The Baby Who Reached for the Waitress. The Secret His Father Buried Nearly Destroyed Them All.
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 discuss 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 though 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.
