Chapter 1 - THE BABY WHO WOULDN'T STOP CRYING
The mafia boss's baby screamed for six hours until a waitress whispered what everyone else was too afraid to say
By the time the baby began choking on his own screams, every person in the restaurant had stopped pretending not to stare.
Forks hovered above plates.
A pianist stopped halfway through a song.
Even the bartender froze with a bottle tilted over a crystal glass.
At the center table beneath a chandelier worth more than most houses sat Adrian Moretti, the thirty-three-year-old man half of Chicago feared and the other half pretended not to know.
And in his arms was his six-month-old son.
The baby was screaming so hard his little face had turned purple.
Two armed men stood behind Adrian.
The restaurant manager was sweating through his collar.
A frightened nanny kept repeating, “I don't know what else to do.”
Nobody moved.
Nobody wanted to be the person who made Adrian Moretti's night worse.
Nobody except Emma Carter.
The twenty-four-year-old waitress set down her tray.
Her coworker Rachel caught her wrist.
“Don't.”
Emma looked across the room.
The baby arched his back as another crash of silverware came from the kitchen.
Adrian tightened his hold.
The baby screamed harder.
“He's making it worse,” Emma whispered.
Rachel's face went white.
“Emma, that man has people buried in places no one will ever find.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you walking over there?”
Emma gently pulled her wrist free.
“Because the baby doesn't.”
Adrian saw her coming.
One of his guards stepped between them.
“Turn around.”
Emma didn't.
“Sir, I think I can help.”
Adrian's eyes lifted to hers.
They were gray, cold, and exhausted.
“You're the waitress.”
“Yes.”
“Then bring me bourbon.”
“Your son doesn't need bourbon.”
For one dangerous second, nobody breathed.
The guard's hand moved toward his jacket.
Adrian slowly raised one finger.
The guard stopped.
Emma looked at the baby.
His fists were clenched. His eyes darted toward every light, every movement, every reflection in the room.
“Has he been doing this all night?”
“Six hours,” Adrian said.
“The doctor says colic,” the nanny added quickly. “We've changed the formula. We've tried rocking him. Singing. Medicine.”
Emma shook her head.
“It's not colic.”
Adrian's jaw tightened.
“You got a medical degree hidden under that apron?”
“Not a degree.”
She crouched beside the table.
The baby jerked at the trumpet from the jazz trio.
Emma looked up.
“Turn off the music.”
The manager nearly swallowed his tongue.
Adrian stared at her.
“What?”
“Turn it off.”
“You're giving orders now?”
“You want him to stop screaming?”
Something flickered in Adrian's expression.
Then he looked toward the musicians.
“Stop.”
The room went quiet.
Emma reached for the dimmer switch beside the wall.
A guard blocked her.
“Lights,” she said.
Adrian nodded.
The chandelier softened.
Emma took a clean linen napkin and held it above the baby's eyes, blocking the shifting reflections without touching his face.
Then she placed two fingers lightly against his tiny hand.
His fist wrapped around one of them immediately.
“There's too much happening,” she murmured. “Too many voices. Too much light. Too many strangers.”
The crying weakened by half a note.
Adrian stared.
Emma leaned closer.
And whispered the truth no one else in the room had dared tell him.
“He isn't fighting you.”
Adrian's expression changed.
“He's afraid.”
The baby's scream broke into a sob.
Emma continued in a low, steady voice.
“That's all, sweetheart. You're safe. Nothing here is going to hurt you.”
The baby hiccupped.
Then went silent.
The quiet was so sudden it felt violent.
Adrian looked down at his son.
The baby's fingers remained wrapped around Emma's hand.
A minute later, his eyelids closed.
Nobody in the restaurant moved.
Adrian looked at Emma again.
“Who are you?”
“Emma Carter.”
“No. What are you?”
Her stomach tightened.
“I used to be a pediatric nurse.”
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“Used to?”
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