In The Restaurant, The Mafia Boss’s Baby Wouldn’t Stop Crying — Until A Single Mother Did The Unth..

The Deal with the Devil

Sarah didn’t sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the gun outline in the bodyguard’s jacket.

She sat in her tiny, drafty apartment in the Englewood district, watching her own daughter, Lily, sleep. Lily was four; she was the light of Sarah’s life.

With her ex-husband, Gary, petitioning for full custody and citing her financial instability, Sarah felt the walls closing in. Gary had a new wife, a new house, and a good lawyer; Sarah had overdue rent and a broken toaster.

The next morning, Sarah was at the diner wiping down the counter. It was 10:00 a.m., the lull after the breakfast rush.

Sarah’s manager, frantic and pale, hissed from the kitchen window.

“There are—there are men outside for you.”

Sarah’s heart stopped. Did Gary send the police?

She wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the front. Two black SUVs were parked at the curb, blocking the morning traffic.

The same massive bodyguard from the restaurant, the one with the scarred eyebrow, was standing by the door. He wasn’t reaching for a weapon this time; he was holding the door open.

“Mr. Moretti requests your presence,” The man said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I have a shift. I can’t leave,” Sarah said, her voice trembling.

“We bought the diner,” The man said flatly. “Your shift is over. Please, Miss Bennett. The boss doesn’t like to wait.”

They knew her name. Of course they did.

Sarah got in the car. The drive was silent.

They didn’t go to a warehouse or a dark alley. They drove north to the Gold Coast, pulling up to a limestone mansion that looked more like a museum than a home.

Inside, the house was cold, beautiful, expensive, and utterly devoid of warmth. She was led to a study where Julian Moretti was sitting behind a mahogany desk.

“Sarah Bennett,” He said, turning a page. “Age twenty-six, divorced, one daughter, Lily. Currently three months behind on rent, embroiled in a custody battle with Gary Bennett, a car salesman with a gambling problem. He hides well.”

Sarah felt violated.

“How do you know all that?”

“I know everything about people who touch my son,” Julian looked up.

Without the baby in his arms, he was terrifying again. He stood up and walked around the desk, holding out a black envelope.

“What is this?” Sarah asked, not taking it.

“Severance pay for your diner job,” Julian said. “And an advance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My son, Leo—he hasn’t stopped crying since his mother died three months ago. Nannies last two days. Some quit, some I fire.”

Julian’s jaw tightened.

“Last night was the first time he slept more than an hour. He likes you.”

Sarah stared at him.

“You want to hire me as a nanny?”

“I want to hire you as a mother,” Julian corrected. “Not to me, to him. I need someone who isn’t afraid of me and who clearly knows what she’s doing.”

“I can’t,” Sarah backed away. “I know who you are, Mr. Moretti. I can’t bring my daughter into this world. I’m trying to get custody, not lose it because I’m associating with—with—with the mafia.”

Julian smirked, but it was humorless.

“Let’s look at your reality, Sarah. You have no lawyer. Your ex-husband has bought off the judge. Did you know that he’s going to take Lily on Friday?”

Sarah felt the blood drain from her face.

“No, that’s not true.”

“It is. I checked,” Julian tossed the black envelope on the table.

“Inside that envelope is a check for fifty thousand dollars. Enough to hire the best family law attorney in the state. And if you take the job, you and Lily move in here. Twenty-four-hour security, a chef, a driver. And no one—not Gary, not the judge, not God himself—takes your daughter away.”

It was a deal with the devil. Sarah knew it.

She looked at the check peeking out of the envelope. It was freedom; it was safety for Lily, but it was also a golden cage.

“What’s the catch?” She whispered.

Julian stepped closer, invading her personal space. She could smell his cologne: sandalwood and expensive tobacco.

“The catch is that once you are in, you are in,” Julian said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “You live by my rules. You don’t ask about my business. You don’t look in rooms that are locked, and you never leave the house without my permission. You belong to the family now.”

Sarah thought of Lily’s face. She thought of Gary taking her away.

“I have one condition,” Sarah said, her voice gaining strength.

Julian raised an eyebrow.

“You’re in no position to bargain, Ms. Bennett. But entertain me.”

“I’m not just the nanny. I eat dinner with you,” She said. “If I’m living here, I’m not hiding in the servants’ quarters while you play lord of the manor. I want my daughter to feel like this is a home, not a prison. We eat at the table. Same food, same respect.”

Julian stared at her for a long moment. The tension in the room was electric.

He wasn’t used to demands. Finally, a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

“Dinner is at 7:00,” He said. “Don’t be late.”

Transforming the Mausoleum

Moving into the Moretti estate was like moving into a mausoleum. The silence was different here; it was the suffocating silence of secrets.

Sarah and Lily were given a suite in the east wing. It was larger than Sarah’s entire apartment complex.

Lily, wide-eyed and clutching her worn-out teddy bear, ran in circles on the Persian rug, delighted by how soft it was. But Sarah couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

The staff moved like ghosts; they were efficient, polite, and completely emotionless. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Galloway, was a woman in her sixties with a face made of granite.

She had looked at Sarah’s cheap suitcases with a disdain so subtle it was almost impressive.

“Mr. Moretti does not like noise,” Mrs. Galloway had warned them upon arrival. “He does not like clutter, and the west wing is strictly forbidden. Understood?”

“Understood,” Sarah had said, though her eyes immediately drifted to the heavy oak doors that separated the west wing from the main hall.

The first challenge came that very afternoon. It was time for Leo’s nap.

Sarah walked into the nursery. It was a room out of a magazine—all whites, grays, and sleek modern furniture.

It was pristine. It was also freezing.

The air conditioning was blasting, and there wasn’t a single toy in sight, just a crib that looked more like a cage. Leo was in the crib, staring up at a blank white ceiling and making that low, heartbreaking whimpering sound again.

Sarah picked him up. His skin was cool to the touch.

“Oh, you poor thing,” She murmured, rubbing his arms. “No wonder you cry. You’re in an icebox.”

She looked for a thermostat. It was locked behind a plastic case.

Sarah found Mrs. Galloway in the hallway.

“I need the key to the nursery thermostat. It’s too cold.”

“Mr. Moretti prefers the house at 68 degrees,” Mrs. Galloway said without stopping her dusting. “It keeps the art preserved.”

“He’s a baby, not a painting,” Sarah snapped. “Key, now.”

Mrs. Galloway hesitated, then scoffed.

“You may be the nanny, Ms. Bennett, but you do not run this house.”

“No,” A deep voice rumbled from the stairs. “But she runs that room.”

Julian Moretti descended the staircase. He had changed out of his suit into a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were thick with muscle and covered in faint white scars.

Mrs. Galloway paled.

“Sir, I was just—”

“Give her the key,” Julian said, not looking at the housekeeper. “And get the child a heater until the system is adjusted.”

Mrs. Galloway handed over the key with trembling fingers and scurried away. Julian walked up to Sarah.

He was imposing, his presence filling the hallway. He looked at Leo, who was now resting his head on Sarah’s shoulder, quiet and content.

“You’re good with him,” Julian said, sounding almost accusatory.

“He just needs warmth, Mr. Moretti. Babies need to feel like they aren’t alone.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. A shadow passed over his face—grief, perhaps, or guilt.

“My wife, Isabella—she wanted the nursery to be perfect. Modern. Clean.”

“It’s sterile,” Sarah said honestly. “He needs color. He needs soft things. I want to paint it.”

“Paint it?” Julian blinked.

“Yes, a soft yellow or a green. And I want a rocking chair. A wood one, not that metal thing in there.”

Julian stared at her. No one made demands of the don.

But then he looked at his son, who was reaching out a tiny hand to grab a lock of Sarah’s hair.

“Do whatever you want,” Julian said, turning away. “Just make sure he sleeps.”