Chapter 3 - The King of Glastonbury
By 6:00 p.m., the triplets had retreated to their wing, a silent, watchful truce hanging over the third floor. Claire had spent four hours scrubbing the grand staircase, refusing the help of the estate's terrified kitchen staff. She knew how these houses worked; if the help saw her as fragile, the children would know within minutes.
Her daughter, Rosie, was currently sitting on the small braided rug in the nanny’s quarters—a comfortable, wood-beamed suite over the old carriage house that connected to the main manor via a glass breezeway. Rosie was coloring a picture of a horse, her small tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, her world completely secure because her mother was in the room.
“Mom?” Rosie asked without looking up. “Is the big man who lives here a king?”
“No, sweetie,” Claire said, pinning her hair back up into its tight, functional bun. “He’s just a businessman.”
“The cook said he doesn't use keys,” Rosie whispered, her amber crayon scratching against the paper. “She said he just looks at doors and his men open them.”
Before Claire could answer, a low, heavy vibration rumbled through the floorboards—the unmistakable sound of several large diesel engines idling in the courtyard below.
Claire walked to the window, pulling back the heavy linen curtain.
Three identical black SUVs had parked in a perfect diagonal line across the gravel drive. Six men in matching dark overcoats stepped out, their bodies turning automatically toward the perimeter walls, their hands resting loosely near their lapels.
Then the rear door of the center vehicle opened.
Dominic Marchetti stepped out into the damp, April twilight.
He was a massive man, well over six feet, with the kind of broad, heavy-set shoulders that made custom-tailored Italian wool look like a tactical vest. His hair was black, cropped short, with silver shot through the temples, and his face was a landscape of sharp, unyielding angles—a broken nose that had healed slightly crooked, a jaw like iron, and eyes so dark they looked like liquid obsidian.
He didn't look at his house. He didn't look at his men. He moved with a slow, predatory grace that belonged to a man who had never in his life walked into a room he didn't own.
“Stay here, Rosie,” Claire said, her voice dropping into that specific, protective register. “I’m going to go introduce myself.”
She made it to the central gallery just as the heavy front doors swung open. Dominic Marchetti stepped inside, his long black coat trailing the scent of rain, cold leather, and tobacco into the warm foyer. Henry Brandt was already there, holding a leather folder, his posture slightly more rigid than it had been during the interview.
Marchetti stopped in the center of the marble floor, his eyes instantly tracking the slight discoloration on the wood stairs where the shaving cream had been scrubbed away.
“Brandt,” Marchetti said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate in the masonry of the house. “Why does the foyer smell like lavender soap instead of bleach? Did the new one leave already?”
“No, Mr. Marchetti,” Claire said, stepping out from the shadow of the arched corridor. She was wearing her only good pair of slacks and a black sweater that had seen better days, but she stood with her chin up, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. “The new one is right here. And it smells like lavender because bleach damages the finish on twenty-thousand-dollar walnut banisters. I assume you’d prefer to keep your equity intact.”
Marchetti turned his head slowly.
His dark eyes fixed on her face, scanning her with the cold, analytical intensity of a border guard checking a forged passport. He didn't look at her clothes; he looked at the skin beneath her eyes, the set of her shoulders, and the total absence of trembling in her hands.
“Claire Bennett,” he said, the name sounding heavy in his mouth. “Brandt says you have an eviction notice in your bag and eleven dollars in your account.”
Claire didn't flinch. “I didn't realize my bank statement was part of the background check, Mr. Marchetti.”
“Everything is part of the check when it comes to my children,” Marchetti said, taking two steps toward her until his shadow completely swallowed her small frame. The sheer physical presence of the man was suffocating, but Claire held his gaze, refusing to step back. “The last three nannies were references from European agencies. One had a degree from Oxford. Another spent four years with a British diplomat’s family. They all broke before the second meal.”
“They had something to lose,” Claire said simply. “I don't. Your kids are creative, Mr. Marchetti. I’ll give them that. But they’re just kids. They aren't the IRS, and they aren't an oil leak in a 2012 Honda Civic. That means they can't touch me.”
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A tiny, microscopic twitch occurred at the corner of Marchetti’s mouth—the ghost of a smile that disappeared before it could truly form.
“The boys are currently in the library,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “They have barricaded the door with the encyclopedia set and are currently using a modified pressure washer to defend the territory. Go fix it, Miss Bennett. If you’re still here on Friday, we’ll talk about your contract.”
