Chapter 1
The last nanny ran past me without her coat, her purse, or any pride left.
Rain had soaked her blouse.
Mascara ran down her cheeks.
One heel was missing.
She grabbed the stone railing on the front steps of the Rinaldi estate and looked at me like I was walking into a burning building.
“Don’t go in there,” she gasped. “Those children are not children. They’re—”
Thunder swallowed the rest.
Then she ran down the driveway like something with teeth was chasing her.
I stood under the archway with my cheap black blazer damp at the shoulders and my shoes squeaking on marble that probably cost more than my car.
Through the tall front window, I saw the kitchen.
Orange juice spreading across white floors.
Cereal falling from above like confetti.
Four six-year-old boys in red pajamas moving with the coordination of a tiny army.
And in the corner, holding a glass of red wine like surrender had a flavor, stood Victor Rinaldi.
Mafia boss.
Widower.
Billionaire.
Father of the most feared quadruplets in New York.
My phone buzzed.
A text from my lawyer.
Custody hearing moved up. Two weeks. Be ready.
Two weeks.
That was all I had to prove I could keep my daughter, Lucia.
Two weeks to show steady income.
A safe home.
A bank account that did not look like a joke.
I had thirty-six dollars in checking and a power bill already stamped overdue.
So I rang the doorbell.
A tired housekeeper opened the door and looked me up and down.
“You’re the new one?”
“Serena Valente.”
“The test starts at dinner,” she said. “If you make it that long.”
Something shattered inside.
A child yelled, “Direct hit!”
The housekeeper stepped aside.
“Most don’t make it past lunch.”
I walked in.
Not because I wanted adventure.
Not because I believed I could fix a mafia boss’s children.
I walked in because my daughter still slept holding my sleeve, terrified I would disappear like her father did whenever responsibility knocked.
The house smelled like rain, polished wood, old money, and fresh destruction.
When we reached the kitchen, I met the Rinaldi boys.
One stood on the island pouring orange juice from high above his head.
One crouched under the table, building a fort from cereal boxes while emptying them onto the floor.
One had buttered the cabinet doors and was using them as a slide.
The last sat in the corner, quiet, watching everything with dark eyes too serious for six.
Victor Rinaldi looked exactly like the tabloids said.
Black suit.
Open collar.
Dark hair.
Trimmed beard.
Eyes like locked doors.
But photographs never showed exhaustion.
“You’re the new one,” he said.
“Serena Valente.”
“I don’t care.”
I blinked.
He took a slow sip of wine.
“I don’t care about your résumé, references, or child psychology theories. The rules are simple. If you get them seated at this table eating real dinner before eight, you’re hired. Full salary. Benefits. Room and board if you want it.”
I looked at the clock.
6:47 p.m.
Seventy-three minutes.
“If you fail,” he said, gesturing at the chaos, “don’t let the door hit you.”
The boy under the table crawled out with cereal in his hair.
“The last one cried,” he said proudly. “She cried so hard she sounded broken.”
“Marco,” Victor warned.
Marco shrugged.
His father’s dangerous voice meant nothing to him.
I set my worn purse on the only clean counter space and rolled up my sleeves.
“Where do you keep the knives?”
Victor’s eyebrow lifted.
“Why?”
“Because I have seventy-three minutes to cook dinner.”
The kitchen went almost still.
Almost.
I opened the refrigerator.
Eggs.
Cream.
Parmesan.
Pancetta.
Garlic.
Pasta.
Bread.
Fruit.
Perfect.
Marco stepped into my path.
“You’re not allowed to use the stove.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
His brothers gathered behind him.
Nico held an apple like ammunition.
Alessandro wore a cereal box taped to his chest like armor.
The quiet one, Tommy, watched from the corner.
I moved around Marco and washed the fruit.
“You should leave,” he said. “Nice ones cry hardest.”
The apple flew past my face and burst against the backsplash.
Victor’s voice dropped.
“Nico.”
I did not flinch.
I sliced an orange into neat wheels.
The boys exchanged confused looks.
Adults yelled.
Adults begged.
Adults tried to grab control.
I did none of that.
“You’re supposed to be mad,” Alessandro said.
I filled a pot with water.
“Why?”
“Because he threw an apple.”
“He missed.”
Nico frowned.
“I don’t miss.”
“Then you chose not to hit me.”
That stopped him.
Marco narrowed his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
“We won’t eat it.”
“You don’t have to.”
Victor’s glass paused halfway to his mouth.
I placed orange slices on a plate.
“But anyone who sits at the table gets first choice of bread.”
Four small faces shifted.
Bread mattered.
May you like
Good.
I had found the first door.
