The first time the Mafia boss’s baby reached for me, I thought he wanted the silver necklace around my throat. The second time, I realized he wanted me—and by the third, his father had stopped looking irritated and started looking genuinely afraid.

The silence that fell over Table Twelve was thick enough to drown in.

I looked down at the child clinging to my apron strings, then back up at the man whose name made Philadelphia judges break into cold sweats. Luca Moretti was staring at me with an intensity that made the hair on the back of my arms stand on end. His gray-blue eyes—the exact same shade as the baby’s—seemed to peel back my skin, measuring my pulse, my weight, my sincerity.

“Hold him?” I repeated, my voice barely louder than the clinking of champagne flutes two tables away. “Mr. Moretti, I’m in the middle of a dinner rush. I have a four-top waiting on appetizers, and—”

“I don’t care about the four-top,” Luca said evenly. He didn’t raise his voice, yet the words landed like iron weights on the white linen tablecloth. “Take him. Please.”

The word *please* sounded foreign in his mouth, like a weapon he hadn’t practiced drawing, but the raw edge beneath it was undeniable.

I hesitated for half a breath. Then Leo let out another shuddering gasp, his tiny lower lip trembling, his little chest heaving beneath his cashmere sweater. My maternal instinct—or perhaps just basic human decency—overrode self-preservation. I tucked my wine list under my arm, braced my feet, and reached out.

The moment my hands slid beneath Leo’s armpits, the baby didn't just lean into me; he launched himself against my collarbone.

His tiny fingers hooked into the fabric of my black server’s vest with desperate, terrifying strength. His hot, tear-slicked cheek pressed hard into the hollow of my throat, right over my galloping jugular. And then, as if someone had flicked an invisible switch, the hysterical crying vanished.

A soft, shuddering hiccup rattled through his small frame. Then another.

And then he went completely limp against my chest.

Across the table, the older man in the tailored suit blew out a long breath and crossed himself under the collar of his shirt. “Madre de Dios,” he whispered under his breath.

Luca didn't move. He sat frozen, his hands still hovering in the empty air where his son had been just seconds prior. Slowly, his hands descended to the table, curling into tight fists against the dark mahogany.

“He hasn’t stopped crying in four days,” Luca said. The baritone of his voice was rough, scarred around the edges. “Not for me. Not for his nurses. Not for the women who claim to be specialists with doctorates in pediatric development.”

“He’s exhausted,” I murmured instinctively, my hand automatically finding the small of Leo’s back, rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against his spine. “Look at his eyes. He’s running on fumes. When babies get overtired, their nervous systems overload. They fight the sleep because they’re terrified of it.”

Leo let out a tiny, snuffling sigh, his breath warm against my neck. His thumb slid into his mouth, and within thirty seconds, the frantic tension in his little limbs dissolved into the heavy, boneless weight of deep slumber.

I stood there in the center of Aurelia, holding the heir to the most ruthless syndicate on the East Coast like he was my own flesh and blood. Greg, my manager, was watching from the host stand, his face pale green, clutching a leather reservation book like a shield.

“Sit down,” Luca commanded quietly.

“I can’t sit with guests, sir. It’s against restaurant policy.”

“Dante,” Luca said without looking away from me.

The older man beside him reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a thick silver money clip, slid five crisp hundred-dollar bills free, and dropped them casually onto the table. “Now you’re on a private break, Miss Avery. Sit.”

I looked at the bills, then at Dante’s weathered, unblinking eyes, and finally at Luca. My legs were trembling slightly beneath my black slacks. Carefully, making sure not to jostle the sleeping bundle against my shoulder, I pulled out the chair opposite Luca and sat down.

The scent of him filled the space between us. It wasn't the cologne of an ordinary wealthy man—no overwhelming citrus or sandalwood. He smelled of rain, expensive Italian leather, cedarwood, and the unmistakable, metallic sharpness of gun oil. Up close, the scar running along his jawline was jagged, white, and ancient. It cut through the shadow of his stubble, ending just beneath the sharp curve of his ear.

“How old are you?” Luca asked, resting his forearms on the table.

“Twenty-seven.”

“You have children?”

“No.”

“Younger siblings?”

“An older brother. We don’t speak.” I kept my voice steady, though my heart was hammering against Leo’s cheek. “I worked at a daycare through college, Mr. Moretti. And I babysat half my neighborhood in South Philly when I was a teenager. It’s not magic. He just needed someone who wasn’t tense.”

A dark, humorless smirk touched the corner of his lips. “You think I’m tense?”

“Your shoulders are up by your ears,” I said before my filter could catch up to my mouth. “Your jaw is clamped so hard I can hear your molars grinding from across the table. Babies feel that. If you feel like an ambush is coming, he thinks one is coming, too.”

Dante let out a sharp, choked cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Luca’s eyes narrowed, but there was no rage in them. Only a piercing, clinical curiosity that felt far more dangerous.

“His name is Leonardo,” Luca said softly, his gaze dropping to the tuft of dark curls resting on my shoulder. “His mother died eight weeks ago.”

The air left my lungs.

The rumors had circulated, of course. Philadelphia tabloids had run vague headlines about the sudden, private funeral of Sofia Moretti—a tragic illness, an untimely passing. But the streets whispered a different story: a car bombing on the Schuylkill Expressway that had missed its primary target and caught the young mother instead.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and for the first time, my words had nothing to do with customer service. “I didn't know.”

“He remembers her scent,” Luca continued, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the weight of a stone sinking into dark water. “Or perhaps he only remembers the absence of it. He screams until his vocal cords bleed. He refuses formula. He fights sleep until he passes out from exhaustion, only to wake up forty minutes later terrorized by the silence.” Luca leaned forward, invading my space, his gaze pinning me to the leather seat. “Except right now.”

Leo shifted, letting out a soft, contented grunt, burrowing his face deeper into the crook of my neck.

“What is your last name, Avery?”

“Whitmore. Avery Whitmore.”

“How much does this establishment pay you, Avery?”

“Ten dollars an hour plus tips.”

“Pack your things,” Luca said.

I blinked, pulling back slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You work for me now. As Leo’s primary caretaker.”

The sheer arrogance of the declaration made me stiffen. “I have a job, Mr. Moretti. I have a lease. I have a life.”

“You have a sixty-hour-a-week grind that barely covers the rent on a crumbling two-bedroom in Fishtown,” Luca countered smoothly, rattling off details that sent ice through my veins. “You drive an '08 Civic with a failing transmission, you owe twelve thousand dollars in student debt, and you spend your Friday nights getting snapped at by hedge-fund managers who tip you fifteen percent on a three-hundred-dollar check.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Have you been investigating me?”

“Dante ran your name the second you crouched beside my son,” Luca answered without an ounce of shame. “I don't let strangers touch my blood without knowing their history. You’re clean. No criminal record. No family ties to anyone of consequence in this city. A clean slate.”

“I’m not a nanny for hire,” I said, my voice rising slightly, defensive and prickly. “And you can’t just buy people out of their lives because your child stopped crying for five minutes.”

“Ten thousand,” Luca said flatly.

“What?”

“Ten thousand dollars a week. Tax-free. Deposited into any account you specify every Monday morning. You live on the estate. You have private quarters, a dedicated vehicle, full health coverage, and whatever resources you require to keep my son safe, fed, and sleeping.” He leaned back, his eyes steady, unreadable, and absolute. “Say no, and you can hand him back to me right now. But look at him, Avery. Look at his face, and tell me you’re willing to let him scream himself raw in the back of my car all the way to Chestnut Hill.”

I looked down.

Leo’s eyelashes were long, dark, and still clumped with dried tears. His tiny lips were parted, his breathing rhythmic and peaceful against my chest. If I handed him back, those little fists would flail again. That broken, frantic terror would return to his eyes.

I needed the money. God knew I needed the money. But more than that, in the span of six minutes, this helpless, motherless child had reached into a hollow, lonely place inside my chest and made himself a home.

“Under one condition,” I whispered, meeting Luca’s dangerous, evaluating stare.

Luca’s brows lifted slightly. “You’re negotiating?”

“I am,” I said, finding a reservoir of courage I didn't know I possessed. “I report to you, and only to you. If I say he needs quiet, he gets quiet. If I say he needs to sleep, you don't parade him around business meetings. And the second you or anyone in your organization puts him—or me—in danger, the deal is null and void.”

For three agonizing seconds, Luca didn't breathe. Then, slowly, the hard lines of his mouth curved into something that was almost, terrifyingly, genuine respect.