Chapter 1 - THE BABY WHO RECOGNIZED A STRANGER
The first time I held Dante Moretti’s baby, the entire restaurant stopped breathing.
The second time his tiny hand closed around my necklace, a man with a gun whispered, “Boss, look at the pendant.”
And by sunrise, I would learn that the woman I had buried three months earlier had lied about my name, my childhood, my father, and even the day I was born.
But that Friday night, I was only worried about rent.
I was twenty-five years old, two weeks behind on my electric bill, and halfway through a double shift at Aurelia, an expensive Italian restaurant in Chicago’s River North neighborhood where rich people complained about the temperature of $70 steaks while I calculated whether I could afford groceries and laundry in the same week.
My mother, Nora Reed, had died in June.
Cancer.
At least that was what I had told everyone.
The truth was more complicated.
Mom had spent her whole life expecting danger to knock on our door. Even while chemotherapy hollowed out her cheeks, she kept three locks on her apartment and checked the hallway through the peephole before letting the home-care nurse inside.
She had rules.
Never post our address online.
Never answer questions about where I was born.
Never keep old photographs.
And one rule she had repeated so often that I could still hear it in her voice.
“If you ever see a dragon tattoo on a man who looks like he owns the room, Alina, walk away.”
I used to joke that she watched too many crime movies.
Then Dante Moretti walked into Aurelia.
The room did not become quiet gradually.
It died.
Forks stopped moving.
Conversations collapsed.
Even Peter, our manager, who normally treated every celebrity and politician like a mildly inconvenient reservation, went pale.
Two men in dark suits entered first.
They scanned windows, exits, hands, faces.
Then Dante came through the door carrying a baby.
That was what made the whole thing surreal.
He looked like exactly the kind of man my mother had warned me about.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Black suit cut perfectly across his frame. Dark hair touched with gray at the temples. A thin scar ran beside his mouth. Ink disappeared beneath his collar and crawled across one hand.
A dragon.
My stomach dropped.
And against his chest, dressed in a little white shirt and navy vest, was a baby boy.
Maybe ten months old.
Soft brown hair.
Big gray eyes.
Tiny fist gripping Dante’s jacket.
“Table seven,” Peter whispered beside me.
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You take it.”
“Alina.”
“I’ve been here ten hours.”
“I will give you every Saturday dinner shift next month.”
That got my attention.
“You’re bribing me?”
“I’m begging you.”
I looked again at Dante.
His men were already positioned around the table.
Peter lowered his voice.
“Do not spill anything. Do not argue with him. Do not make jokes.”
“I don’t make jokes.”
“You told a customer last week that our chef personally wrestled his salmon out of Lake Michigan.”
“He asked if it was fresh.”
“Please.”
I grabbed my order pad.
“Fine.”
Every step toward table seven felt like I was ignoring my mother from beyond the grave.
Dante looked up before I reached him.
His eyes landed on my face.
And stayed there.
I had been stared at by men before.
Men at bars.
Men on trains.
Men who wanted my phone number.
Men who wanted to make me uncomfortable.
This was different.
Dante stared like something inside his memory had just stood up.
“Good evening,” I said. “Welcome to Aurelia.”
No response.
One of his men glanced at him.
“Boss?”
Dante blinked.
His attention dropped to my name tag.
“Alina.”
The way he said my name made my skin tighten.
“That’s me.”
His voice was low.
“Wine. Amarone. Sparkling water.”
I wrote it down.
“And warm milk for him?”
Dante nodded toward the baby.
I smiled automatically.
“For the gentleman.”
One of the bodyguards almost smiled.
Dante did not.
Then the baby turned toward me.
His whole face changed.
His eyes widened.
His mouth opened.
He made a small sound.
Not crying.
Not laughing.
Recognition.
At least that was what it looked like.
He twisted around so suddenly Dante had to catch him under the ribs.
“Leo.”
The baby reached for me.
Both arms.
Tiny fingers opening and closing.
“Whoa,” I whispered.
Dante pulled him closer.
Leo protested immediately.
The little boy pushed against his father’s chest and stretched harder toward me.
One of the men frowned.
“He doesn’t do that.”
May you like
Dante’s expression hardened.
“Do what?”
