Chapter 1 - The Four Mafia Heirs Tried to Destroy Me Before Dinner—But One Question Made Them All StopI had learned a long time ago that people usually made their worst assumptions about you when they thought you were too poor to argue.
I had thirty-six dollars in my checking account.
My shoes were soaked.
My cheap black blazer had absorbed half the rain that had fallen over Chicago that evening.
My stomach was empty.
And according to the message glowing on my phone, I had exactly fourteen days to convince a judge that I deserved to keep my daughter.
So no, I wasn't in a position to be picky about employment.
That was how I ended up standing beneath the stone archway of the Rinaldi mansion while a barefoot nanny flew past me like she had just escaped a burning building.
Her blonde hair was plastered to her face.
One of her stockings was torn.
She had no shoes.
And she was sobbing.
“Don't go in there,” she gasped.
I stepped aside.
She grabbed the stone pillar to steady herself.
“Those boys were born into a mafia family, and they know exactly how to destroy anyone who tries to control them.”
I stared at her.
“Were you their nanny?”
She looked over her shoulder toward the mansion.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Six hours.”
She burst into fresh tears.
“Six?”
“Yes.”
Then she ran.
I watched her disappear through the gates.
I looked at the mansion again.
Six hours.
That seemed promising.
Then something crashed behind the glass doors.
A child's voice shouted,
“VICTORY!”
I closed my eyes.
I had the sudden feeling that the job interview was already going terribly.
My phone buzzed again.
I looked at the screen.
CUSTODY HEARING MOVED UP. TWO WEEKS. BE READY.
I swallowed.
Two weeks.
Two weeks to prove that I could provide Lucia with stability.
Two weeks to prove I could pay rent.
Two weeks to prove I wasn't irresponsible.
Two weeks to prove that her father couldn't simply walk back into her life and take her because he had money, connections, and a last name judges respected.
My ex-husband, Daniel, had both.
I had a daughter I adored.
A secondhand apartment.
A stack of bills.
A part-time bookkeeping job that had disappeared after my boss decided I needed “flexibility” he wasn't willing to pay for.
And now this.
I rang the bell.
The doors opened within seconds.
A woman in her fifties appeared.
She looked at me with the exhausted expression of someone who had already heard too many screams that day.
“You're Serena?”
“Yes.”
“The new nanny?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the clock.
“Six forty-seven.”
“I know.”
“You're supposed to start at six.”
“I was delayed.”
“By what?”
I looked toward the gate.
“Your former nanny.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Fair.”
Something shattered in the kitchen.
She didn't react.
Apparently, she was used to it.
“I'm Mrs. Bellini.”
“Serena Valente.”
She stepped aside.
“You're walking into a war zone.”
“I've been to family court.”
She looked at me.
“Is that worse?”
I smiled faintly.
“Usually.”
She almost smiled back.
Then another crash came from the kitchen.
“Good luck.”
I entered.
The mansion was exactly what I expected from someone like Victor Rinaldi.
Huge.
Expensive.
Cold.
Dark walnut walls.
Italian marble.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
A staircase that curved around the foyer like something from a movie.
Everything looked perfect.
Except the kitchen.
The kitchen looked like a hurricane had developed a personal grudge against breakfast.
Orange juice streaked down the marble island.
Cereal covered the floor.
Milk had somehow reached the ceiling.
One red-pajamaed boy was standing on the island pouring orange juice into a wineglass.
Another was hiding beneath the table behind a fortress made from cereal boxes.
A third was sliding sideways across the polished floor.
And the fourth—
the fourth boy sat in the corner.
Quiet.
Still.
Watching.
He looked about six.
His brothers looked younger.
The tallest boy jumped off the island.
Cereal was stuck to his hair.
He stared at me.
“You're the new one.”
I set down my purse.
“So I am.”
“The last one lasted until lunch.”
“That's what she told me.”
“Who?”
“The woman who escaped.”
He grinned.
“She cried.”
“Did you make her cry?”
“Yes.”
One of the other boys popped up from beneath the table.
“We all helped.”
The third boy slid to a stop.
“She screamed.”
The quiet boy in the corner said nothing.
Then I noticed the man standing by the counter.
Victor Rinaldi.
I knew his name.
Everyone in Chicago did.
Billionaire.
Shipping magnate.
Nightclub owner.
Widower.
And according to the rumors that traveled faster than newspapers, one of the most powerful mafia bosses in Illinois.
He wore a charcoal suit with the sleeves slightly rolled.
His tie was missing.
A wineglass rested in his hand.
He looked less like a businessman and more like a man who had spent his entire life learning exactly how much silence other people could tolerate.
His eyes moved over me.
“You're late.”
“Your last nanny nearly caused a traffic accident running away.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“She was faster leaving than she ever was working.”
One of the boys laughed.
Victor didn't.
He pointed toward the dining room.
“Dinner begins at seven-thirty.”
I looked at the kitchen.
“That's optimistic.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You were informed of the conditions?”
“Yes.”
“Get all four boys seated and eating a proper dinner before eight.”
I looked at the clock.
6:47.
“That's seventy-three minutes.”
“Yes.”
“And if I fail?”
“You leave.”
I nodded.
“Anything else?”
His voice became colder.
“Don't become emotionally attached.”
I looked at the boys.
The tallest one was licking orange juice from his wrist.
One was wearing a cardboard box as armor.
One was chewing on a spoon.
And the quiet one was staring at me like he was waiting for me to disappear.
“Understood.”
Victor took a sip of wine.
“Good.”
I glanced at the kitchen.
“Where are the knives?”
The room went silent.
Victor slowly lowered his glass.
“Excuse me?”
“If I'm expected to cook dinner, I need knives.”
Marco, the tallest boy, stepped in front of me.
“You aren't allowed to use the stove.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
I crouched slightly so we were eye level.
“Are you the head of the household?”
“Yes.”
Victor looked away.
I could have sworn he was hiding a smile.
I stood.
“Then we have a leadership problem.”
Marco frowned.
“What?”
“You think you're in charge.”
“I am.”
“No.”
He crossed his arms.
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“Prove it.”
His eyes widened.
“What?”
“If you're in charge, get your brothers to sit at the table.”
His brothers immediately started laughing.
Marco's face turned red.
“You can't make us.”
“I didn't ask you to make them.”
I pointed toward the dining table.
“I asked whether you're actually in charge.”
The boys stared at him.
Marco looked furious.
The quiet boy finally spoke.
“She's tricking you.”
Everyone turned.
He looked at me.
I smiled.
“What's your name?”
“Matteo.”
“Thank you.”
Marco glared at him.
“You were supposed to stay quiet.”
Matteo shrugged.
I picked up a cutting board.
“Okay, gentlemen. Here's how this works.”
Nico looked suspicious.
“What?”
“You can keep destroying the kitchen.”
They looked excited.
“Or…”
I held up the oranges.
“You can help me make dinner.”
Marco squinted.
“Why would we do that?”
“Because dinner comes with dessert.”
“What dessert?”
“You'll find out.”
They exchanged looks.
Victor watched from across the kitchen.
I knew he expected failure.
Maybe not openly.
But he had the relaxed expression of a man who had already seen too many people try.
I refused to give him the satisfaction.
I began slicing vegetables.
“Marco, wash these.”
He didn't move.
“Why?”
“Because you're tall enough to reach the sink.”
He glanced at Victor.
Victor said nothing.
Marco grumbled but took the carrots.
“Nico, plates.”
Nico frowned.
“You aren't the boss.”
“No.”
I smiled.
“I'm the person controlling dessert.”
Nico immediately grabbed the plates.
“Alessandro, forks.”
He saluted.
“Yes, General.”
Matteo remained seated.
I looked at him.
“And you?”
He stared at me.
“I don't want dessert.”
I noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes.
The untouched glass of milk beside him.
The way his shoulders curled inward.
“That's okay.”
I didn't push.
I started cooking.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
Victor remained in the doorway.
I could feel his eyes on me.
It made me nervous.
Not because he scared me.
Because I didn't want him to see how desperate I was.
People could smell desperation.
Employers.
Judges.
Ex-husbands.
They all sensed it.
But I had learned one important thing after my divorce.
Desperation did not mean weakness.
It meant you had something worth fighting for.
My daughter.
Lucia.
My entire life.
I stirred the sauce.
The boys began arguing.
Marco accused Nico of stealing carrots.
Nico accused Alessandro of hiding the forks.
Alessandro insisted the forks were “prisoners of war.”
I looked at Matteo.
He was watching me.
“You don't like noise?”
He shook his head.
“Me neither.”
He studied me.
“Then why are you here?”
The question caught me off guard.
I looked toward Victor.
Then back at Matteo.
“Because I need the job.”
“Why?”
“I have a daughter.”
His eyes changed.
“You have a kid?”
“A little girl.”
“How old?”
“Five.”
He looked at me for a long second.
“What's her name?”
“Lucia.”
He nodded.
“My mom's name was Lucia.”
My hand stopped moving.
I hadn't known their mother was named Lucia.
Victor said nothing.
The air changed.
I looked at him.
His face had gone still.
“I'm sorry.”
Matteo shrugged.
“She died.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
His voice was quiet.
“But everyone says it was an accident.”
I looked at Victor.
His jaw tightened.
“Matteo.”
The boy dropped his gaze.
I turned back to the stove.
I had walked into a family carrying grief like a loaded weapon.
Maybe that explained the boys.
Maybe they weren't wild.
Maybe they were hurting.
And maybe nobody had bothered to ask.
I served dinner at seven-fifty-three.
Four bowls.
Four glasses.
Four boys.
All seated.
Victor stood behind me.
He looked at the clock.
Then at the children.
Nobody threw anything.
Nobody screamed.
Nobody climbed the chandelier.
Marco was eating.
Nico was asking about dessert.
Alessandro was trying to trade his carrots for Marco's bread.
Matteo was quietly eating pasta.
Victor stared at me.
“What did you do?”
I looked at him.
“I fed them.”
His eyes remained on me.
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You changed them.”
“They're children.”
“They don't do this.”
I glanced at the boys.
Then at him.
“Maybe nobody ever gave them a reason to.”
Victor didn't respond.
He looked almost angry.
Not at me.
At himself.
I served dessert.
The boys cheered.
Marco looked up.
“What is it?”
“Orange ricotta cake.”
His eyes widened.
“You made it?”
“Yes.”
He took one bite.
Then he whispered,
“She's staying.”
The other boys immediately agreed.
Victor's expression hardened.
“Don't get attached.”
Marco looked at him.
“But Dad—”
“No.”
The boy lowered his head.
I looked at Victor.
He looked back.
For one moment, something passed between us.
Not attraction.
Not yet.
Recognition.
Two people who had lost something important and pretended they hadn't.
Then my phone buzzed.
I looked down.
A message from my attorney.
URGENT. DANIEL FILED FOR EMERGENCY CUSTODY. HE CLAIMS YOUR EMPLOYMENT IS UNSTABLE.
My heart stopped.
I gripped the phone.
Victor noticed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He stepped closer.
“That didn't look like nothing.”
I put the phone away.
“I have to go.”
“You haven't accepted the job.”
“I know.”
He looked at the boys.
Then at me.
“What makes you think I'll hire you?”
I looked at the four boys.
Then at the kitchen.
Then at him.
“Because they ate dinner.”
For the first time, Victor almost smiled.
“You're confident.”
“No.”
I picked up my purse.
“I'm desperate.”
The word hung there.
I had never admitted it aloud.
Victor studied me.
Then he said,
“You start tomorrow.”
I blinked.
“Tomorrow?”
“Seven a.m.”
“Salary?”
“Double what was advertised.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
He turned toward the boys.
“Because they haven't eaten dinner peacefully in six months.”
He paused.
“And because Matteo spoke to you.”
I looked at the quiet boy.
His eyes were still on me.
Victor continued.
“That hasn't happened with a stranger in almost a year.”
I looked at him.
“Then I'll be here at seven.”
He nodded.
I walked toward the door.
Before I reached it, Victor said,
“Serena.”
I turned.
His eyes were dark.
“Don't lie to me.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Whatever is happening in your life.”
His voice was quiet.
“I don't care how complicated it is.”
He stepped closer.
“But if it comes into this house, I need to know.”
My pulse accelerated.
“I don't have anything to hide.”
He stared at me.
“We'll see.”
I left the mansion.
The rain had stopped.
For the first time that evening, I breathed.
I had a job.
A real job.
A chance.
Maybe enough to save Lucia.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt watched.
I turned.
One of the mansion windows was illuminated.
A small face stood behind the glass.
Matteo.
He raised his hand.
I waved.
Then I saw someone standing behind him.
Victor.
He wasn't looking at Matteo.
He was looking directly at me.
I drove home.
I didn't notice the black SUV parked across the street.
I didn't notice the man inside it taking photographs.
And I definitely didn't hear him make the call.
“She's inside.”
A pause.
Then:
“Yes.”
“Serena Valente.”
Another pause.
“She got the job.”
The voice on the other end was cold.
“Good.”
“Should we scare her away?”
“No.”
The man watched my apartment building.
“Let her get close.”
May you like
He smiled.
“She's exactly where we need her.”
Related Stories
