Six hours of screaming had pushed Dominic Moretti to the edge,

The rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle by the time I unlocked the heavy wooden door of my apartment on the third floor of an old brick walk-up on Racine Avenue.

The apartment was small, smelling faintly of old wallpaper, radiator dust, and the instant ramen I had eaten for breakfast. It was quiet. Too quiet. There was no little boy’s laughter echoing down the hallway, no warm pair of arms wrapping around my waist when I dropped my keys on the chipped laminate counter.

Just an empty bedroom with a small, unmade twin bed and a framed photograph of a smiling four-year-old boy resting on the nightstand.

Leo.

My son. Born with a congenital heart defect that the hospital bills had choked out before he even reached his fifth birthday. I had worked three jobs, sold everything I owned, and still watched the monitors flatline while the billing department politely explained that experimental surgery required a deposit we didn't have.

I sank onto the edge of the mattress, pulling off my work shoes, and stared at the dark window pane reflecting my tired, hollowed-out face.

The memory of Dominic Moretti standing over his newborn son in the restaurant kept replaying behind my eyelids. The power that radiated off him wasn't just about money or guns; it was about control. He was a man accustomed to bending the world to his will, yet he had looked completely helpless against a three-week-old baby's stomachache.

He loved him, I thought, remembering the raw, naked terror in Dominic's gray eyes before I picked the baby up. That man is a monster to half the city, but he loves his son the way I loved mine.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

It was 1:15 AM.

I picked it up, expecting a text from the restaurant manager telling me I was fired for insubordination.

Instead, the screen lit up with an unknown caller ID.

I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen, before pressing accept.

"Hello?"

"Claire."

The low, gravelly baritone filled my ear instantly, unmistakable even through the digital compression. Dominic Moretti.

My pulse spiked. "Mr. Moretti? Is everything alright with the baby?"

"He's sleeping," Dominic said. His voice was steady, but there was an underlying tension in the line. "The gripe water worked. He hasn't made a sound for four hours."

"I'm glad. But... why are you calling me at one in the morning?"

A brief pause hung on the line, punctuated only by the faint sound of a car engine idling in the distance.

"I'm downstairs," he said.

I sat straight up on the bed. "What?"

"Look out your window, Claire."

I crossed the room in two strides, my bare feet hitting the cold floorboards, and pulled back the yellowed cotton curtain.

Down on the dark, rain-slicked street, parked directly beneath the flickering yellow glow of a municipal streetlight, was a massive black Escalade. Its tinted windows were rolled up, but the hazard lights were blinking a slow, rhythmic amber.

"Are you out of your mind?" I whispered into the phone, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. "What are you doing outside my apartment at one in the morning?"

"Get your coat," Dominic instructed calmly.

"Mr. Moretti, I am not getting into a car with you—"

"My son has developed a mild fever," Dominic interrupted, his tone shifting into an unarguable command. "Dr. Mercer is already at the estate, but Leo is crying again, and he won't take the bottle from anyone else. You have a gift with him, Claire. I am paying for your time. Triple your hourly rate. Put your coat on."

"I am an exhausted waitress, not a live-in nanny!" I hissed, the adrenaline finally overriding my fear. "You can't just show up at my apartment like a—"

"I am standing outside in the freezing rain, Claire, asking you to help my motherless son," he said, his voice dropping into a quiet, gravelly intensity that made my breath catch. "Please."

The word please sounded foreign in his mouth, heavy and awkward, like a tool he rarely knew how to use. But it carried more weight than any threat he could have uttered.

I closed my eyes, let out a long, shuddering breath, and dropped the curtain.