Chapter 2 - The Contract
At exactly 7:52 p.m., the kitchen smelled of rich marinara, roasted garlic, and toasted herbs.
The marble island had been wiped clean. Four matching ceramic bowls sat on the counter, each filled with steaming pasta, topped with freshly grated parmesan and a single, perfectly washed basil leaf. A basket of warm garlic bread sat in the center of the wooden dining table.
The four Rinaldi boys were sitting in their chairs.
They weren't throwing food. They weren't yelling. They were eating. Even Ethan, who had spent the evening trying to prove he was too tough for rules, was quietly chewing on a piece of garlic bread, his eyes darting toward me every few seconds.
I stood near the counter, my apron slightly stained with sauce, my hands tucked behind my back. My heart was pounding against my ribs. I looked at the clock on the wall.
7:55 p.m.
I had five minutes to spare.
Victor Rinaldi walked out of his study, having changed out of his formal suit jacket into a simple, dark gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing thick, corded forearms covered in faint, faded scars. He stopped at the entrance of the dining room, his gaze sweeping over his four sons.
"They're eating," he said, his voice flat, though I could hear the undercurrent of shock beneath it.
"They were hungry," I replied simply. "And they wanted to help."
Victor walked over to the table. He didn't sit down. He looked at Ethan, then at the twins, and finally down at Tommy, who was happily twisting pasta onto his fork.
"Is it good, Tommy?" Victor asked.
Tommy nodded quickly, his mouth full. "Sarah let me wash the green leaves. It tastes like... like it used to."
Victor’s eyes darkened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of pain crossing his features before he forced it down. He turned his attention back to me. His gaze was intense, dissecting, as if he were trying to read my medical history, my financial bank account, and my darkest secrets just by looking at me.
"Come into my office," he said.
I followed him down the long, dimly lit hallway of the mansion. The walls were decorated with oil paintings of Italian landscapes and portraits of stern-looking ancestors. The air was cold, smelling of leather, tobacco, and expensive cologne.
His office was vast. A massive mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, positioned directly in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the rainy pine forests of the estate. Behind the desk stood a wall of leather-bound books and a heavy, iron safe.
Victor did not sit down behind his desk. He walked over to a small bar cart, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey. He didn't offer me any.
"Who are you, Sarah Bennett?" he asked, turning to face me. "And who sent you?"
The question caught me off guard. "No one sent me, Mr. Rinaldi. I applied through the agency. I was desperate for a job, and they told me you were paying three times the market rate because no one could last more than a week."
"The agency doesn't send women who know how to handle four grieving, aggressive boys without raising their voice," Victor said, taking a slow sip of his drink. "They send girls who cry and run out the door with one shoe missing. You didn't even blink when Mason threw an apple at your head."
"I have a seven-year-old daughter," I said, keeping my voice steady. "An apple is nothing compared to a toddler having a tantrum because her socks feel 'too scratchy.' And as for your boys... they aren't aggressive. They’re just lonely. And they’re angry that everyone who comes into this house treats them like they’re broken."
Victor’s eyes narrowed. "You think you understand my family after seventy-three minutes?"
"I understand that a child who is throwing things is usually just trying to make enough noise so that someone will finally look at them," I said, stepping closer to his desk. "And I understand that you are paying me to do a job, not to psychoanalyze your parenting. Do I have the job or not?"
Victor stared at me for a long, silent moment. The tension in the room grew so thick I could hear the rain tapping against the window pane.
Finally, he walked over to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a thick, white document. He tossed it onto the mahogany surface.
"This is the contract," Victor said. "The salary is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, fully paid medical, dental, and a private suite in the east wing. In exchange, you are on call twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. You are responsible for their meals, their school schedules, and their safety."
My heart stopped.
One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
That wasn't just a salary; it was my daughter’s freedom. It was the legal fees for my custody battle. It was a stable, secure life where her father could never touch us again.
"There is one condition," Victor added, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on my arms stand up.
May you like
"What is it?"
"You live here," he said, his gray eyes locking onto mine. "And your daughter lives here too. I don't want you distracted by traveling back and forth to the city. If you work for me, your family belongs to this estate."
