Chapter 1 - The Exhale
"Who did this to him?" Matteo Romano demanded, the sheer absurdity of the question hanging in the chilled air of the restaurant.
Clara didn’t flinch. She didn’t laugh, though under any other circumstance, the idea of a ruthless mafia don asking which rival cartel had inflicted gas on his infant would have been comical. Instead, she kept her movements fluid, her breathing deep and rhythmic.
"Biology did it," Clara said softly, her voice an anchor in the chaotic tension. "His digestive system is brand new. It doesn't know how to process formula properly yet, and when he cries, he swallows air. The air gets trapped in his intestines like a balloon. It physically hurts him."
As she spoke, she continued the slow, sweeping figure-eight motion with her hips. She gently patted the center of the baby's back, right between his tiny shoulder blades. One, two, three. A pause. One, two, three.
The three enforcers watched her as if she were defusing a bomb. Matteo stood frozen, his dark, hollowed eyes tracking her every sway.
For three agonizing minutes, the baby continued to sob, his small body rigid against Clara's forearm. But then, the pitch of the cry changed. It went from a jagged shriek to a wet, exhausted whimper. Clara pressed the heel of her hand gently upward into his rigid abdomen.
A loud, abrupt burp echoed in the silent restaurant.
One of the enforcers actually jumped.
A second later, the baby let out a heavy, shuddering exhale. His tiny fists, which had been balled up so tightly his knuckles were white, finally uncurled. The terrifying purple hue of his skin began to fade back to a soft, mottled pink. His eyelids, heavy and swollen from hours of crying, fluttered shut.
Within sixty seconds, the infant was completely, miraculously asleep.
The silence that fell over Lumière was absolute. It was so quiet Clara could hear the ice shifting in Matteo’s abandoned water glass.
Matteo stared at the sleeping boy, the lethal tension draining from his broad shoulders, leaving behind a profound, staggering exhaustion. He looked up at Clara.
"What is his name?" Clara whispered, not daring to stop her gentle swaying.
"Luca," Matteo rasped, his voice devoid of its former ice. "His name is Luca."
"He needs a quiet room, Mr. Romano. And he needs a different formula. The one you're giving him has cow's milk protein. He’s likely allergic. That’s what’s causing the colic."
Clara turned to hand the sleeping infant back, but the men all stepped back simultaneously, as if she were holding a loaded weapon. Matteo swallowed hard, looking at his own son with a mixture of awe and terror.
"If I take him," Matteo said quietly, "he will wake up. And I will not survive another four hours of that sound."
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"I have to get back to work," Clara said, nodding toward her apron.
"You don't work here anymore," Matteo stated flatly. He reached into the breast pocket of his bespoke suit, pulled out a gold money clip, and dropped a stack of hundred-dollar bills—easily five thousand dollars—onto the table. "You work for me now."
