Chapter 1 - A Breath in the DarkThe silence that fell over Bellavita was far more dangerous than six hours of relentless screaming.
Underneath my hands, the tiny body in the bassinet went entirely limp. The baby’s chest had stopped moving. His lips, flushed red moments before, were rapidly turning a dusky, terrifying blue.
A infant apneic spell. His airway had spasms from six straight hours of crying, swallowing air, and severe acid reflux, shutting down his breathing reflex entirely.
My heart didn't just beat—it shattered into the exact terror I had lived through four years ago in Pediatric ICU Room 402.
Dominic Moretti slammed his hands onto the edge of the table, the heavy dark wood groaning under his weight. “What did you do?” his voice vibrated with a lethal, panicked edge. “What did you do to my son?”
The four bodyguards drew their handguns in unison, the cold metallic clicks echoing against the restaurant’s tin-paneled ceiling. My manager fell to his knees near the kitchen doors, hiding his face in his hands.
I ignored every gun aimed at my head.
“He’s cyanotic! He stopped breathing!” I yelled, my voice ringing out with an authority I hadn't used since I walked away from my nursing scrubs.
I didn't ask permission. I flipped the newborn belly-down across my left forearm, angling his head downward toward the floor. Supporting his delicate jaw with my fingers, keeping his neck straight, I delivered three firm, precise back slaps between his shoulder blades using the heel of my right hand.
“Get your hands off him!” one of the guards roared, stepping forward.
“Touch her and you die!” Dominic roared at his own man, his eyes locked on his turning-blue child, his face drained of every drop of blood.
One. Two. Three.
A tiny, wet gasp cut through the stillness.
I instantly flipped the baby back onto his spine along my thigh, tilting his head back into a neutral position. I cleared a plug of thick, milky mucus from his airway using my gloved finger, then stimulated his feet with quick, gentle rubs.
The infant’s lungs expanded with a sharp, ragged breath.
Then came the sound: a full, loud, angry, vibrant cry that shook his small frame. The blue vanished from his lips, replaced by a surge of healthy pink flush.
I collapsed backward against the leather booth seat, holding the breathing infant against my neck, feeling the rapid, fluttery pulse of his tiny heart against my collarbone. I closed my eyes, my forehead resting against his soft, dark hair, my whole body trembling violently.
He’s breathing. He’s breathing. He didn't die.
For a long minute, no one in the restaurant moved. The only sound was the jazz music playing softly from the overhead speakers and the steady, indignant cries of the baby tucked safely against my chest.
Dominic Moretti slowly lowered himself back into his seat, though his eyes never left me. His chest heaved as if he had been the one starved of oxygen. The towering man, feared by politicians and police chiefs across Cook County, looked at me as if I had just commanded the ocean to turn into dry land.
“Stand down,” Dominic rasped to his men.
The four guards hesitated, then re-holstered their weapons, their eyes wide with disbelief.
Dominic leaned over the table, his shadow swallowing me whole. Up close, I could see the amber flecks in his dark eyes and the razor-sharp jawline stubbled with dark shadow.
“Who are you?” he asked. His voice was lower now, thick with an emotion he was trying desperately to hide.
“Clara,” I whispered, keeping my hand flat against the baby’s back, continuing the rhythmic, soothing patting motion. “Clara Davis.”
“You’re a nurse.”
“I was,” I corrected, staring down at the child. He was finally settling, his cries turning into tired snuffles as the warmth of my chest and the proper angled posture relieved the trapped air in his diaphragm. “Until four years ago.”
“Why aren't you in a hospital?”
“Because hospitals break people,” I said softly, looking up and meeting Dominic’s intense gaze without flinching. “What is his name?”
Dominic blinked, taken aback by the simplicity of the question. “Matteo. His name is Matteo.”
“How old is he?”
“Three weeks.”
“Where is his mother?”
A cold, deadly frost swept across Dominic’s face, wiping away the lingering vulnerability. The air in the booth temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. One of the bodyguards shifted uncomfortably behind him.
“His mother is buried in St. Michael’s cemetery,” Dominic said, each word heavy as stone. “She died during the delivery.”
A knot tightened in my throat. A three-week-old motherless infant, surrounded by men who ruled an underworld empire with firearms, trying to nurse him with cold cow’s milk and panic.
“He has severe infant reflux and diaphragmatic spasms,” I explained, softening my tone as I looked at Matteo, who was now fast asleep, his tiny fist clutching the lapel of my black server’s apron. “When he lies flat after feeding, the acid burns his esophagus. He screams from pain, swallows air, gets bloated, and screams harder until his vocal cords spasm and shut off his airway. You can't feed him regular milk, and you can't leave him flat on his back.”
Dominic watched my hands—the way I cradled his son’s head, the way I held him elevated at a precise thirty-degree angle.
“You fixed him in twenty seconds,” Dominic said.
“I managed an emergency,” I said, starting to shift Matteo back toward the bassinet. “Now that he’s breathing and sleeping, you need to take him to a pediatric specialist. Get him a hydrolyzed formula, keep him upright for thirty minutes after feeds, and—”
“No,” Dominic interrupted.
I paused, holding Matteo close. “No?”
Dominic stood up. At six-foot-four, dressed in a bespoke suit with silver cufflinks, he looked like a king making an absolute decree.
“You’re coming with me.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“My manager—”
“I just bought this restaurant five minutes ago,” Dominic said smoothly, pulling a solid gold fountain pen from his breast pocket and tossing it onto the table. “You don't work for Bellavita anymore, Clara. You work for me.”
“I am not for sale, Mr. Moretti,” I said, anger flaring through my exhaustion. “I helped your baby because he was suffering. That doesn't mean you can command me.”
Dominic leaned down until his face was inches from mine. The scent of expensive cedarwood, rain, and raw power radiated from him.
“I’m not ordering a servant, Clara,” he whispered, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse jump. “I’m begging a savior. My son has suffered for three weeks. Doctors give me polite speeches and prescription drops that don't work. Tonight, you kept him alive. Name your price. Five times your salary. Ten. A house. Security for your family. Anything. But you do not walk away from Matteo.”
I looked down at the tiny, peaceful face resting against my shoulder. Matteo let out a tiny, soft sigh in his sleep, his little hand tightening on my apron.
Four years ago, I couldn't save my own son, Leo. My arms had been empty ever since.
I looked back up into the eyes of Chicago’s most dangerous man.
“Two conditions,” I said firm.
Dominic didn't hesitate. “Name them.”
“First, no weapons around the baby. Ever. Second, my medical decisions regarding Matteo are final. If I say he goes to a hospital or needs a specific doctor, you don't argue with me.”
Dominic looked at me for three long seconds. Then, slowly, he extended his right hand.
“Agreed.”
May you like
I looked at his massive, scarred hand, then took it. His grip was warm, solid, and absolute.
“Welcome to the Moretti family, Clara,” he said.
