692 The mafia boss’s baby refused every person in the restaurant—until a broke waitress picked him up and he clung to her like he had finally found home.

The air in Ristorante Bellagio was no longer just silent; it was suffocating.

"You recognize her?"

The mafia boss’s voice was smooth, dark, and dangerously soft. It carried the weight of an executioner’s sentence disguised as a polite inquiry. His dark eyes—eyes that had seen civilizations rise and burn—were locked onto my face. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to run, to sprint out of the double glass doors of the restaurant and into the cold rain of the city. But the small, heavy weight against my collarbone anchored me to the spot.

The baby, still clinging to my shirt, let out a tiny, contented sigh. His small hand was warm against my throat, his pulse beating against my neck in a steady, trusting rhythm.

"I... I don't know who she is," I lied, my voice trembling so hard the words almost fell apart in my mouth. "I just... it's just a strange coincidence, sir. I have a common face."

The boss did not blink. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up. At six-foot-two, clad in a custom Italian wool suit that practically radiated wealth and violence, he towered over me. The black dragon inked onto his hand coiled down to his wrist, disappearing into his cuff like a beast retreating into the dark.

"A common face," he repeated, his tone devoid of emotion. He stepped closer. The scent of his cologne—cedarwood, smoke, and sharp, expensive spice—engulfed me completely. "My name is Lorenzo Vance, Mara. And the woman in that photograph was my wife, Elena. She died fourteen months ago. Or so I was led to believe."

The entire restaurant seemed to tilt on its axis.

Elena. The name echoed through my mind like a ghost's echo.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I whispered, taking a cautious step back. But Lorenzo’s son, sensing the distance, tightened his tiny fingers in my apron and let out a sharp whimpering cry.

"He hasn't cried like that since the night she disappeared," one of the bodyguards muttered behind Lorenzo. The man was built like a brick wall, a jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow. "Boss, this isn't right. The resemblance... it's impossible. Elena didn't have a twin."

"She didn't," Lorenzo said, his gaze never leaving my eyes. "Which makes this little interaction far more interesting. Tell me, Mara... what was your mother's name?"

My throat went dry. If you ever see men with dragons on their skin, you walk the other way. My mother’s final words on her deathbed three years ago rang violently inside my skull. She had been terrified of something her entire life. She lived like a fugitive, moving us from town to town, paying for everything in cash, never allowing a single photograph of herself or me to be posted online. I used to think she was paranoid, suffering from some unnamed psychological trauma.

Now, staring into the dark eyes of a mafia lord, I realized she hadn't been paranoid at all. She had been hiding me.

"My mother's name was Susan," I lied smoothly, drawing on every ounce of survival instinct I possessed. "She was a high school teacher from Ohio. She passed away three years ago."

Lorenzo stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. The silence was so dense I could hear the hum of the ice machine behind the bar. Then, to my absolute horror, a faint, cold smile played on his lips.

"Susan," he murmured. "A very plain name for a very complicated woman. Hand me my son."

I reached down to unlace the baby’s fingers from my apron, but the moment I tried to detach him, the baby burst into a full, lung-shattering scream. He thrashed in my arms, burying his face directly into my neck, weeping hysterically as if he were being pulled into an abyss.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," I instinctively cooed, swaying my hips, gently patting his back. "I'm here, sweet boy. I'm right here."

Within three seconds, the child's screams melted back into soft, hiccuping sobs. He squeezed my neck tightly, resting his wet cheek against my collarbone.

The bodyguards exchanged terrified, baffled looks. Lorenzo looked as if he had just seen a dead man walk.

"He hasn't let anyone touch him without screaming for eight months," Lorenzo said quietly, his voice dangerously low. "He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat unless forced. Yet he clings to you as if you are his oxygen."

"He's just scared," I tried to reason, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Children are intuitive. He senses your tension."

"No," Lorenzo corrected softly, stepping so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "Children sense blood. They sense home."

He reached out. For a second, I thought he was going to grab me, but his long, calloused fingers merely reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed against my skin, sending a strange, terrifying shiver down my spine.

"Who are you, Mara?" he asked softly.

Before I could answer, the front doors of the restaurant burst open. Three black SUVs pulled up onto the curb outside, their tires screeching violently against the wet pavement.