Chapter 1 — The Boy Who Bit His Bodyguard

The little boy sank his teeth into the bodyguard’s hand just as I reached the service station.

A wineglass stopped halfway to someone’s mouth. The pianist lifted his fingers from the keys. Across the dining room, a woman whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

The bodyguard swore and pulled back.

The boy screamed harder.

I set down my tray before the four martinis on it became the second disaster of the evening.

“Don’t look,” Sarah said beside me.

There was blood on the bodyguard’s thumb and broken porcelain beneath the center table. The child stood on his chair, clutching his shirt in both fists, his face wet and furious.

His father rose slowly.

That frightened the room more than the screaming.

Ricardo Moretti owned Il Destino, the building around it, and enough of Brooklyn that people lowered their voices when discussing the rest. At thirty-two, he had the sort of face expensive watches were designed to accompany: dark eyes, a straight nose, a mouth that looked unused to asking.

Tonight, that mouth was tight with exhaustion.

“Leo. Enough.”

The boy recoiled.

Not sulked. Not stamped his feet.

Recoiled.

I knew the difference.

Moretti’s head of security wrapped a napkin around his injured hand.

“He got me pretty good.”

“I can see that, Dante.”

“Let me try again.”

“No,” I said.

Sarah’s fingers closed around my wrist.

Fortunately, nobody at the table heard me.

Unfortunately, I was already moving.

“Clara,” she whispered. “You need this job.”

I knew exactly how much I needed it. My landlord had left a second notice beneath my door that morning. My bank account held sixty-three dollars, and my left shoe had started taking in water.

But Leo was dragging air into his chest in little broken pulls.

I had heard that breathing before.

My brother Evan had been seven the first time he hid behind our washing machine and insisted he couldn’t breathe. I’d been seventeen, terrified, and certain he was dying.

A counselor had later taught me what to do before fear became a struggle between the person panicking and everyone trying to help.

Make space. Lower your voice. Don’t grab.

Offer a choice small enough to manage.

At the center table, Moretti struck his palm against the linen.

Silverware jumped.

“He doesn’t want the food. He doesn’t want the toys. He doesn’t want to leave.”

His voice changed on the next words.

“He doesn’t want me.”

Leo’s scream faltered.

Then Dante reached toward him again, and the child threw himself against the back of the chair.

I went to the counter.

“What are you doing?” Sarah asked.

“Getting milk.”

“For yourself?”

I took a small plastic cup from the drawer we used for children. Another glass object was the last thing that table needed.

I warmed the milk, stirred in a sugar cube, and tested a drop against my wrist.

Marco intercepted me before I reached the dining room.

Our manager could spot an untucked shirt from forty feet away. Apparently, he could also recognize a career-ending decision before it happened.

“No.”

“He’s frightened.”

“He’s Mr. Moretti’s son.”

“I noticed.”

“Then notice that you are a waitress.”

Leo gave another sharp, breathless cry.

I looked past Marco.

“You can write me up afterward.”

“Clara.”

I walked around him.

The floor between the counter and the center table felt much longer than it ever had while carrying dinner.

Dante saw me first.

He straightened. Moretti turned toward me, his hand shifting beneath his jacket.

I stopped immediately.

“I work here.”

“I can see that.”

His eyes moved from my apron to the cup.

“What are you doing?”

“Bringing him something.”

“He’s been brought things.”

“I’m not going to make him drink it.”

Marco hurried up behind me.

“Mr. Moretti, I told her—”

Moretti raised a finger without looking at him.

Marco fell silent.

I had never seen that happen so quickly.

“You should go back to work,” Moretti told me.

I looked at Leo. His eyes were darting between us.

“Please stop reaching for him.”

Dante stared.

Moretti’s expression went still.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s backing away every time someone puts out a hand. He bit because he couldn’t get any farther away.”

“You’re explaining my son to me?”

“No. I’m explaining why I’m standing over here.”

My knees had begun trembling. I hoped the table concealed them.

“Let me put the milk down. If he doesn’t want it, I’ll take it away.”

Moretti glanced at the cup.

Then at his son.

“Two minutes.”

“Could you both move back?”

Dante looked at his employer.

For a moment, I thought I had pushed too far.

Then Moretti stepped away from the chair.

Dante followed.

I crouched several feet from Leo and placed the cup on the floor.

“Hi. I’m Clara.”

His mouth trembled.

“You don’t have to come down. I’ll leave this here.”

He watched my hands.

I rested them on my knees where he could see them.

Then I took a slow breath.

I didn’t tell him to copy me. I didn’t ask him to stop crying.

I breathed again.

His next breath snagged, but the one after it came more slowly.

Behind me, someone shifted a chair.

Leo flinched.

I waited until his eyes returned to me.

“It’s warm milk.”

He looked at the cup.

Then his father.

Moretti stood perfectly still.

“Mommy made warm.”

The words were barely audible.

I had seen Elena Moretti’s photograph in the papers six months earlier. A charity event. Gunfire outside. A husband investigators believed had been the intended target.

She had looked young in every photograph.

Nobody had printed a picture of her son crying.

“Your mommy made it warm?” I asked.

Leo nodded.

His chin folded against his chest.

I sat down on the marble, apron and all.

“Okay. We can leave it here.”

Moretti inhaled behind me.

I didn’t turn.

Leo climbed down from his chair. One small shoe found the floor, then the other.

He approached the cup sideways, keeping me in view.

I waited.

He took two sips with both hands around it.

Then he set it down and stared at my face.

“Good?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached toward me.

His fingers closed around my index finger.

I felt the change in the room before I looked up.

Dante’s shoulders dropped.

Marco had his mouth open.

Moretti was watching his son’s hand as if something impossible had happened and he was afraid any movement might undo it.

Leo leaned against my knee.

“Don’t go.”

My throat tightened.

“I’m right here.”

I stayed on the floor until he let me help him stand. We moved into the service hallway, away from the watching diners, with Moretti and Dante following.

Leo sat beside my shoes and finished his milk.

Marco waited until the dining-room door closed.

“That was a direct violation of instructions.”

I looked up.

“Are we really doing this now?”

“You’re finished here.”

My stomach dropped.

For one ugly second, all I could see was the notice beneath my door.

Then Moretti spoke.

“No, she isn’t.”

Marco turned.

“Sir, there are procedures—”

“Find something else to do.”

Marco looked at me as though I had arranged the entire evening specifically to ruin his.

He left.

I pressed my free hand against my forehead.

Moretti crouched in front of Leo.

“Come on. We’re going home.”

Leo gripped my finger harder.

“No.”

Moretti looked at me.

I recognized that look. I got versions of it every shift: fix the reservation, replace the steak, make the inconvenience disappear.

Only this time the inconvenience was a grieving child.

“I can stay a few more minutes,” I said. “Then we need to tell him what happens next.”

“He knows what going home means.”

“He knows I’m not going with him.”

Moretti’s jaw tightened.

I turned toward Leo.

“How many more sips before Daddy picks you up?”

Leo examined the cup.

“Three.”

“All right.”

He took four.

I let it pass.

When Moretti reached for him, I shook my head.

“Ask first.”

His eyes met mine.

“Clara.”

It was the first time he had used my name.

I resisted the unreasonable urge to notice how it sounded.

“He’s looking at your hands,” I said quietly.

Moretti stopped.

Then he looked at his son.

“Can I pick you up?”

Leo considered him for a long moment.

“Home?”

“Yes.”

“Bear?”

“Your bear is on your bed.”

Leo released my finger and raised his arms.

Moretti lifted him carefully.

The boy tucked his face into his father’s neck, and something in the man’s posture loosened.

At the front door, he turned toward me.

“Tomorrow. Ten in the morning.”

“My shift starts at four.”

“At my house.”

Dante reached for the door.

Marco, hovering near the host stand, looked relieved that the problem appeared to have been solved.

I should have let it be solved.

I should have thought about my rent, my leaking shoe, and the fact that this man had just saved my job.

Instead, I looked at him.

“No.”