The nanny came flying out of mafia boss Victor Rinaldi’s mansion barefoot, soaked in rain, and sobbing like she had escaped a war zone

By 7:00 AM the next morning, the grand kitchen was remarkably orderly.

I had learned from the night before: preparation was armor. When the four boys trooped down the staircase in their matching dark trousers and crisp white shirts, they looked less like chaotic anarchists and more like junior executives.

"Good morning, Ms. Valente," Marco muttered, eyeing the steaming plates of blueberry pancakes with cautious respect.

"Good morning, Marco. Nico. Alessandro. Leo." I smiled, setting down a glass of orange juice for the youngest. "Sleep well?"

"Nico snored," Alessandro announced immediately.

"Did not!"

"Did too, you sounded like a dying tractor," Marco retorted, though there was no real venom in it.

Leo looked up at me, a small, tentative smile touching his lips. He’s starting to trust, I thought, my heart warming.

Then the kitchen temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the tile floor, and Victor Rinaldi entered. He wore a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, his silver-threaded hair neatly combed, exuding an aura of absolute authority. The boys instantly quieted, sitting up straighter in their chairs.

Victor pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down, his dark gaze sliding smoothly across his sons before locking onto me.

"Did you sleep well, Serena?" he asked, his voice a low, smooth baritone that sent a strange, electric shiver down my spine.

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Rinaldi," I replied steadily, pouring him a cup of black coffee from the silver pot. "The third-floor suite is... accommodating."

"Good." He took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. "Because you're going to need your rest. Tonight, the estate is hosting a dinner."

The kitchen went dead silent. Even Nico stopped chewing his pancake.

"A dinner?" Marco asked, his eyes widening. "With who?"

"Don Falcone's regional emissaries," Victor said flatly, his face hardening into stone. "They want to discuss the shipping lanes at the North Pier. And since my regular security detail will be managing the perimeter, Serena will be managing the boys inside the private wing for the entire evening."

A cold knot formed in my stomach. The Falcones. Everyone in the city knew that name—a rival syndicate soaked in blood and brutality.

"You're bringing them here?" Alessandro asked, his voice losing its playful edge.

"Business requires uncomfortable rooms, Alessandro," Victor said quietly, though his eyes flicked back to me, searching for any sign of fear. "Serena. Can you keep my sons safe and silent behind locked doors while dangerous men walk my halls?"

I set the coffee pot down, my hands entirely steady. I thought of my five-thousand-dollar check upstairs. I thought of my daughter, Lucia, waiting for me to win my own war.