Chapter 4
Maya stared at the mafia boss, her mind scrambling to process the absurd command. Her manager, Marco, looked like he was about to faint behind the host stand. Tony was vigorously rubbing his temples near the kitchen.
"Mr. Russo," Maya started, her voice carefully measured. "I can't sit down. I'm on the clock. I have three other tables waiting for their entrees, and if I sit, I'll be fired."
Dante didn't even look in Marco's direction. "Marco!" he barked, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Marco flinched so hard he nearly dropped a water pitcher. "Yes, Mr. Russo?"
"Is this woman fired if she sits with me?" Dante asked, his pale gray eyes fixed entirely on Maya.
"No! Absolutely not!" Marco stammered, wiping his brow with a linen napkin. "Take your time, Maya. Take all the time you need. Your tables are covered."
Dante turned his attention back to Maya, one dark eyebrow raised. "Your schedule just cleared. Sit."
Maya looked down at her wrist. Sophia was still holding on, her small knuckles turning white from the force of her grip. The child’s eyes were wide, filled with a silent, desperate terror that tore at Maya's heart. Maya knew what it was like to be scared and completely alone. She couldn't walk away from that look.
Taking a deep breath, Maya slid into the plush leather booth, sitting right beside the little girl. Sophia immediately shifted closer, pressing her small side against Maya’s apron. Dante sat down opposite them, his massive frame taking up most of the space. The dynamic was completely surreal.
"Bring another plate," Dante ordered without looking up.
A terrified busboy practically sprinted to the table, dropping a pristine white plate and a fresh set of silver cutlery before vanishing back into the shadows.
"I'm really not hungry," Maya said softly, acutely aware of the fact that she was sharing a booth with a man who had likely ordered hits on people before breakfast.
"Eat," Dante said flatly. "If you don't eat, she won't eat. And if she doesn't eat, she's going to end up in a hospital by tomorrow morning with an IV in her arm."
Maya looked at Dante. The coldness in his voice was a defense mechanism, a shield to hide the overwhelming panic of a failing father. She understood that kind of armor.
Maya picked up a fork and twirled a small amount of untouched pasta from the serving bowl in the center of the table. She placed it on her plate, then looked down at Sophia.
"You know," Maya said conversationally, ignoring Dante entirely. "I make pastries for a living in the mornings. But this pasta smells better than any croissant I've ever baked. If you eat a bite of yours, I'll eat a bite of mine. Deal?"
Sophia looked at the plate in front of her. Slowly, with trembling fingers, the little girl picked up her fork. She stabbed a single piece of ravioli.
Dante stopped breathing. He watched his daughter raise the fork to her lips. She took a tiny bite.
A heavy, shuddering exhale escaped Dante’s lips. He leaned back against the leather cushion, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second as profound relief washed over his hardened features. When he opened them again, he looked directly at Maya.
"Who are you?" Dante asked quietly.
"Maya Bennett," she replied, taking a small bite of her own pasta. "Just a waitress trying to pay rent."
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"People don't just snap my daughter out of a trauma coma by asking about colors, Maya Bennett," Dante said, his gaze piercing right through her. "Why did she speak to you?"
"Because I didn't look at her like she was broken," Maya answered evenly, refusing to be intimidated. "Children know when you're treating them like a tragedy. I just treated her like a kid."
