The entire restaurant froze when the mafia boss’s three-year-old son began screaming, throwing food, and fighting anyone who came near him.

The next three weeks at the Moretti estate felt like walking through a minefield lined with silk velvet.

Every morning at 6:00 AM, I woke up, dressed in simple jeans and soft cotton sweaters, and began transforming Leo’s world.

I fought Mrs. Gable every step of the way. I had the heavy velvet drapes removed, letting the warm autumn sunshine flood into the nursery. I stripped the room of noisy, flashing gadgets and brought in simple wooden blocks, watercolor paints, and soft picture books.

More importantly, I established a strict, peaceful routine.

At first, Leo wouldn't let me leave his sight. If I stepped two feet away, his small face would contort in panic. But I didn't push him. When I painted, I sat on the floor beside him. When I read, I read out loud in a soft, steady voice, letting him sit as close to me as he wanted.

Rico watched everything.

He was a ghost in his own house. I would often look up from the floor to catch his tall figure standing in the shadows of the doorway, wearing his dark suits, holding a tumbler of scotch, watching us quietly before disappearing back into his study to manage his empire.

On a rainy Thursday morning, three weeks after my arrival, I was sitting on the thick wool rug in the play area. Leo was sitting between my legs, clutching a yellow wooden block.

I was building a small tower. "One block... two blocks... three blocks..." I hummed softly.

Leo watched intently. He picked up a blue block and set it carefully on top.

"Look at that," I whispered, smiling down at him. "Four blocks. You're a master builder, Leo."

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the nursery banged open.

Marco stepped into the room, his face tense, accompanied by a tall, sleek man in a sharp blue suit. The man had dark, slicked-back hair, a cold smile, and eyes that moved around the room like a hawk looking for prey.

This was Julian Moretti—Rico’s younger brother and the underboss of the family syndicate.

Leo instantly stiffened. He dropped his wooden block, spun around, and buried his face into my chest, trembling violently.

"So this is the miracle worker," Julian drawled, walking into the room with his hands tucked into his tailored pockets. His eyes swept over me, lingering a second too long in a way that made my skin crawl. "A little server girl from Queens fixing the Moretti heir."

"You need to step outside," I said flatly, wrapping my arms around Leo, cradling his head against my shoulder.

Julian raised an eyebrow, letting out a sharp chuckle. "Excuse me?"

"You came in loud, you didn't knock, and you're scaring him," I said, my voice cold and unyielding. "Get out."

Marco gasped slightly. "Miss Vance... that's Mr. Julian."

"I don't care if he’s the Pope," I snapped, glaring directly at Julian. "This is Leo’s safe space. Leave."

Julian’s cold smile faded, replaced by a dark, dangerous glint in his eyes. He took two steps toward me, lowering his voice. "Listen to me, little girl. You might have my brother wrapped around your finger, but don't forget who runs this estate. You are a paid servant. Don't speak to me like—"

"Julian."

A voice like grinding stone echoed from the doorway.

Rico stood there. His dark suit jacket was off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate black tattoos spiraling down his forearms. His expression was absolute murder.

"Step away from her," Rico said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.

Julian held his hands up in mock surrender, stepping back. "Relax, brother. I just came to check on my nephew. And to remind you about the commission meeting in D.C. tonight."

"Leave the room," Rico commanded.

Julian smirked, casting one last lingering look at me before turning and walking past Rico into the hall. Marco followed quickly, closing the door behind them.

The nursery returned to silence, save for Leo’s soft, hitched breathing.

Rico walked into the room. He didn't look at me; he looked at his brother's retreating path. Then he sank down onto his knees right on the wool rug—something I had never seen him do before.

He looked at Leo, his voice softened. "Leo. Look at me, buddy."

Leo kept his face buried in my neck, shaking his head.

"He's overwhelmed," I murmured, gently stroking Leo’s back. "Julian brings too much chaotic energy. Leo senses it."

Rico’s jaw clenched. "Julian is family."

"Family or not, he doesn't respect boundaries," I countered, locking eyes with the mafia chief. "And until Leo feels secure, nobody enters this room without knocking. Including you."

Rico stared at me. Any other person on earth who spoke to him like that would have ended up at the bottom of the Hudson River. But as he looked at me holding his son, his hard grey eyes softened just a fraction.

"You're fearless, aren't you?" Rico murmured.

"I'm not fearless, Mr. Moretti," I said quietly. "I just care about your son more than I care about your title."

Rico reached out. His massive, calloused hand rested gently on Leo’s small back, right beside mine. His fingers briefly brushed against my knuckles, sending a sudden, sharp shock of heat through my veins. I looked up, startled by the intensity of his gaze.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of us moved.

Then, a tiny, quiet sound broke between us.

Leo slowly lifted his head from my neck. He looked at the fallen wooden blocks on the rug. He pointed his tiny finger at the blue block.

He looked up at my face, his small lips parting.

"Cla... ra," he whispered.

The word was raspy, quiet, and imperfect. But it was crystal clear.

I froze.

Rico froze.

Tears instantly flooded my eyes. I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand. "Leo..."

Leo looked up at his father. Then he reached his little hand out, touching Rico’s dark cheek. "Da... dy."

Rico Moretti—the man who controlled half of New York’s underworld, the man who had faced down federal indictments and rival cartels without blinking—let out a choked, broken breath.

A single tear cut down the mafia boss’s hard, sculpted cheek.

He pulled Leo into his broad chest, burying his face into his son’s neck, hugging him with a fierce, trembling intensity. Leo wrapped his small arms around his father's neck, clinging tightly.

I sat back on my heels, tears streaming down my own face, smiling softly through the quiet joy of the moment.

When Rico finally pulled back, his eyes were bloodshot, glowing with an emotion so deep it took my breath away. He looked at his son, then he looked up at me.

He reached across the space between us, grabbed my hand in his massive, warm palm, and squeezed it tightly.

"Thank you," Rico whispered, his voice trembling with raw, profound gratitude. "Thank you, Clara."