Chapter 1 - The Baby Who Remembered
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.
By the third, his father had stopped looking annoyed and started looking afraid.
That was when I should have walked away.
Instead, I stood beside Table Twelve with a wine list pressed against my ribs and let a ten-month-old boy change everything I believed about my life.
It was Friday night at Aurelia, one of those expensive Philadelphia restaurants where the butter came shaped like roses and men who owned buildings complained if the sparkling water was two degrees too warm.
I had been working there for eleven months.
Long enough to know which customers would leave twenty percent, which would snap their fingers at me, and which would talk about me as if I weren’t standing three feet away.
At twenty-seven, I had become good at disappearing while remaining useful.
Smile.
Pour.
Apologize.
Collect the check.
Repeat.
Rent was due Monday. My car had started making a clicking noise whenever I turned left. I had forty-three dollars in my checking account and a landlord who had recently discovered the phrase late fee.
Ordinary problems.
Problems I understood.
Then the front doors opened at 8:17 p.m.
A strange silence moved through Aurelia before I even saw why.
Our bartender stopped polishing a glass.
My manager, Greg, abandoned a conversation with a wealthy couple mid-sentence.
A man near the entrance actually lowered his eyes.
Two broad-shouldered men in dark suits entered first.
They didn’t look around like customers.
They evaluated.
Doors.
Windows.
Kitchen entrance.
Restrooms.
People.
Then Luca Moretti walked in carrying a baby.
I knew his name because everybody in that room knew his name.
People said Luca owned freight companies, apartment buildings, nightclubs, half a dozen restaurants and enough legitimate businesses to require three accounting firms.
People also said there were other things he owned that did not appear on tax returns.
I had never cared enough to separate rumor from truth.
Men like Luca Moretti belonged to another universe.
Until he sat in mine.
He was perhaps thirty-eight, taller than I expected, with thick dark hair, light stubble and a scar running from the edge of his right cheek toward his ear. His charcoal suit fit him too well to be rented, but his tie had been loosened, as if whatever meeting he had attended before dinner had already exhausted his patience.
Black ink disappeared beneath his collar.
A dark geometric tattoo circled one wrist.
His expression was controlled, unreadable.
But the child in his arms was rubbing a sleepy fist against one eye.
That ridiculous contrast made me stare.
Dangerous man.
Tiny blue sock.
Greg appeared beside me.
“Table Twelve.”
I looked at him.
“You’re joking.”
“I have never been less funny in my life.”
“I have six tables.”
“You now have five.”
“Greg—”
“Avery.”
He almost never used my first name.
That frightened me more than Luca Moretti did.
“Do not improvise. Do not make jokes. Do not ask personal questions. And if he wants something, get it.”
I glanced toward Table Twelve.
“He brought a baby.”
“I can see that.”
“So maybe he’s just here for dinner.”
Greg gave me a look normally reserved for people who microwaved aluminum foil.
“Sure. Let’s believe that.”
I took a breath, grabbed a menu and walked over.
Luca’s men sat on either side of him.
The baby occupied his lap, solemn and blond, wearing a little navy sweater over a white shirt.
He had large gray-blue eyes.
Strangely serious eyes.
“Good evening,” I said. “Welcome to Aurelia.”
Luca looked up.
The man had the unsettling habit of giving you his complete attention.
No distracted glance.
No checking his phone.
No pretending.
When those dark eyes landed on me, I suddenly became aware of my crooked name tag, my worn shoes and the loose strand of hair touching my cheek.
“What can I bring you to drink?”
“Mineral water.”
His voice was lower than I expected.
“The Barolo for the table.”
I wrote quickly.
“And warm milk for him.”
I smiled at the baby.
“Coming right up.”
The child froze.
His eyes locked onto mine.
Then both hands lifted.
At first I thought he was stretching.
Then he leaned toward me.
Not casually.
Desperately.
His fingers opened and closed.
A small broken sound came from his throat.
“Hey there,” I whispered automatically.
The baby lunged harder.
Luca caught him beneath the arms.
The little boy whimpered.
One of the men at the table frowned.
“Leo.”
The baby ignored him.
“Leo,” Luca repeated.
Leo’s lower lip trembled.
Then he began to cry.
Not the irritated fussing of a tired child.
It was heartbreak.
Immediate, breathless, panicked heartbreak.
Every time Luca pulled him back, Leo reached toward me again.
People began looking.
“I’m sorry,” Luca muttered, shifting him.
“It’s okay.”
“He’s tired.”
“Clearly I have that effect on men.”
The sentence escaped before I remembered Greg’s warning.
One of Luca’s men looked down to hide what might have been a smile.
Luca stared at me.
For half a second, I was certain I had just ended my employment.
Then one corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
“You joke when you’re nervous.”
“I joke constantly, so that’s probably concerning.”
Leo screamed louder.
I crouched slightly until my face was level with his.
“Hey.”
He stopped.
Just like that.
One ragged breath left him.
His wet eyes stared at me.
I smiled.
Leo made a tiny sound.
Then his face changed.
Recognition.
There was no reasonable word for it, but that was what I saw.
Recognition.
His entire little body relaxed.
He reached for my face.
His fingers brushed my cheek.
Luca went perfectly still.
Behind him, the older of his two companions whispered, “Jesus.”
“What?” I asked.
Nobody answered.
I started to straighten.
Leo’s hand caught my apron.
The crying immediately returned.
“Avery.”
Luca had read my name tag.
“Yes?”
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“Would you hold him?”
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