Chapter 2 - THE BLUE SILENCE
The baby’s lips were tinted a terrifying, translucent shade of blue.
He wasn’t crying anymore because he couldn’t breathe. The sudden silence that had brought Dominic to his feet wasn’t the relief of a settled stomach; it was the terrifying quiet of a blocked airway. The child’s eyes were wide, panicked, and fixed on nothing, his tiny chest straining violently but drawing in absolutely no oxygen. The shift from a screaming, red-faced infant to a limp, cyanotic one happened in the span of three agonizing seconds.
"He's choking," I gasped, the words tearing out of my throat before my brain fully processed the danger. The ghost of my nursing training—the instincts I had tried to bury along with my son—resurrected in an instant.
"What did you do?" Dominic roared, a sound that shook the crystal chandeliers above us. His hand shot toward his waistband, the unmistakable motion of a man reaching for a weapon. The bodyguards surged forward, a wall of muscle and menace closing in on me. The entire restaurant erupted into a chaotic symphony of shouting men, shattering plates, and terrified patrons scrambling for the exits.
"Back off!" I screamed, my voice slicing through the pandemonium with a ferocity that surprised even me. I didn't care that he was the head of the Chicago mob. I didn't care about the guns suddenly gleaming under the dim ambient lighting of Bellavita. All I saw was a baby slipping away. "Give me space or he dies right now!"
Dominic froze, his hand still hovering over his holster. For a fraction of a second, the cold, calculating mafia boss vanished, replaced by a terrified father. He raised a single hand, signaling his men to halt. They stopped dead in their tracks, but the tension in the room was thick enough to suffocate on.
I didn't waste another millisecond. I flipped the infant over, resting him face down along my left forearm, supporting his jaw and cheekbone with my fingers to keep his airway as straight as possible. I anchored my arm against my thigh, ensuring his head was lower than his chest. Gravity was my only ally.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
I delivered five firm, rapid back blows between his shoulder blades using the heel of my right hand. The sickening thud echoed in the silent, breath-held dining room. Nothing happened. The baby’s body remained terrifyingly limp. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. No. Not again. I will not watch another child die.
I flipped him back over, cradling the back of his head, resting him on my opposite thigh. His skin was growing paler, the blue deepening around his mouth. I placed two fingers in the center of his chest, just below the nipple line, and gave five quick downward thrusts.
Still nothing.
"Do something!" Dominic snarled, stepping forward, his eyes wild, the mask of control entirely shattered. "Fix him!"
"Stay back!" I ordered, flipping the baby over my arm once more. Sweat stung my eyes. My hands were trembling, but my grip was iron-clad. Breathe. Please, God, let him breathe.
I struck his back again. One. Two. Three.
On the fourth blow, a violent shudder ripped through the baby's tiny frame. A strange, wet gasp escaped his lips, followed by a faint clinking sound as something small and hard hit the polished hardwood floor.
Then came the most beautiful sound in the world: a piercing, ragged, glorious scream.
The infant’s chest heaved as oxygen flooded his starved lungs. The terrifying blue hue began to recede, replaced by a flush of angry, vital red. He cried, thrashing his little fists, alive and fighting.
I collapsed to my knees right there on the floor of the five-star restaurant, clutching the screaming baby to my chest. Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast, blurring my vision. For a moment, it wasn't Dominic Moretti's son I was holding. It was Leo. I buried my face into the infant's sweat-dampened hair, inhaling the scent of baby powder and life, sobbing uncontrollably as the adrenaline crashed out of my system.
A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the baby's wails and my own ragged breathing.
A large, warm hand clamped down on my shoulder. I flinched, looking up through my tears. Dominic stood over me, his chest heaving, his dark eyes fixed on his son. He knelt slowly, the expensive fabric of his suit pants straining against the floorboards. Without a word, he reached out with trembling hands.
I gently transferred the baby into his arms. Dominic cradled him awkwardly, securely, burying his face into the child's neck. The ruthless Don, the man who allegedly ordered hits before his morning espresso, was shaking.
One of the bodyguards, a giant with a scarred jaw, knelt a few feet away and picked up the object that had flown from the baby's mouth. He held it up to the light. It was a decorative, diamond-studded button, the kind that had been on the baby's designer vest.
"He swallowed a button off his own clothes, Boss," the guard murmured, his voice tight.
Dominic closed his eyes for a long moment, steadying his breathing. When he opened them, the vulnerability was gone, locked away behind a vault of steel. He looked at me, his gaze analytical, piercing, stripping away all my defenses.
"What is your name?" he asked softly. The quiet tone was far more dangerous than his shouting.
"Elara," I whispered, wiping my face with the back of my trembling hand. "Elara Vance."
"You saved my son's life, Elara Vance." It wasn't a thank you. It was a statement of a debt incurred. In Dominic Moretti's world, debts were everything.
"Anyone would have done it," I said, trying to stand up, my legs feeling like jelly. "He's fine now. You should take him to a pediatrician to ensure there's no throat damage, but his airway is clear."
"You're a nurse."
"I was a nursing student. I didn't finish." I smoothed down my apron, suddenly hyper-aware of how disheveled I looked. "I need to get back to my shift."
Dominic let out a dark, humorless chuckle. "Your shift is over. In fact, your career carrying plates in this establishment is finished."
Panic flared in my chest. "You can't get me fired! I saved his life!"
"I am not firing you, Elara," Dominic said smoothly, rising to his feet with the baby safely tucked against his chest. He snapped his fingers, and his men immediately formed a protective ring around us. "I am hiring you."
"Hiring me? For what?"
May you like
"To keep my son breathing." Dominic turned toward the exit, pausing just long enough to look over his shoulder. "Pack your things. A car will be at your apartment in an hour. Do not make me come looking for you."
Before I could protest, before I could scream that I didn't want anything to do with the mafia, he was gone, sweeping out of the restaurant and taking the chaos with him. I stood alone amidst the shattered plates, staring at the empty space where my normal, quiet, grief-stricken life had just officially ended.
