Chapter 2 - The Intruder on the VIP Deck
“Get her out of here,” Dominic Castellano commanded.
His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that had condemned men to the bottom of Biscayne Bay without a second thought. The two security guards immediately lunged forward, heavy hands reaching out to grab Hazel by the shoulders and drag her away.
“Don't touch me!” Hazel snapped, spinning around with a glare so fierce the guards actually hesitated mid-motion.
She didn't wait for permission. She bypassed them entirely, stepped up to the acrylic-paneled crib, and looked down at the screaming child.
It was a boy, no more than six months old, his little face flushed purple, his tiny fists balled up, gasping for air between heart-wrenching wails. The bottle on the table nearby was ice cold; the room’s AC had been cranked down too low, and the baby’s pajamas were soaked through with sweat.
“Who authorized a catering worker to enter the private suite?” Dominic demanded, stepping forward. His dark eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as he towered over her. “Vance! How did she get past security?”
The head of security swallowed hard, stepping onto the deck. “Boss, she... she just pushed past—”
Before Dominic could signal for his men to throw her overboard, Hazel reached down. She didn't ask. She didn't hesitate. She scooped the small, trembling infant right out of the crib, pulling him tight against the warmth of her chest.
The entire deck went dead silent. Even the music from downstairs seemed to fade away.
In the mafia underworld, no one touched Dominic Castellano’s son without a direct order. An outsider—a low-level catering temp—holding the heir to the Castellano syndicate was an act that usually resulted in a shallow grave.
Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He took two long, menacing strides forward, his hand dropping casually toward the silver-plated firearm holstered beneath his jacket.
“Put my son down,” Dominic whispered, each word dropping like a lead weight. “Right now. Before I forget you’re a woman.”
Hazel didn't cower. She shifted the baby expertly against her shoulder, supporting his head with one hand, and began to rhythmically, firmly pat his back while whispering a low, soothing hum that she had used a thousand times for Maya.
Within five seconds, the baby’s frantic screaming hitched.
Within ten seconds, the little boy buried his tear-streaked face into the crook of Hazel’s neck, his tiny fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of her black uniform blouse.
The violent, full-body sobs subsided into soft, exhausted sniffles.
Dominic stopped dead in his tracks. His hand froze inches from his holster. His dark eyes stared in utter disbelief at the tiny infant who had been inconsolable for over an hour, now miraculously quiet, breathing steadily against the stranger’s shoulder.
“He was freezing,” Hazel said, her voice shaking slightly with leftover adrenaline, but ringing clear across the deck. “His bottle was ice cold, his clothes were damp, and you had a dozen armed men standing around staring at him like he was a ticking bomb instead of a baby who just needed to be held.”
The surrounding security guards flinched, bracing for the boss to explode into lethal rage.
Dominic didn't yell. Instead, he stared at Hazel with an intensity that felt like a physical examination. He looked at her worn black catering shoes, the faint grease stain on her apron sleeve, and then up to her flashing brown eyes.
“You’re catering staff,” Dominic stated, his tone flat, devoid of emotion.
“I was,” Hazel corrected sharply. “Until your incompetent staff let a six-month-old scream himself sick while you stood around looking important.”
The stewardess gasped, covering her mouth in horror. Vance reached for his radio, ready to call for a detail to make Hazel disappear.
“Wait,” Dominic commanded, holding up a single hand.
He stepped closer, close enough that Hazel could smell the subtle scent of expensive scotch and cedarwood clinging to his suit jacket. He looked down at his son. The baby’s eyes were heavy, fighting sleep, completely relaxed against Hazel’s collarbone.
Dominic had spent forty-eight hours trying to find a professional nanny who passed his stringent background checks. Every single candidate had been rejected by his security team—or worse, rejected by the baby himself, who had screamed bloody murder every time a stranger touched him.
Yet here, this random catering temp—a woman who looked like she hadn't slept a full night in months—had quieted the heir in under thirty seconds.
“What is your name?” Dominic asked quietly.
“Hazel Morrison.”
Dominic studied her face for another long, agonizing moment. Then he looked at Vance.
“Get her catering manager on the radio,” Dominic ordered smoothly. “Tell him Hazel Morrison’s contract for tonight has just been bought out.”
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Hazel’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? I need to finish my shift! I need the paycheck—!”
“You just got a promotion, Miss Morrison,” Dominic interrupted, turning his back as he walked toward the suite doors. “Pack your things. You’re not going downstairs.”
