Chapter 2 - The Contract
The silence in La Terrazza was so thick you could hear the soft humming of the wine fridges in the back.
Ricardo Moretti didn't move. His gray eyes were locked onto his son’s tiny hand wrapped tightly around my fingers. For six months, the best child psychologists, trauma specialists, and expensive private doctors in the tri-state area had tried to touch Leo. Every attempt had resulted in violent thrashing, bitten hands, or blood-curdling screams.
Yet here was a twenty-four-year-old waitress in a stained apron, kneeling on the dirty floor, holding the boy’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"How did you do that?" Ricardo’s voice was no longer a roar, but a low, dangerous whisper.
I didn't look up at him immediately. I kept my focus on Leo, whose breathing was finally evening out. "He’s not throwing a tantrum, Mr. Moretti. He’s having a panic attack. When adults crowd around a terrified child and demand he quiet down, it feels like the room is closing in on him."
"And the milk?"
"Warm milk with a little sugar triggers a nervous system response," I said softly, gently stroking the back of Leo’s hand with my thumb. "It reminds the body of safety. My mother used to make it for me when my father passed away."
Ricardo slowly pulled his hand out of his jacket. He leaned back in his leather chair, studying me with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He was undeniably striking—sharp jawline, dark hair styled with precision, and a harsh, beautiful face that looked like it had been carved out of granite. But behind those gray eyes was a deep, unyielding exhaustion.
"Stand up," Ricardo ordered.
I slowly stood, ensuring my movements were gentle so I wouldn't startle Leo. The little boy gripped my sleeve for a second before letting go, leaning back into his chair with heavy, sleepy eyelids.
Ricardo gestured to his chief bodyguard, a tall man with a scar running down his left jawline. "Frank. Bring the manager over."
The manager scurried forward like a frightened rat, bowing repeatedly. "Mr. Moretti! I am so sorry for the disruption! I will fire her immediately—"
"If you touch a hair on her head, I will burn this establishment to the ground," Ricardo interrupted calmly, adjusting his cufflinks. "What is her monthly pay?"
The manager blinked, stunned. "Uh... two thousand dollars, sir, plus tips—"
"I am buying out her contract," Ricardo said. He pulled a thick leather wallet from his coat, pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills without counting them, and tossed them onto the table. "She doesn't work here anymore."
My heart did a terrifying flip. "Wait! Excuse me? You can't just buy my job! I need this position, I have bills to pay—"
"You now work for me," Ricardo said, standing up. He towered over me, six feet two inches of pure muscle and tailored intimidation. "Ten thousand dollars a month. Private nanny and caregiver for my son. You reside at my estate in Long Island. Free room, board, and full medical coverage for your family."
I froze. Ten thousand dollars a month? That was more money than my mother and I made in half a year. It meant paying off her medical debt in four months flat.
"And if I say no?" I challenged, crossing my arms despite my trembling knees.
Ricardo looked down at me, a cold, dark spark flickered in his eyes. "You won't say no. Look at him."
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I looked down. Leo had slumped sideways in his chair, fast asleep, his tiny fingers still reaching toward the empty space where my hand had been.
"He hasn't slept more than two hours a night since his mother was murdered," Ricardo said, his voice dropping into a rough, vulnerable frequency for a split second before hardening again. "You are the only person who has made him feel safe in six months. Name your price, Clara. But you are coming with us."
