A feared mafia boss entered the restaurant with a crying baby, and the entire dining room went silent as the child reached desperately for me.

Matteo did not answer immediately. He sat in silence, the ambient golden light of the dining room highlighting the harsh angles of his face and the faint, jagged line of his cheek scar. His eyes remained locked on Elina, tracking every subtle movement of her face, every sway of her body, and the gentle manner in which her fingers caressed his son’s head.

The silence stretched long between them, heavy with unspoken questions.

Finally, Matteo stood up from the leather booth. He was tall—easily over six feet—and his presence immediately dominated the space around Elina. The broad shoulders of his dark suit cast a long shadow over her, but Elina did not step back. She remained holding Leo, her arms secure around the sleeping infant.

Matteo took one step closer, stopping just inches away from her. The faint smell of expensive sandalwood cologne, leather, and fresh night air drifted from him.

His voice lowered to an intimate, haunting murmur.

"Only his mother could calm him like that," Matteo whispered.

Elina’s heart skipped a beat. A cold shiver ran down her spine, contrasting sharply with the warm baby resting against her chest.

"His... his mother?" Elina repeated softly, her brow furrowing in deep confusion. "Mr. DeLuca, I don't... I've never met you before tonight. I've never seen your family. I don't know who your wife is."

Matteo’s eyes darkened, a deep, painful shadow passing through his pupils before he quickly locked it behind his cold demeanor. "His mother is gone," Matteo said, his voice flat, yet carrying a resonance of immense, buried tragedy. "She died six months ago. The night Leo was born."

Elina felt a sudden pang of deep sympathy in her chest. She looked down at the tiny baby boy soundly sleeping in her arms. Nine months old, growing up without a mother, living in a world surrounded by armed men and stern shadows.

"I'm... I'm so sorry for your loss," Elina said genuinely, her soft voice filled with real empathy. "But sir, I assure you, I am just a waitress. I've lived in this city my whole life, working odd jobs. I don't have any connection to your family. It must just be... a coincidence. Children sometimes just take a liking to a calm face or a warm—"

"There are no coincidences," Matteo interrupted coldly, his eyes searching every millimeter of her face. "Not in my life. And certainly not with my son."

Before Elina could offer another explanation or try to hand the baby back, her gaze accidentally drifted past Matteo’s broad shoulder.

Her eyes wandered toward the far wall of the restaurant, beside the dark mahogany bar where the vintage whiskey bottles were displayed.

She had passed that wall a hundred times over the past six months. She had polished the brass sconces beside it, swept the floor beneath it, and delivered drinks to the tables nearby. But she had never truly looked at the artwork hanging there in the dim, decorative restaurant lighting.

Until now.