Chapter 2 - The Cry That Finally Stopped
Sophie stared at Dominic Moretti for one long second.
“Colic isn’t something someone did,” she said carefully. “It’s severe discomfort. Babies cry because their little bodies are still learning how to function.”
Dominic’s expression did not soften.
“So you’re telling me my son has been screaming for six hours because his body is incompetent?”
“No,” Sophie replied. “I’m telling you he’s overwhelmed, uncomfortable, and surrounded by adults who are panicking.”
One of the bodyguards shifted.
The restaurant manager made a quiet choking sound near the kitchen doors.
But Dominic only looked at her.
Then he looked at the baby.
His son’s tiny face was red and wet with tears. His fists had started to loosen slightly as Sophie continued the slow figure-eight motion.
“Keep your voice down,” Sophie said. “All of you.”
A guard blinked.
“What?”
“Your voices. Your movements. The lights.” Sophie looked around the booth. “He doesn’t need five people hovering over him like he’s in danger. He needs calm.”
Nobody in Bellavita had ever told Dominic Moretti to be calm.
Yet after a few tense seconds, Dominic lifted one hand.
The guards stepped back.
The restaurant seemed to exhale.
Sophie carried the baby away from the booth, moving toward the quiet hallway near the private dining rooms. Dominic followed immediately.
“So do the guards,” Sophie said without looking back, “but not all of them.”
The men stopped.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re giving orders now?”
“I’m trying to help your son. If you want that, give us space.”
For a moment, it looked as though he might refuse.
Then he turned toward the guards.
“Stay here.”
One man stepped forward. “Boss—”
“Stay. Here.”
The guard lowered his head.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti.”
Sophie led Dominic into a small private room usually reserved for wine tastings. The room was dim, quiet, and warm. She shut the door behind them.
The baby cried again, but the sound had changed. It was still painful, still urgent, but less frantic.
Sophie lowered herself into a chair and continued supporting him across her forearm.
“Do you know when he last ate?” she asked.
Dominic stood near the table, hands clenched at his sides.
“An hour ago.”
“How much?”
“A bottle.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
His jaw tightened.
“A nurse prepared it. Four ounces, maybe five.”
“Did he burp afterward?”
Dominic said nothing.
Sophie looked up.
“Did anyone burp him?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer came out almost angry.
But beneath it was something worse.
Shame.
Sophie softened her tone.
“That’s okay. We’ll do it now.”
She adjusted the baby against her shoulder and began patting his back with slow, gentle pressure.
“His name?” she asked.
Dominic hesitated.
“Matteo.”
“Hi, Matteo,” Sophie whispered. “You’ve had a hard day, huh?”
The baby’s cries hitched.
Sophie kept moving.
Pat.
Pause.
Pat.
Pause.
Then Matteo let out a small, startlingly loud burp.
Dominic froze.
Sophie smiled despite herself.
“There we go.”
Another burp followed.
Then another.
Matteo’s rigid body softened by a fraction.
Dominic stared at his son as though he had just watched a miracle.
“Is he okay?” he asked.
“Not fully yet. But he’s getting there.”
The baby whimpered and pressed his face against Sophie’s shoulder.
She felt something crack inside her.
Leo had done that too.
Her son had always pressed his cheek against her collarbone whenever he was tired. He had smelled like baby soap and warm milk. She remembered the impossible weight of his little body after the nurses stopped the machines.
For four years, Sophie had done everything she could to avoid remembering.
But memory was not a locked door.
Sometimes one cry opened it.
Dominic studied her expression.
“You’ve done this before.”
Sophie swallowed.
“Yes.”
“With your own child?”
The room became quiet.
She could have lied.
She had become very good at polite lies. I’m fine. It was a long time ago. I don’t like talking about it.
Instead, she said, “I had a son.”
Dominic’s face changed.
Something guarded in him recognized the shape of her grief.
“Had?”
Sophie looked down at Matteo.
“He died when he was eight months old.”
Dominic did not offer sympathy immediately.
That was strange.
Most people rushed to fill grief with words that never helped.
I’m sorry.
Everything happens for a reason.
At least he’s in a better place.
Dominic only stood there, silent and still.
Then he asked, “What happened?”
“His heart was born wrong.”
She kept her eyes on Matteo.
“We found out when he was six weeks old. He had surgeries. Medication. Hospital stays. I learned how to listen to every kind of cry because I was always afraid I would miss the one that meant he needed help.”
Matteo gave another soft burp.
His breathing began to settle.
Dominic’s eyes lowered.
“My wife died giving birth,” he said quietly.
Sophie looked up.
The words explained the sleeplessness. The terror. The expensive bassinet carried through a restaurant by men who understood violence but not newborns.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He nodded once.
“She was supposed to be here,” he continued, staring at Matteo. “She was supposed to know what to do.”
“She probably did,” Sophie said gently. “But you’re here. That matters.”
Dominic’s gaze snapped to hers.
For a moment, the powerful man disappeared.
He looked exhausted. Lost. Young, somehow, despite the gray beginning to show at his temples.
“He won’t sleep,” Dominic said. “He cries every night. Nurses come and go. Doctors tell me he’s healthy. But he looks at me like I’m failing him.”
“He’s a newborn,” Sophie said. “He doesn’t think you’re failing him.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he stops looking for danger when he feels safe.”
As if Matteo understood, his fingers curled into the fabric of Sophie’s blouse.
Then, slowly, impossibly, he stopped crying.
The silence that followed was fragile.
Beautiful.
Dominic stared.
Sophie barely breathed.
Matteo’s lashes fluttered, and his little body went limp against her chest.
He was asleep.
For the first time in six hours.
Dominic sank into the chair across from her.
His face had gone pale.
“Thank you,” he said.
The words sounded unfamiliar in his mouth.
Then the private room door flew open.
One of the guards stood there, breathing hard.
“Boss.”
Dominic’s expression sharpened instantly.
“What?”
“We found the leak.”
The guard looked at Sophie.
Then at the sleeping baby.
“Someone knew you were bringing Matteo here tonight.”
Dominic stood.
His eyes turned black with fury.
“Who?”
“The car that followed us from the penthouse was not paparazzi.”
The guard swallowed.
“It belonged to the Caruso family.”
Sophie felt the temperature in the room drop.
Dominic looked at his sleeping son.
Then he looked at her.
And Sophie realized that helping Matteo had just pulled her into a world she had spent her life avoiding.
May you like
A world where a baby’s cry could be used as a weapon.
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