me, extending a broad, powerful hand. "Get up, Clara."

I frowned, hugging the baby tighter. "Excuse me?"

"You're coming with me," Dominic said calmly, as if telling me the weather forecast.

My manager popped his head out from behind the bar. "Now hold on a minute, Mr. Moretti, she’s on shift—"

Dominic didn't even look at him. "Buy this restaurant tomorrow," he said to one of his men. "Fire the manager. Give the rest of the staff a raise." He turned back to me. "I said, get up."

"I am not going anywhere with you!" I snapped, my nurse instinct giving way to sheer indignation. "You're a mobster! You just had four guns pointed at my head!"

"My son almost stopped breathing twice tonight," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly register that left no room for argument. "You saved his life. Which means until I am certain he can breathe on his own, you don't leave my sight. You want money? Name your price. You want protection? You have it. But you are not staying in this restaurant."

"You can't just kidnap people!" I yelled.

Dominic leaned down until his nose was inches from mine. "I'm not kidnapping you, Clara. I'm hiring you. Ten thousand dollars a week. Starting thirty seconds ago."

I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. "Ten thousand..."

"And if my son stops breathing again," Dominic added softly, his eyes softening just a fraction, "you are the only person in this city I trust to save him. Please."

That single word—please—spoken by a tyrant, shattered my resolve.