Chapter 2
The dining room didn't go silent all at once. It thinned. Forks stopped. The low murmur that had filled Il Verano dropped a half-level and stayed there, and I could feel every table watching us without looking directly.
Leo was asleep against my shoulder, his face turned into the side of my neck. His breathing had evened out, slow and warm. One small hand was still fisted in the sleeve of my white shirt. I was still kneeling on the hard floor. My knees had started to ache.
Behind me, I heard the quick steps I knew too well. Marco, the floor manager. Black vest, black tie, radio clipped at his waist turned down low. He didn't speak at first. He just stopped two feet away and looked down at me holding a guest's child on the floor during service.
"Clara," he said, quiet but sharp. "What are you doing? Get up. Now."
I didn't move right away because Leo's weight was settled and I didn't want to jostle him.
Marco leaned in. "You are off the floor. Hand the boy to his father and go to the service station. We'll talk after."
That was the moment I knew I could lose the job. Il Verano didn't have warnings. You were either invisible and perfect or you were gone.
Before I could answer, Ricardo spoke. He hadn't stood up. He was still seated at the edge of the dark marble table, his hands on his knees. His voice was low, not loud at all.
"She stays," he said.
Marco turned his head. His posture changed instantly.
Ricardo didn't raise his voice or make a show of it. He just looked at Marco and then glanced once toward the back of the room where two of his men in dark suits stood near the chandelier. It wasn't a threat. It was a fact. Everyone in that room knew who had booked the private dining section.
"She's helping my son," Ricardo said. "Leave her where she is."
Marco swallowed. He gave a short nod. "Of course, Mr. Moretti. Absolutely."
He stepped back a half-step but didn't leave. He hovered, hands clasped, torn between the house rules and the man who owned the room.
Ricardo looked back at me. His face was still softened from before, but tighter now. Controlled.
"Can you give him to me?" he asked me. "I can take him from here."
I nodded, but my arms tightened without meaning to. Leo was finally calm. Moving him felt like the wrong thing. I had felt this before with kids at the daycare where I used to help — that moment where the calm is so fragile you hate to test it.
I shifted my weight and got my feet under me. Slowly I stood, bringing Leo with me, his head staying on my shoulder. He made a small sound in his sleep and his legs dangled.
Ricardo stood too and opened his arms. I could see his hands clearly then, the tattoos on the back of both, the silver watch at his wrist catching the warm light from the sconce. He held them steady, palms up, waiting for me to place Leo.
I turned a little and lowered Leo toward him, keeping one hand under his back, one under his bottom, trying to keep his head from flopping. Ricardo slid his hands around him. The transfer was slow. For a second we were both holding him.
Then Leo was in his father's arms.
His eyes fluttered. His brow pinched. He didn't wake fully, but his breathing hitched and his head lifted off Ricardo's chest.
"No," he whimpered, very soft. "No."
Ricardo tried to adjust, pulling him in closer against his black shirt, rocking once, awkwardly. He patted Leo's back with a flat hand, too hard, then too light.
"It's okay. You're okay, buddy. Dad's got you," he whispered.
Leo's whimper got louder. His small hands pushed at Ricardo's jacket. His legs kicked once. The glass of milk we'd left on the table edge shivered when Ricardo's elbow bumped the marble.
I saw Ricardo's jaw tighten. He looked down at his son, then up at me. His eyes were asking for help without saying it.
"He needs pressure," I said quietly. "Not patting. Hold him firm."
Ricardo tried to hold firmer, but Leo arched and let out a thin cry, still half-asleep but sliding back toward that panicked place he'd been in before. One of the men by the chandelier took a step forward and then stopped himself.
Marco looked at me, then at Ricardo.
Ricardo exhaled. "Please," he said to me. It wasn't a command. It was barely a word. "Stay until he's actually asleep. Just until he settles."
I looked at Marco. Marco's mouth was a line. He gave Ricardo a tight professional smile and then said to me, "You can step off. Alcove by the service bar. Stay out of view. Don't circulate."
It was permission, but only just.
I stepped forward and Ricardo carefully passed Leo back to me. The moment his weight was against my chest again, his head dropped to my shoulder. I put one hand on his back and held him snug, not rocking much, just breathing slowly so he could match it.
His crying thinned to a shaky breath and then to nothing. His hand found my shirt again and fisted.
Ricardo watched, his hands empty at his sides. He didn't try to take him again.
"Go on," Marco said under his breath, and gestured toward the narrow alcove beside the service bar, where the wall made a little shadow away from the tables. It was where we stacked extra linens and where servers waited for orders. Not a place for guests.
I carried Leo there. The sconce light was dimmer in that corner. I could still feel the whole room behind me, but at least I wasn't kneeling in the middle of it anymore.
May you like
Ricardo followed without being asked. He stood a foot away, close enough that Leo could feel he was still there, far enough that he wasn't crowding us. He kept his eyes on his son's face, relaxed now against my shoulder.
I was off the floor. My shift was broken. My check for the night would be short. But Leo was breathing steady again, and Ricardo wasn't looking at me like I was staff anymore. He was looking at me like he needed me to stay exactly where I was.
