Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Ghost
The restaurant around Elina felt as though it had been vacuumed of all oxygen. Her lungs burned, yet she could not draw a full breath. The reflection in the polished brass-and-wood frame behind the bar was not a trick of the dim lighting or a bizarre coincidence of shadows; it was a snapshot of a woman who could have been Elina’s twin, or perhaps Elina herself if she had possessed a different, far more expensive wardrobe. The woman in the frame wore a diamond tennis bracelet that flashed under the amber lights, her arm linked with a younger, smoother version of the dangerous man standing directly in front of Elina now.
The baby shifted against Elina’s collarbone, letting out a soft, milky sigh that blew warm air against her bare skin. His small hand remained planted firmly over her collarbone, his pulse tapping a steady, frantic rhythm against hers.
"You're not breathing," the man said. His voice was no longer a conversational murmur; it was heavy with a sudden, jagged urgency. He stepped closer, invading her personal space so completely that she could smell the rich, dry cedar of his cologne mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of rain on wool.
"I—" Elina’s throat was as dry as bone. She tried to step back, but the edge of the leather booth blocked her knees. "Sir, I think you need to take him back. I have tables waiting. My manager is watching—"
"Let him watch," the man snarled, his gaze tearing away from her face for a single second to look at the photograph behind the bar. When his eyes snapped back to Elina, the darkness in them had deepened into something terrifying. It was the look of a man who had spent years mourning a grave that had suddenly been proven empty. "What is your name? Your full name."
"Elina Valdez," she whispered, her hands trembling around the baby’s back. The child whimpered, sensing her panic, and pressed his forehead harder into the crook of her neck, his tiny fingers curling into her hair.
"Valdez," the man repeated, tasting the syllables like they were poison. "Where were you born? Who raised you?"
"My mother," Elina said, defensiveness flaring hot and sharp through her terror, cutting through the shock. "In a tiny apartment three blocks from the river. My father died before I could remember him. What is this about? You're scaring the child."
"He isn't scared," the man said quietly, reaching out with a hand covered in dark, curling ink. His calloused fingertips brushed the edge of her jaw, right over the soft hollow beneath her ear. The contact was so light it felt like a ghost's touch, yet it sent a violent shiver down her spine. "Look at him, Elina. He hasn't stopped crying for anyone in four months. Not since the night his mother disappeared from our estate without a trace. And yet he looks at you like he’s finally come home."
The manager, Vince, materialized from the shadows near the kitchen doors like a grease-stained phantom, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Mr. Moretti—Dante, sir. Please. The girl is new—well, not new, but she's a worker. She doesn't mean any disrespect. If she’s caused a problem—"
"Shut your mouth, Vince," Dante Moretti didn't even turn his head. His eyes never left Elina’s face, tracing the slope of her nose, the curve of her cheek, the exact placement of the small mole just beneath her left eye. "Get the car. We're leaving."
"Leaving?" Elina’s voice rose an octave, drawing the nervous glances of the few diners left in the back booths. "I'm on the clock! I have two hours left on my double shift! You can't just—you can't just take me hostage because your son likes my sweater!"
"You aren't a hostage," Dante said, though the steel in his tone suggested otherwise. He reached out and slid his large, heavy hands around his son, lifting the boy from Elina’s arms.
For a fraction of a second, Elina felt a cold rush of empty air where the baby had been. Then, the moment Dante’s skin left hers, the boy let out a shriek so loud and piercing it rattled the wine glasses on the nearby shelves. His little face turned bright red, arms flailing wildly, striking his father’s chest in a blind rage.
Dante grunted, his jaw clenching as he tried to hush the child. "Shh, Leo. Leo, look—she's right here. Calm down."
It didn't work. The baby’s cries escalated into gasping, breathless wails that made Elina’s chest ache with an instinct she didn't understand.
Without thinking, Elina reached out and laid her hand over the baby's tiny, flailing wrist.
The crying stopped mid-breath.
The silence that fell over the table was absolute. Little Leo let out a hiccup, turned his head back toward Elina, and buried his face against her sleeve with a soft, hiccuping sigh of pure, unadulterated relief.
May you like
Dante stared down at her hand resting against his son's arm. Then slowly, deliberately, he raised his dark eyes to meet hers.
"You aren't going back to your tables, Elina," Dante said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that promised a storm. "And you aren't going home to that apartment by the river. You're coming with me."
