Chapter 2
I did not chase them.
That was the mistake every nanny before me had made.
Children like the Rinaldi boys did not run because they wanted distance.
They ran because adults followed.
I let the pasta water boil.
I minced garlic.
I diced pancetta.
I cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them with cream and parmesan.
My shoulder blades prickled under Victor Rinaldi’s stare.
“You’re not going to discipline them?” he asked.
I kept whisking.
“I am.”
“You’re cooking.”
“Exactly.”
Marco stood on a chair now, arms folded.
“We don’t eat pasta.”
I looked at him.
“All four of you?”
“Yes.”
Nico said, “I eat pasta.”
Marco turned.
“Traitor.”
Nico shrugged.
“I’m hungry.”
Alessandro touched the orange slices.
“Are these poisoned?”
“If they were, I would have arranged them less nicely.”
His mouth twitched.
Tommy still had not moved from the corner.
He watched my hands.
Not the food.
My hands.
That mattered.
I lowered my voice.
“Tommy, do you prefer plain bread or toasted?”
Every adult in the room froze.
Victor’s eyes sharpened.
Tommy blinked once.
Then looked away.
Marco laughed.
“He doesn’t talk.”
“I asked what he prefers, not whether he performs.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Victor set down his wine glass.
Tommy’s fingers tightened around his pajama sleeve.
I kept cooking.
The sauce came together fast.
The kitchen changed as garlic hit butter.
Even wild children understand the smell of food.
Hunger is older than rebellion.
I cut bread thick.
Brushed it with butter.
Set it under the broiler.
Then I placed four small plates on the table and one large plate in the center.
“Dinner is carbonara, toasted bread, and oranges.”
Marco snorted.
“We’re not dogs. You don’t command us.”
“No,” I said. “Dogs come when called.”
Nico laughed first.
He tried to stop.
Failed.
Alessandro laughed next.
Marco looked betrayed.
Victor’s mouth moved like he wanted to smile and had forgotten how.
I carried the bread to the table.
“Rule one,” I said. “You may sit or not sit. But food is eaten at the table.”
Marco lifted his chin.
“What if we eat on the floor?”
“Then the floor gets your dinner.”
“You’d waste it?”
“No. The ants will be grateful.”
Nico slid into a chair.
“I want bread.”
Marco glared at him.
Nico grabbed a piece and bit into it.
His eyes widened.
“It’s good.”
Alessandro climbed into the next chair.
“For testing only.”
I placed pasta in front of them.
Tommy stayed in the corner.
I did not call him again.
I made a fifth small plate and set it at the empty chair farthest from everyone.
No pressure.
No spotlight.
Then I turned back to the stove.
A minute later, the chair scraped.
Tommy sat.
Victor stopped breathing.
I saw it from the corner of my eye.
The boys saw it too.
Marco’s face hardened.
“Tommy doesn’t eat with strangers.”
I placed parmesan on the table.
“Then it’s lucky I’m not eating him.”
Nico nearly choked laughing.
Marco tried to stay angry.
But hunger defeated pride.
At 7:31, all four boys were seated.
At 7:42, all four were eating.
At 7:50, Nico asked for seconds.
At 7:56, Tommy dipped bread into sauce.
At 7:59, Victor Rinaldi stood at the edge of the kitchen like a man staring at a miracle he did not trust.
I wiped my hands on a towel.
“Dinner before eight.”
Marco lifted his fork.
“She cheated.”
Victor’s eyes stayed on me.
“How?”
“She didn’t get scared.”
Victor looked at his son.
Then back at me.
His voice was lower now.
“No,” he said. “She didn’t.”
The housekeeper appeared in the doorway, mouth open.
I looked at Victor.
“I’ll need tomorrow off between nine and eleven.”
His expression cooled.
“You just started.”
“I have a lawyer appointment.”
“For what?”
I should have lied.
Instead, I thought of Lucia.
“My custody hearing.”
The boys went quiet.
Victor’s face changed.
Not soft.
Focused.
“Custody of who?”
“My daughter.”
Marco’s fork lowered.
“You have a kid?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Seven.”
Nico leaned forward.
“Can she fight?”
“She can negotiate bedtime like a hostage crisis.”
Alessandro looked impressed.
Tommy looked at me for the first time.
Really looked.
Then whispered so softly I almost missed it.
“Does she have a mama?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
His eyes dropped to his plate.
“We don’t.”
The kitchen went silent.
Victor’s face closed like a slammed door.
I understood then.
These boys were not monsters.
They were grieving.
And everyone had been trying to survive their grief instead of meeting it.
I crouched slightly so I was closer to their level.
“No,” I said gently. “You don’t.”
Marco’s eyes flashed.
“We don’t care.”
I held his stare.
“That sounds exhausting.”
His face crumpled for half a second.
Then he threw his fork at the wall.
It clattered to the floor.
Victor stepped forward.
I lifted a hand.
“Leave it.”
Marco stared at me, breathing hard.
I picked up a clean fork and set it beside his plate.
“When you’re ready.”
His small hands clenched.
Then slowly, angrily, he picked up the fork.
May you like
Victor watched me like I had just disarmed a bomb.
Maybe I had.
