Chapter 2 - The Command Across the Marble
The silver decanter rattled against the surface of the tray.
Mara stopped breathing. For a fraction of a second, she genuinely believed she had misheard, that the terrifying man at the head of the table had spoken to one of his stone-faced bodyguards. But when she dared to lift her gaze, she found Dominic Moretti’s piercing black eyes locked onto hers with the intensity of an executioner lining up a target. The sheer gravity of his stare made her knees feel hollow.
"Sir?" The word barely escaped her lips, little more than an exhaled whisper.
Nico’s cries reached a frantic, earsplitting crescendo. The child arched his small back, kicking his legs inside his mint-green trousers, his tiny fingers clawing desperately at the air between them. He wasn't reaching for the chandelier, nor for the silver tray; his tear-stained face was fixed entirely on Mara, his little chest heaving in rapid, desperate gasps.
"I said," Dominic repeated, his voice dropping into a register that made the crystal flutes on the table hum with low vibration, "hold him."
"Mr. Moretti," Marco stepped forward, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the polished marble. His hand hovered inches from his jacket closure, his scarred face tight with professional alarm. "The girl hasn't been cleared by security. Protocol says—"
"To hell with protocol, Marco," Dominic growled, not taking his eyes off Mara for a fraction of a second. "Look at him."
Dominic rose to his full height. He towered over the table, an imposing six-foot-four wall of muscle and tattooed authority. His broad chest rose and fell in measured, dangerous breaths, the dragon claws on his knuckles flexing against the soft fabric of his son's ruffled linen shirt. Every bodyguard in the room shifted their weight, their eyes darting to Mara, their postures stiffening into active defensive stances. The private room was a tinderbox, and the smallest wrong movement would ignite a catastrophe.
Mara took a half-step back, her shoulder bumping against the mirrored sideboard. Panic tasted like copper in the back of her mouth. She had heard stories of what the Moretti family did to people who displeased them; she had seen the newspaper clippings of warehouse fires and missing union officials. She was nobody—a twenty-five-year-old girl with two dollars in her checking account and an overdue eviction notice sitting on her kitchen counter. Touching the mafia boss’s son felt like signing her own death warrant.
"Please, sir," Mara stammered, her voice shaking violently as she pressed the silver tray against her apron like a shield. "I'm... I'm just a waitress. I can't. I'm not allowed to touch the guests."
Dominic’s eyes narrowed into slits of obsidian rage. He was not a man accustomed to hesitation, let alone defiance from a banquet server. His fingers tightened protectively around Nico’s waist as the child’s wails turned into ragged, choking sobs, his little hands trembling as he reached across the void toward Mara.
Dominic took two heavy, thunderous strides toward her, the soles of his polished dress shoes echoing like gunshot cracks against the stone.
"I SAID TAKE HIM!"
The roar bounced violently off the vaulted ceiling, causing the bodyguards to flinch and the chandeliers to shimmer. The sheer concussive force of his voice broke through Mara’s paralysis. Terrified of what he might do if she refused a third time, she moved with blind, frantic obedience.
She slammed the silver tray down onto the mahogany table—so hard that a splash of dark Barolo sloshed over the rim of the decanter and stained the white damask cloth—and stepped into the shadow of the colossal man. With trembling hands and downcast eyes, she reached her arms forward, her fingertips brushing the soft mint-green linen of the infant’s clothes.
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Dominic leaned down, his muscular forearms brushing against hers. For a terrifying, suffocating second, Mara felt the radiant heat of his skin, the dark ink of his knuckles brushing her wrists, and the faint scent of expensive cedarwood, Tuscan tobacco, and gun oil that clung to his clothes.
With deliberate, unyielding force, Dominic transferred the weeping child into her arms.
