The Mafia Boss’s Baby Refused Everyone—Until a Broke Waitress Held Him** The feared mafia boss went pale when his baby son re

The silence in Restorante Orelio was absolute.

I stood completely frozen in the center of the dining room, holding the most feared man in the city’s infant son against my chest. Little Leo had tucked his face into my neck, his tiny hand gripping the collar of my apron with a desperate, unyielding strength.

But I couldn't look at the baby. I couldn't even look at his father.

My eyes were locked on the photograph hanging next to the polished mahogany bar.

I had walked past that frame a hundred times. I had wiped the mirror beside it. I had swept the floors beneath it. But the lighting in the restaurant was always so dim, and I had always been so exhausted, that I had never truly looked at the woman in the picture.

Dark hair. Soft smile. Brown eyes.

It was like looking into a mirror.

“Elina.”

The mafia boss’s voice broke through the silence. It was low, rough, and commanded immediate obedience. I slowly turned my head to look at him.

He was staring at me, his dark eyes analyzing every inch of my face. The thin, pale scar across his cheek seemed to stand out against his suddenly pale skin.

“Why are you looking at that photograph?” he asked softly.

“She... she has my face,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

One of the bodyguards in a black suit immediately stepped forward, his hand drifting toward the inside of his jacket. “Boss, this is a setup. We need to leave.”

“Stand down, Marco,” the boss ordered, not taking his eyes off me. He slowly stood up from the booth. He was impossibly tall, his presence filling the entire room. “Who are you, Elina?”

“I’m just a waitress,” I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I swear to you. I’ve only worked here for three months.”

Before he could step closer, the heavy kitchen doors swung open.

Carlo, the restaurant owner, rushed out, nervously wiping his flour-covered hands on his apron. When he saw the mafia boss standing over me, Carlo immediately dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Mr. Corsi, please,” Carlo pleaded, his voice shaking. “She is a good girl. She doesn’t know anything.”

Gabriel Corsi. That was his name. The head of the Corsi syndicate.

Gabriel turned his cold gaze to my manager. “Carlo. Who is the woman in the photograph?”

Carlo swallowed hard, looking terrified. “That is Sofia, Mr. Corsi. My niece. She passed away ten months ago.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “Your niece.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then explain to me,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper, “why my wife, Sofia, told me she was an only child. Explain to me why this waitress, who has my dead wife’s exact face, is holding my son.”

The room began to spin.

His wife. The woman in the photograph was Gabriel Corsi’s wife.

“She isn't your niece, Carlo,” Gabriel stepped toward the older man. “Tell me the truth, or I will burn this restaurant to the ground.”

Carlo fell to his knees on the tiled floor, sobbing into his hands. “She wasn't my niece. She was her twin sister.” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “They were separated at birth, Mr. Corsi. I took Sofia to protect her. Elina’s mother kept Elina.”

I gasped, stumbling backward. A sister? I had a twin sister?

My mother had died when I was ten, leaving me to the foster system. She had never mentioned a sister. She had never mentioned family at all.

Gabriel looked at me, a profound, devastating grief flashing in his eyes.

He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket. Slowly, he pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver locket. It dangled from a broken chain.

“Sofia was wearing this the night she was murdered,” Gabriel whispered, his voice cracking. “I never understood why she had it.”

He pressed a small latch on the side. The locket popped open.