Chapter 7 — The Tiny Boss

For twenty years, the Moretti organization had a very simple rule: Dante was the boss, and everyone else followed. It was a system built on fear and discipline. When Dante spoke, the world moved.

By the end of Luna's first week in the house, a new hierarchy had quietly formed. Nobody had voted on it, and nobody had officially agreed to it, but it was happening anyway.

"The two o'clock with the Kowalskis has to move," Salvatore said. He was standing in the doorway of Dante's study with a tablet in his hand and the tired voice of a man who had stopped being surprised by his own life a few days ago.

"Why."

"She naps at two. If we push the meeting, she'll be cranky through dinner. Dinner is when the Bratva call is scheduled, and if she's fussy during that, you won't be able to hear yourself think, let alone negotiate territory."

Dante thought about this with the same seriousness he’d give a security breach. "Move the Kowalski meeting to eleven."

"Eleven conflicts with her feeding."

"Then nine."

"Nine is before her first nap," Salvatore explained. "She'll be tired and fussy for the meeting. If she starts crying in the next room, it's going to ruin the vibe you're trying to set with the Kowalskis."

Dante rubbed his temples. A week ago, he was commanding armed negotiations; now, he was strategically scheduling business meetings around a baby's mood. "What do you suggest?"

"Ten fifteen. It's tight, but it works."

"Fine. Ten fifteen."

Salvatore made a note. Neither of them mentioned that a major criminal negotiation had just been rescheduled based on the sleep patterns of someone who couldn't even sit up on her own. By this point, mentioning it felt pointless.

***

The meeting with the Kowalskis went fine—until the eleven-minute mark. That’s when a soft, persistent crying started drifting down the hall from the nursery. It was audible even through the heavy study doors, and it only got louder.

Anton Kowalski, a broad, humorless man who had flown in from three states away, stopped mid-sentence. He raised an eyebrow.

"Is that a child?"

"It's nothing," Dante said. He used the same flat, unbothered tone he used when he was being threatened, trying his best to look like he didn't actually want to be in the hallway right now.

The crying got worse. Through the doors, Dante could hear Enzo's muffled voice trying—and failing—to calm her down. Then he heard Marco, and then the two of them started arguing about the right way to change a diaper.

Kowalski raised his other eyebrow. "Mr. Moretti, if this is an inconvenient time—"

"It's not."

The crying reached a pitch where continuing the meeting was basically impossible. Dante looked at Kowalski and weighed the cost of his reputation against the sound of Enzo shouting something about a "diaper situation." He made his decision instantly.

"Excuse me for a moment," Dante said, standing up.

He came back four minutes later with Luna settled on his shoulder. She was freshly changed and still sniffling, but calm. He sat back down and resumed the meeting without a word of explanation, as if it was perfectly normal to negotiate organized crime boundaries with an infant in his arms.

Anton Kowalski just stared.

"She's teething," Dante said, which didn't really explain anything, and then he went back to outlining territory lines. He pointed at the map with one hand and kept a slow, steady rhythm on Luna's back with the other.

To Dante's surprise, Kowalski’s face shifted from confusion to a kind of reluctant respect.

"I have four of my own," Kowalski said after a long pause, nodding at Luna. "Youngest just turned two. You get used to it. You don't stop working; you just work with one arm."

"Exactly," Dante replied.

By the time the meeting ended—with the territory lines agreed upon and Luna fast asleep—Kowalski shook Dante's free hand. He didn't look wary anymore; he looked impressed.

"Word's going to get around that you're negotiating with a baby on your shoulder now," Kowalski said at the door.

"Let it."

"Most men in this business would see that as a weakness."

Dante looked down at Luna, who had no idea she'd just changed the dynamic of an international business deal. "Most men in this business," Dante said, "have never had anything worth holding onto during a negotiation. I have."

Kowalski left with a small smile. Salvatore, watching from the corner, made a note on his tablet: *Bring her to more meetings.*

***

By the end of the week, the routine was set. Deliveries were timed around nap schedules. Enzo had become the unofficial diaper officer, tracking sizes and inventory with a spreadsheet more detailed than the organization's actual finances. Marco started keeping teething rings in his jacket pocket right next to his gun, figuring both were essential tools for the job.

That evening, as Dante sat at the head of the war room table, he watched six of the most feared men in the city rearrange an international shipping schedule to fit Luna's fifteen-minute feeding window. He finally realized what had happened.

The Moretti organization still answered to him. But somewhere in the last seven days, a tiny, red-faced tyrant had quietly claimed the top spot. And not one man at that table—especially not Dante—wanted to argue with the promotion.