0mg The mafia boss’s little boy hit every nanny who came near him.

By the end of her first week, the penthouse had developed a new, unfamiliar rhythm.

The silence was no longer absolute. The soft, rhythmic click-clack of wooden trains on the marble floors could be heard from the living room, accompanied by the occasional high-pitched giggle that made the armed bodyguards outside the door tilt their heads in disbelief.

Leo had not stopped being angry. He still had moments where the frustration built up in his little chest until he screamed, his face turning purple, his tiny fists striking out at whatever was closest.

But Cameron didn't run. She didn't call for security.

When he threw his silver cup across the room, shattering a glass display cabinet, Cameron simply sat on the floor beside the mess, kept her hands in her lap, and said, "The cup is gone now. It made a loud noise, and it broke the glass. That was scary. But I am still here, and we are going to clean it up together when you are ready."

Eventually, the screams would turn to quiet sobs, and Leo would crawl into her lap, burying his face in her shirt while she held him, hum-singing the old lullaby.

Matteo observed all of this from the shadows.

He was rarely home during the day, but when he returned late at night, his heavy boots silent on the marble, he would stand in the doorway of Leo’s room for long, quiet minutes, watching his son sleep with his small hand clutching a piece of Cameron's old grey cleaning uniform.

One evening, as Cameron was walking back to her room after tucking Leo in, Matteo stepped out of the study, blocking her path.

"He ate his dinner tonight," Matteo said, his dark eyes scanning her face. "Mrs. Gable told me he ate the entire bowl of pasta. He hasn't done that since his mother died."

"He was hungry because we spent three hours building a fort out of the couch cushions," Cameron said, leaning against the wall, her body aching with a tired but happy exhaustion. "He needs to burn off that energy, Mr. Duca. He's not a doll to be kept on a shelf."

"The fort was a mess," Matteo observed, though there was no heat in his voice. "The living room looked like a war zone."

"It's a home, Mr. Duca," Cameron said, looking him straight in the eye. "Mess is part of it. If you want a perfect, clean museum, you should hire back the fourteen women who let your son starve himself out of fear."

Matteo’s jaw tightened. For a second, Cameron thought she had gone too far, that the temper the entire city feared was about to erupt.

But then, he took a step closer, his scent of tobacco and clean soap filling her senses.

"You have a very sharp tongue, Cameron," he said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous murmur that made a strange warmth bloom in her chest. "Most people would be careful not to speak to me that way."

"Most people are paid to agree with you, Mr. Duca," she said, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I'm paid to protect your son. And that means telling you the truth, even if you don't like the design."

Matteo stared at her for a long, quiet second before stepping aside, his hand brushing against hers in the narrow corridor.

"Get some rest, Cameron," he said softly. "The lawyers are finalizing your mother’s transfer to the private wing at Sloan Kettering tomorrow. She will have her own suite."