Chapter 2 - The Logic of Survival
“Worse,” Mr. Brandt said, his silver fountain pen balanced with mathematical precision across the leather desk pad. “The longest-lasting candidate was a former sergeant in the marine corps who specialized in logistics. She packed her bags at 3:14 a.m. on her second night, drove through the perennial flowerbeds to exit the property, and left a voicemail containing several explicit theological questions.”
Claire let out a short, involuntary laugh, but the attorney's face remained as static as the oil portraits on the wood-paneled walls.
“You aren't joking,” she murmured, her fingers tightening around the strap of her thrift-store purse. Inside, the eviction notice felt like a hot coal against her ribs. Eleven dollars and forty-three cents. Eleven dollars and forty-three cents didn't buy a tank of gas, let alone a security deposit on a new apartment.
“I do not joke about the Marchetti family, Miss Bennett,” Brandt replied, leaning back until his silk tie caught the gray light from the towering arched windows. “Dominic Marchetti is the sole executor of the Marchetti Estate. His business interests are... extensive, international, and exceptionally demanding. He does not have time for domestic dysfunction. His children require a firm hand, but more importantly, they require someone who cannot be broken by psychological warfare.”
“They're seven,” Claire said, her brow furrowing. “How much psychological warfare can a seven-year-old actually manage?”
Brandt stood up, walking toward the large double doors that led to the central gallery. He gestured for her to follow. “The Marchetti triplets are not ordinary seven-year-olds. They are the grandchildren of old Don Marchetti, and they have spent their short lives surrounded by people who either want their father’s favor or their father’s head. They have developed a highly sophisticated defense mechanism. They treat caregivers like hostile intelligence assets.”
As they crossed the grand marble foyer, the silence of the house was dense, almost thick enough to choke on. The air smelled of expensive beeswax polish and cold stone.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic bang echoed from the upper floor, followed by the distinctive, wet sound of a heavy object sliding down a set of stairs.
A moment later, a massive silver serving tray bounced into view at the top of the grand staircase, followed by a shower of what looked like raw macaroni and several gallons of shaving cream. Standing at the top landing were three identical faces.
They had thick, ink-black curls, porcelain skin, and wide, unblinking eyes the color of dark espresso. They looked like a trio of Renaissance cherubs, except for the fact that the middle one was holding an industrial-sized can of Gillette foam like a submachine gun.
“That is Matteo, Leo, and Nico,” Brandt said smoothly, without looking up as a stray piece of uncooked pasta hit the toe of his immaculate Oxford shoe. “Matteo is the strategist. Leo provides the physical execution. Nico is... the wild card. He doesn't speak often, but when he does, it is usually to announce a structural failure.”
The triplet in the center—Matteo—glanced down at Claire, his tiny jaw setting into a hard, defensive line that looked absurdly adult on a seven-year-old face.
“She’s small,” Matteo announced to his brothers, his voice carrying the sharp, declarative tone of someone who was used to ordering servants around. “She’ll cry by dinner. The sergeant lasted until Tuesday because she knew how to march, but this one looks like she works at a grocery store.”
“I work at a restaurant,” Claire called up the stairs, her voice clear and completely devoid of the panic Matteo was clearly angling for. She didn't look at the mess; she looked at his eyes. “And if you think a little shaving cream scares a woman who has cleared tables for forty hockey players after a three-hour overtime loss, you’re highly overestimating your inventory, kiddo.”
Leo, the triplet on the left, blinked. His hand, which had been holding a second tray of macaroni, paused.
May you like
Nico, the smallest of the three, simply pointed his finger at her shoes. “Your left heel is glued on,” he said quietly. “It’s going to fail if you run.”
“Then I won't run,” Claire said, taking her first step up the marble stairs, her cheap shoe clicking against the stone. She didn't look back at Mr. Brandt. “Mr. Brandt, where is my room? And where do I find the mop? Because if I’m getting six thousand a month, I’m not starting my shift in a kitchen that smells like a barbershop.”
