FOUR TAPS ON THE MARBLE FLOOR

"Someone get that child out of here. He's ruining the evening."

The woman in the silver gown hadn't bothered to lower her voice.

I stopped beside a table of untouched champagne flutes. At the foot of the grand staircase in the Pierre Hotel, a little boy in a miniature tuxedo sat with his back against the marble wall. He had his hands pressed over his ears. His shoulders jerked each time the orchestra struck another bright, crashing note.

"That's Dante Moretti's son," a man warned the woman.

She gave a careless laugh. "Then perhaps the most dangerous man in New York should learn how to control his own child."

I had been on my feet for six hours. My cheap shoes had rubbed the skin raw behind my heels, and a careless guest had spilled red wine down my white shirt. I needed the wages from this shift badly enough to endure another dozen insults.

But that one I couldn't endure.

Three years earlier, someone had said almost the same thing about my little brother, Danny.

"Sophie," my coworker Emma whispered, catching my elbow. "Don't. Our manager said to stay out of the guests' business."

"He's a child."

"He's a Moretti."

I put my tray on the nearest sideboard.

The boy rocked forward, then back. A woman passing the staircase brushed his shoulder with her sequined purse. He cried out, folded tighter, and began tapping four fingers against his knee. Four taps. A pause. Four more.

Danny had used patterns when the world became too much. It didn't mean this boy wanted the same things Danny had wanted. I knew better than to assume that. But I also knew he deserved someone to ask.

I approached from the side where he could see me and knelt several feet away, careful to keep my hands to myself.

"Hi. I'm Sophie," I said softly. "I can move away if you'd rather be alone."

He stared at the floor. The tapping continued.

I answered with four quiet taps of my fingertip against the marble, then waited.

His eyes flickered toward my hand.

"It's too loud," he whispered.

"It really is. Would you like to go somewhere quieter? Or would you like me to sit here for a minute?"

He thought about it. "Sit. No touching."

"Okay. I won't touch you."

I sat on the cold floor, leaving room between us. A waiter dropped a glass behind me, and the boy flinched hard. I wanted to tell the orchestra to stop, to drag every staring adult out of the room. Instead, I kept my voice even.

"There's a small sitting room beyond that door. I can ask the staff to open it. You don't have to decide right now."

"Leo," he said.

"Is that your name?"

He nodded, and then tapped four more times.

Heavy footsteps approached. The movement in the room seemed to change around us: conversation lowered, shoulders straightened, and the people who had been laughing suddenly found other places to look.

"Who gave you permission to approach my son?"

I looked up into the face of Dante Moretti.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair, sharp features, and a black suit that probably cost more than my annual rent. A tattoo disappeared beneath his cuff. Two men in earpieces stood behind him. His expression made it clear that he expected an answer immediately.

"Your son said the music is too loud," I replied. "I was asking whether he'd like somewhere quiet."

"I asked who gave you permission."

"Leo did. He asked me to sit."

His gaze went to the boy, then back to me. "Marco. Find out who she is. And don't let her leave until I know why she approached him."

Heat rose into my cheeks. "I'm a waitress, Mr. Moretti. I didn't know helping a frightened child required a background check."

One of his guards shifted. Dante's eyes narrowed.

"You have no idea what kind of people try to get close to my family."

"Maybe not. But I know what it looks like when an eight-year-old tells everyone he needs less noise and no one listens."

He went utterly still.

I started to stand, intending to give the boy room and let his father take over. A small hand caught the hem of my apron.

"Daddy?" Leo said.

Dante was beside him in an instant. "I'm here, buddy."

Leo held on to my apron. He looked at his father, gathering each word with visible effort.

"Please don't make her go."

Dante's face changed. He looked as if the words had struck him somewhere beneath his ribs.

"Leo—"

"She's the only one who asked me what I needed."

For a long moment, the feared Dante Moretti could only stare at his son.