“Hold him.”

For one terrifying second, I thought I had misunderstood the most dangerous man in the city.

I stood beside table seven with a silver tray balanced against my hip, staring at the man whose name most people in Bellacosta only whispered behind locked doors.

Adrian Moretti.

Thirty-eight years old.

Owner of half the nightclubs on the waterfront, three legitimate construction companies, several restaurants, and—according to every rumor my mother had ever begged me not to repeat—things that did not appear on tax returns.

He sat beneath the amber lights of Ristorante Bellagio in a perfectly tailored black suit, broad shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable.

A pale scar cut across his left cheek.

And curled over the knuckles of his right hand was a black dragon tattoo.

My mother’s warning had lived inside my head since childhood.

If you ever see men with dragons on their skin, Mara, walk the other way.

That had always sounded like one of her strange, dramatic fears.

Until that night.

Unfortunately, walking away wasn’t an option.

My manager, Paolo, had practically shoved me toward the private dining section after Adrian’s bodyguards entered.

“Table seven,” he whispered.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re breathing, aren’t you? Then you’re not too busy.”

“Paolo—”

“Smile. Don’t spill anything. Don’t ask questions.”

Then Adrian Moretti had walked in.

And in his arms was a baby.

That was the first thing that didn’t fit.

The second was what happened next.

The little boy couldn’t have been older than eight months. Fair hair. Serious gray-blue eyes. Cream-colored sweater. Tiny fingers curled around the lapel of his father’s suit.

I approached cautiously.

“Good evening. Can I get you something to drink?”

Adrian’s eyes lowered to my name tag.

“Mara.”

The way he said my name made my skin tighten.

“Amarone. Water for the table. Milk for him.”

“Yes, sir.”

I turned.

The baby reached for me.

Both arms.

Straight toward me.

One of the bodyguards shifted.

“That’s strange.”

Adrian looked down.

“He doesn’t like people,” the man added.

Adrian pulled the baby closer.

The child burst into tears.

I froze.

The cry wasn’t ordinary fussing. It was panicked, desperate, almost angry.

Without thinking, I leaned toward him.

“Hey,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”

The baby stopped.

Instantly.

His face brightened.

Then he lunged forward and grabbed my apron.

Every man at the table went silent.

“He never does that,” someone murmured.

Adrian loosened the child’s fingers.

The baby grabbed my thumb instead.

And then Adrian said it.

“Hold him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hold my son.”

There wasn’t much room for negotiation in his voice.

I carefully took the baby.

The moment he settled against my chest, he sighed.

One small hand rested against my neck.

His cheek pressed beneath my collarbone.

Perfectly calm.

I looked down at him, confused.

Then up at Adrian.

For the first time, something had changed in his face.

Not fear.

Not yet.

Recognition.

“He doesn’t let anyone hold him,” Adrian said quietly. “Not my men. Not his nannies. Not even my sister.”

He stopped.

“Only…”

“Only who?”

His eyes darkened.

“His mother.”

A chill moved through me.

“Then why,” he asked slowly, “is he looking at you like that?”

“I don’t know.”

And I didn’t.

But suddenly the restaurant felt too warm.

I looked away.

Behind Adrian, above the wine shelves, hung a framed photograph.

A woman in a black dress.

Dark eyes.

Dark hair.

My nose.

My mouth.

Even the tiny dimple beside the left corner of her lips.

My breath stopped.

The woman in the photograph had my face.

Not similar.

Not vaguely familiar.

My face.

The baby curled closer against me.

Adrian followed my gaze.

“You recognize her?”

“No.”

My voice cracked.

“I’m just dizzy.”

Adrian turned toward the photograph.

Then back to me.

For the first time since he entered, the dangerous calm disappeared.

He stood slowly.

“She died two years ago.”

My blood turned cold.

His eyes dropped to the baby in my arms.

Then returned to my face.

He looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.

“Who are you?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t certain I knew.

Her name was Elena.

Adrian told me that ten minutes later, after he ordered the private dining room cleared and Paolo nearly fainted.

I remained standing near the window, still holding the baby because every time I tried to hand him back, he cried.

His name was Luca.

“Sit,” Adrian said.

“I’d rather stand.”

His bodyguard, Tomas, gave me a look that suggested no one declined invitations from Adrian Moretti.

Adrian ignored him.

“Fine.”

His gaze never left my face.

On the table in front of him sat the framed photograph.

Someone had taken it down from the wall.

The woman’s smile seemed softer up close.

Too familiar.

Adrian tapped the edge of the frame.

“Elena Moretti. My wife.”

I swallowed.

“She looks like me.”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“No.”

“But you think it does.”

He leaned back.

“I think my son has spent eight months refusing to let anyone except me hold him without screaming.”

Luca shifted against my chest.

Adrian continued.

“Tonight he saw you from six meters away and nearly climbed out of my arms.”

I looked down at the baby.

“Babies do strange things.”

“He knew her voice.”

“What?”

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

“When Elena sang, Luca would quiet immediately.”

“He remembers that?”

“He shouldn’t. She died before he was born.”

I stared.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“No.”

For the first time, grief cracked through his composure.

“She was six months pregnant when she died.”

The room seemed to tilt.

I looked at Luca.

Then back at Adrian.

“How is he alive?”

Adrian’s fingers tightened around the wine glass.

“Emergency surgery.”

He looked away.

“They saved him.”

“And Elena?”

“They couldn’t.”

The simplicity of his answer was worse than anything dramatic could have been.

I pressed my lips together.

“I’m sorry.”

He looked at me sharply, as though sympathy offended him.

Then he asked, “When were you born?”

“Twenty-six years ago.”

“Where?”

“St. Agatha’s.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Bellacosta?”

“Yes.”

“Parents?”

“My mother raised me.”

“Father?”

“I never knew him.”

Adrian went still.

“What’s your mother’s name?”

“Rosa Vale.”

Tomas looked at Adrian.

Something passed between them.

I noticed.

“What?”

Neither answered.

“What?”

Adrian rose.

“Call your mother.”

I laughed nervously.

“No.”

“Mara.”

“You don’t get to order me around outside this restaurant.”

“I just watched my dead wife’s face walk into a room carrying my son.”

“That isn’t my fault.”

“Call her.”

I should have left.

I should have put Luca down and walked straight out the door.

Instead, I called my mother.

She answered on the third ring.

“Mara?”

“Mom.”

“Are you still at work?”

“Yes.”

I looked at Adrian.

His stare was relentless.

“Do you know a woman named Elena Moretti?”

Silence.

Not confusion.

Not hesitation.

Silence.

The kind that has weight.

“Mom?”

Her breathing changed.