Chapter 2 - THE FACE IN THE GLASS
Elina could not tear her eyes away from the mirror behind the restaurant bar.
The framed photograph rested on the top shelf, nestled between expensive bottles of vintage wine. It was a memorial picture, draped with a thin black ribbon. The woman smiling back from the glossy paper had the exact same almond-shaped brown eyes as Elina. The same slight curve of the jaw. The same tiny, defining dimple on the left cheek.
It was like looking into a mirror, only the woman in the photo wore a gown of rich ivory silk, while Elina wore a stained, cheap polyester apron smelling of garlic and spilled coffee.
"Elina."
The mafia boss’s voice broke through the loud rushing sound in her ears.
She flinched, pulling her gaze away from the bar and back to the terrifying man sitting in front of her. His dark, piercing eyes were no longer just confused; they were narrowed, calculating, and intensely focused on her face. He followed her line of sight, turning his broad shoulders to look at the memorial photograph behind the bar.
When he turned back to Elina, the color had completely drained from his face, leaving his jagged scar stark and pale against his skin.
"Who are you?" he demanded. The dangerous edge in his voice made the two bodyguards immediately step closer to the table.
"I... I'm a waitress," Elina stammered, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. She tightened her arms instinctively around the baby. The little boy, completely oblivious to the rising tension, just cooed softly and buried his face into the curve of her neck. He smelled of expensive baby powder and warm milk. "I don't know who that is, sir. I swear."
"Her name was Sofia," the man whispered, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it back into a rigid, controlled timber. "She was my wife. And she died bringing Leo into this world eight months ago."
Elina felt the breath knock out of her lungs.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, looking down at the beautiful little boy in her arms. No mother. Just a grieving, dangerous father who lived in a world of violence.
The restaurant manager, a balding, nervous man named Marco, scurried over, wringing his hands.
"Mr. Russo, please," Marco practically begged, bowing his head. "If my waitress has offended you, I will terminate her immediately. Elina, give the boss his son and get to the back!"
"If you fire her, Marco, I will burn this restaurant to the ground with you inside it," Dante Russo said. He didn't yell. He didn't even raise his voice. But the absolute certainty in his tone made Marco turn white and stumble backward.
Dante stood up slowly. He towered over Elina, broad and intimidating in his custom-tailored suit. But when he looked at the baby clinging to her, the heavy exhaustion of a desperate father leaked through his terrifying facade.
"He hasn't slept through the night in eight months," Dante confessed, his voice dropping so low only Elina could hear. "He cries until his lungs give out. He refuses every nanny money can buy. But he is holding you like he knows your heartbeat."
"I don't understand," Elina said, her voice trembling. "I've never met him. I've never met you."
"Neither do I," Dante said. "But you are leaving with us."
Panic spiked in Elina's chest. "No. I can't. I have to finish my shift. I have rent to pay. I take the bus home."
"I will buy your apartment building and hand you the deed," Dante said without missing a beat. "I will pay you ten times what you make in a year just to sit in my house and hold my son until he falls asleep. Please."
The word "please" coming from a man who commanded a syndicate sent a shockwave through the bodyguards. They exchanged stunned glances.
Elina looked down at the baby. Leo shifted, his heavy, sleepy eyelids fluttering shut. His tiny fingers remained locked tightly in the fabric of her apron. If she handed him over, he would wake up. He would scream. He would go back to being a motherless child in a cold, frightening world.
"Just for tonight," Elina whispered, her maternal instincts completely overriding her common sense. "Just until he sleeps."
Dante exhaled a shaky breath of relief. "My car is outside."
As Elina turned to follow him out of the restaurant, the strap of her cheap, worn-out purse caught on the edge of the chair. The faux leather snapped.
Her bag hit the hardwood floor, spilling her meager belongings. A handful of coins, a tube of chapstick, and her worn wallet tumbled out. But what caught the light was a small, tarnished silver pocket watch that had popped open upon impact.
Dante froze.
He stared down at the object.
"Where did you get that?" Dante asked, his voice suddenly void of all warmth.
Elina quickly knelt, keeping one arm securely around the sleeping baby, and reached for the watch. "It's mine. It's the only thing I've had since I was a baby."
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Dante crouched beside her. With trembling fingers, he reached out and touched the open lid of the pocket watch. Inside the lid was an intricate, hand-engraved crest of a soaring falcon.
"My wife gave this exact watch to her father on his deathbed," Dante whispered, looking up at Elina with a mixture of terror and hope. "It was buried with him twenty years ago. How is it in your purse?"
