Chapter 1 - The Blue Chill
The silence in Bellavita wasn't the quiet of a resting room; it was the suffocating stillness of a loaded gun.
“He’s cyanotic,” I whispered, my voice shaking as the color drained from the infant's tiny lips.
Dominic Moretti towered over me, his charcoal suit shifting as his massive shoulders tensed. The four armed bodyguards converged like a wall of granite. One of them, a scarred brute named Viktor, reached for his holster.
“What did you do to him?” Viktor barked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.
“Back off!” I snapped, turning the baby swiftly onto his back and hooking two fingers beneath his chin to clear his airway. “He’s aspirating! Someone call an ambulance—now!”
Nobody moved. They looked at Dominic.
Dominic didn’t look at his men. His dark, piercing eyes were locked entirely on my face, reading every micro-expression, calculating whether I was an assassin or a savior. The rain lashed against the massive glass windows outside, echoing the frantic thud of my own pulse.
“Phone,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
Viktor fumbled for his cell, sliding it across the white tablecloth.
I didn't wait for them to dial. Remembering the rigid protocols from my third year of nursing school before the world fell apart, I applied two fingers to the center of the infant's chest, just below the nipple line, and delivered five rapid, calculated chest thrusts.
Cough.
A tiny spray of milky mucus hit my apron. The baby gasped, drawing in a ragged, desperate breath of air, and let out a wail that sounded like the sweetest music I had ever heard. The blue tint on his lips instantly melted back into a healthy pink.
I sank against the edge of the mahogany table, my legs trembling so violently I thought I would collapse onto the Italian tile.
Dominic exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding since the restaurant doors locked. He reached out, his large, calloused hands gently taking the infant back into his arms. The way he held his son—awkwardly, yet with a fierce, possessive grip—reminded me so much of the ghosts I spent every waking hour trying to outrun.
“What is your name?” Dominic asked, his gaze burning into me.
“Elena,” I choked out, clutching the edge of the tray I had dropped moments ago. “Elena Vance.”
May you like
Dominic looked down at his breathing son, then back up at me. A slow, dangerous smile crept across his lips. “Elena. You just saved the heir to the Moretti family. And in my world, debts are never forgotten.”
Before I could answer, the front glass of the restaurant shattered inward.
