Chapter 2 - The Contract of Il Destino
For thirty seconds, nobody in the high-end dining room breathed.
Rico Moretti stared at his son, his mouth slightly open, a cold shock washing down his spine. In six agonizing months, Leo hadn't allowed a single person—not nurses, not high-priced pediatric psychologists, not his own grandmother—to touch him without throwing a violent fit. Yet here he was, resting his head against a complete stranger in a grease-stained waitress apron.
Clara gently wrapped her hand around Leo’s small back, stroking his spine in slow, rhythmic circles. She hummed a quiet, nameless melody—a lullaby her mother used to sing during winter storms back in Syracuse. Within two minutes, the boy’s heavy eyelids fluttered shut. His grip on Clara’s sleeve relaxed, but he didn't let go completely. He fell fast asleep against her shoulder.
Rico slowly leaned back in his chair, his icy gaze shifting from his sleeping son to Clara. The anger in his posture had dissolved, replaced by an intense, calculating curiosity that made Clara’s pulse spike.
“Dante,” Rico said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a freshly sharpened blade.
“Boss?” the giant bodyguard answered, stepping forward while holding a handkerchief to his bitten hand.
“Clear the restaurant. Pay everyone’s bill. Tell Marco to lock the front doors.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti.”
Within three minutes, the wealthy diners were quietly ushered out the door, eager to escape the volatile atmosphere. Marco closed the blinds and slunk back toward the kitchen, leaving only Rico, two armed bodyguards standing by the entrance, and Clara kneeling on the cold floor holding the sleeping mafia heir.
“Get up,” Rico commanded, though his tone was surprisingly free of malice.
Clara carefully stood, cradling Leo in her arms. The boy let out a soft sigh and buried his face into the crook of her neck. He felt warm, heavy, and fragile.
“What’s your name?” Rico asked, standing up to his full six-foot-two height. He towered over her, clad in dark wool and expensive leather, smelling of cedarwood and faint gunpowder.
“Clara,” she whispered, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the boy. “Clara Vance.”
“Where did you learn to do that, Clara?”
“I didn't learn it anywhere, Mr. Moretti. He wasn't having a tantrum because he was bad. He was hyperventilating. When a child experiences deep trauma, loud places feel like an attack. You were shouting at him. Your guards were grabbing him. He felt trapped.”
Rico’s jaw tightened. A flash of pride wounded his dark eyes, but he couldn't deny the truth of her words. “I am his father. I protect him.”
“You protect him from men with guns, maybe,” Clara replied boldly, surprising even herself with her courage. “You can't protect a three-year-old from grief by yelling at him to be quiet.”
Dante shifted uncomfortably near the door, shocked that a waitress was lecturing the most dangerous man in New York. But Rico didn't draw his gun. He simply stared at Clara, taking in her pale skin, her sharp hazel eyes, and the total lack of fear in her stance.
“You’re fired,” Rico said flatly.
Clara’s heart dropped into her stomach. Her apartment rent was due in three days. “What? Mr. Moretti, please—I was just trying to help—”
“You’re fired from this restaurant,” Rico interrupted, pulling a black leather wallet from his jacket. He withdrew a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the table. “Because starting tomorrow morning at seven AM, you are my son’s full-time live-in nanny.”
Clara gasped. “I… I can't do that. I have a job here, I have my life—”
“This restaurant pays you twelve dollars an hour plus tips,” Rico said coldly, taking a pen from his pocket and writing a figure on a paper napkin. He shoved it toward her. “I am offering you ten thousand dollars a month. Private room in my estate. Full benefits. Your only job is to keep my son calm, fed, and alive.”
Clara looked at the napkin. The number was real. It was more money than she had seen in her entire life. It was enough to clear her late mother’s lingering medical debts and secure a clean future.
“Why me?” she whispered. “You can hire the best professionals in the country.”
May you like
Rico looked at his sleeping son, whose fingers were still tightly hooked into Clara’s cloth apron.
“Because he chose you,” Rico said quietly. “And in my family, we don't ignore a sign.”
