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 Moretti estate was not a house; it was a fortress.

Perched on twenty acres of wooded land behind ten-foot wrought-iron gates in Lake Forest, the mansion was lit by discreet security floodlights. Armed guards paced the perimeter with German Shepherds.

When the heavy black SUV pulled into the circular driveway, I was still holding the baby, who had finally fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep against my chest.

Dominic opened my car door himself, holding out a hand to assist me. I ignored his hand and stepped out on my own, clutching the baby’s diaper bag and the bags of specialized hypoallergenic infant formula, gas drops, and a baby wedge pillow I had forced his men to purchase at the pharmacy.

"In here," Dominic said, leading me through grand double doors into a foyer of dark marble and soaring arches.

The house was dead silent, smelling expensive, cold, and utterly lacking a human touch. It felt more like a mausoleum than a home for a infant.

"Where is his mother?" I asked as we walked up a grand curved staircase.

Dominic’s posture went rigid. "She died three weeks ago. Complications during emergency surgery."

My heart softened slightly despite my fear. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Dominic said coldly. "She was a political match arranged by her father in New York. She hated Chicago, she hated me, and she didn't want the boy."

We reached the West Wing. Dominic opened a door to reveal a massive room filled with brand-new, untouched nursery furniture. Custom mahogany cribs, piles of designer baby clothes still in plastic wrap, and a team of three terrified-looking older women in pristine maid uniforms standing at attention.

"Who are they?" I asked.

"Nannies," Dominic said. "Supposedly the best in the city."

"They were feeding him whole cow's milk," I noted dryly, stepping into the nursery and laying the baby down on the plush changing table. "They almost killed him."

One of the older women stepped forward, trembling. "Mr. Moretti, the baby wouldn't take the breast milk from the donor banks! He was crying for six hours! We thought—"

"You don't think," Dominic snapped, his tone dangerously sharp. "You follow orders. And you're all fired. Pack your things."

"Wait!" I said, turning around to face Dominic. "You can't just fire everyone! I need hands to help sanitize bottles, prep formula, and manage laundry! They were misinformed, not malicious!"

Dominic stared at me, astonished that a woman in a stained waitress apron was countermanding his orders in front of his staff.

"They stay under my supervision," I said firmly, taking off my coat and rolling up my sleeves. "Now, go get me boiled water, clean glass bottles, and a humidifying unit."

The three maids looked at Dominic in terror, waiting for him to execute me.

Dominic stared at me for three long seconds. Then, a faint, ghost-like twitch touched the corner of his lips.

"You heard her," Dominic barked at the maids. "Move."

The women scrambled out of the room like startled deer.

For the next two hours, I took complete control of the space. I unboxed the anti-colic bottles, prepared a batch of gentle, hydrolysate-based infant formula, and administered a small dose of simethicone gas drops to soothe the baby’s inflamed intestine.

I adjusted his crib mattress to a 15-degree incline to prevent reflux, placed the cool-mist humidifier in the corner, and dimmed the harsh overhead chandeliers to a warm, soft amber light.

By 2:30 AM, the baby was fed, burped, bathed, and swaddled snugly in a soft cotton blanket. He lay in his crib, sleeping peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, perfect rhythm.

I stood beside the crib, leaning against the wooden rail, staring down at his small face.

A heavy shadow fell over the doorway. Dominic walked in quietly, having changed out of his blood-stained tailored suit into a black sweater and dark trousers. Without the jacket, he looked massive, his thick shoulders and corded forearm muscles visible as he walked up beside me.

He looked down into the crib, his face unreadable.

"He's quiet," Dominic whispered, almost afraid that speaking too loudly would shatter the magic.

"He was in pain, Dominic," I said softly, calling him by his first name without thinking. "He was starving, his stomach was burning with gas, and the noise in that restaurant was overstimulating his nervous system. He just needed someone to listen to what his body was saying."

Dominic turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "What's his name?"

I blinked. "You haven't named him?"

"I couldn't," Dominic confessed, looking back at the sleeping boy. "Every time I looked at him, he was screaming. He looked like he was dying. I couldn't give a name to a child I thought was going to leave me."

A heavy ache settled in my chest. I knew that feeling all too well. When Leo was in the ICU, I spent days afraid to write his name on his comfort blanket, terrified that naming him made his potential loss hurt more.

"His name is Mateo," Dominic announced suddenly. "It means 'Gift from God'."

I looked at the baby, a genuine smile breaking across my face for the first time in days. "Mateo. It suits him."

Dominic stepped closer to me. The scent of rich tobacco, cedarwood, and cold rain enveloped me. He reached out, his broad, warm fingers gently catching a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"You look exhausted, Clara," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly across my cheekbone.

I stiffened slightly at the intimacy of the touch, but I didn't pull away. "Nurse shifts are twelve hours, Mr. Moretti. I'm used to it."

"It's Dominic," he corrected softly. "And you aren't on shift anymore. Frank has prepared the guest suite next door for you. Go to sleep."

"What if Mateo wakes up?"

"I'll be sitting right here in this chair," Dominic said, gesturing to the leather armchair beside the crib. "And if he so much as sighs, I'll call you."

I looked into his eyes and saw something I didn't expect from a brutal syndicate leader: absolute, unwavering devotion to his child.