Chapter 4 - The Golden Cage
Clara stared at the slip of paper extended toward her. She didn't take it immediately. Her mind raced through a dozen worst-case scenarios. Was it hush money? Was it a payoff to make her leave town?
"What is this?" Clara asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
"It's an offer," Rico said smoothly, capping his gold pen with a soft click. "Ten thousand dollars a week. Plus full housing on the estate, private security for you and your family, and all medical bills for your brother covered in full."
The entire dining room seemed to collectively gasp. Marco looked like he was about to faint permanently. Ten thousand a week was more than the restaurant made in profit during a busy weekend.
"You're out of your mind," Clara breathed, backing away slightly, though Leo's weight kept her anchored to the floor. "I'm a waitress. I don't take charity, and I certainly don't sell myself."
"It's not charity, and it's not a purchase," Rico replied, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute, unshakable command. "It’s a business contract. My son hasn't slept through the night in six months. Neither have I. You walked into a room full of killers, showed no fear, and managed to do in thirty seconds what a team of pediatric specialists couldn't do in half a year. You are the only person on this planet Leo has responded to since his mother died."
"Mr. Moretti, I have a life. I have a job here—"
"You had a job here," Rico corrected smoothly, glancing sideways at Marco, who was nodding frantically in eager agreement. "Marco would fire you right now if I told him to, though I suspect he'll give you a glowing reference out of sheer terror. The point is, Clara Vance, you are coming home with us tonight."
"I am not going anywhere with a mobster," Clara hissed under her breath, refusing to be intimidated.
At that exact moment, little Leo stirred in his sleep. Hearing the tension in their hushed voices, the toddler let out a distressed whimper and tightened his grip on Clara's collar, pressing his tear-streaked face harder against her neck. A fresh wave of silent tears slipped from his closed eyelids.
Clara’s heart melted instantly. She looked down at the child, then up at the towering, dangerous man who was his father. She saw the quiet, desperate plea hidden deep within Rico’s shattered ice-blue eyes—a plea that no amount of money or power could buy.
"Fine," Clara whispered defeatedly, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. "I'll come to the estate tonight. I'll help him settle in, and I'll make sure he sleeps. But on my terms. No bodyguards hovering over me like vultures, and I keep my Sundays off."
A rare, faint shadow of a smile touched the corner of Rico’s mouth. It didn't reach his eyes, but it transformed his dangerous face into something startlingly human.
May you like
"Deal," Rico said. He signaled to Dante, who immediately stepped forward, looking entirely bewildered by the turn of events. "Dante, bring the car around front. And have someone settle the bill for the entire restaurant tonight. On me."
Within twenty minutes, the most feared table in Brooklyn was empty. Clara found herself escorted—not dragged—out of Il Destino and into the back of a bulletproof, matte-black Maybach, holding a sleeping three-year-old mafia heir in her lap while the city lights blurred past the tinted windows.
