Chapter 1 - The Kitchen Arena
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. “Don’t go in there,” she gasped as she passed me. “Those boys were born into a mafia family, and they know exactly how to destroy anyone who tries to control them.”
I stood beneath the stone archway with rain dripping from my cheap blazer, my hands trembling inside my sleeves. Behind the glass doors, the mansion glowed like something from a dream, but through the kitchen window, I saw pure destruction.
Orange juice streaked across white marble. Cereal flew through the air like confetti. Four little boys in red pajamas moved together with frightening purpose, laughing as if they had just conquered an empire.
And in the middle of it all stood Victor Rinaldi.
The billionaire widower. The man people whispered about. The mafia boss no one dared to cross.
He leaned against the counter with a glass of red wine in his hand, staring at his sons like even he had finally met something he could not control.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I already knew it was bad news before I looked.
Custody hearing moved up. Two weeks. Be ready.
My chest tightened so hard I almost forgot how to breathe. Two weeks to prove I could give my daughter, Lucia, a stable home. Two weeks to show a judge I had income, shelter, and enough strength to keep her father from taking her just because he could.
I had thirty-six dollars in my checking account.
So I rang the bell.
A housekeeper opened the door and looked at me with exhausted pity. “You’re the new nanny?”
“Serena Valente,” I said, forcing my voice not to shake.
She glanced behind her as something shattered inside the house. A child screamed, “Victory!”
“The test starts at dinner,” she said. “Most women don’t survive lunch.”
“I’m not most women.”
She stepped aside.
Inside, the air smelled like polished wood, rain, and chaos. The kitchen looked worse up close. One boy stood on the island pouring juice from above his head. Another was under the table building a fortress from cereal boxes. A third was sliding across buttered cabinet doors. The fourth sat silently in the corner, watching me with dark, careful eyes.
Victor’s gaze landed on me.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I was almost hit by your last nanny on the way in.”
His mouth barely moved. “Then she was faster leaving than she ever was working.”
The tallest boy climbed down from the island, cereal stuck to his hair like medals. “The last one cried,” he said proudly. “She made a funny sound when she ran.”
“Marco,” Victor warned.
Marco only smiled, daring me to break.
Victor lifted his wine glass. “Here are the rules. Get all four boys seated and eating a real dinner before eight, and the job is yours. Salary. Benefits. A room, if you need one.”
I looked at the clock.
6:47.
Seventy-three minutes.
“And if I fail?” I asked.
Victor’s eyes were cold. “Then leave before they start liking you.”
Anger burned beneath my ribs, but I swallowed it. Men like him expected fear. Boys like his expected noise. I gave them neither.
I set my purse down, rolled up my sleeves, and said, “Where are the knives?”
For the first time, the kitchen went quiet.
Victor straightened. “Excuse me?”
“If you want dinner, I need to cook.”
Marco stepped in front of me. “You’re not allowed to use the stove.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
His brothers gathered behind him like tiny soldiers. Nico picked up an apple and weighed it in his palm. Alessandro wore a torn cereal box across his chest like armor. The quiet one watched me without blinking.
“You should quit now,” Marco said. “Nice ladies cry harder.”
The apple flew past my face and exploded against the backsplash.
Victor’s voice dropped. “Nico.”
I didn’t flinch.
I took an orange from the bowl, sliced it into bright circles, and laid them neatly on a plate. My hands were steady, even though my heart was pounding.
Alessandro frowned. “You’re supposed to yell.”
May you like
I filled a pot with water, set it on the stove, and looked at him.
“Why?”
