Clare entered the mansion of a mafia boss with only eleven dollars in her bank account and an eviction notice folded inside her purse. Waiting for her were his three uncontrollable eight-year-old triplets—the boys who had already driven twenty-two nannies away within their first forty-eight hours. Clare had no idea that before she could change those boys, she would have to stand up to the most dangerous man in Connecticut and make a demand no one had ever dared make to his face.

The nursery looked less like a playroom and more like the aftermath of a localized hurricane. When I stepped through the door, the air smelled of acrylic paint, burnt sugar, and wet feathers.

Leo, the eldest of the triplets by four minutes and the self-proclaimed leader, was currently sitting atop a high wooden bookshelf, holding a large plastic bucket filled with what looked like purple slime. Asher, the muscle of the trio, was actively swinging from a heavy velvet curtain rod, while Nico, the quietest and most observant, sat in the center of the floor, systematically dismantling an expensive grandfather clock with a butter knife.

All three of them stopped when they saw me.

"You're late," Leo announced from his perch, tilting the bucket of slime slightly over the edge. "The last lady cried and left before lunch. We made her eat a mud pie."

"I don't like mud," I said, stepping carefully over a pile of shattered plastic building blocks. "But I do like clean rooms. And since this is my room now too, we're going to have a little chat about the rules."

"We don't have rules," Asher shouted, dropping from the curtain rod with a loud thud and landing in a perfect defensive stance. "Our dad owns the whole city. He says we can do whatever we want."

"Your dad might own the city," I said, walking directly toward Nico and gently taking the butter knife from his hand. "But he doesn't own this room. I do, for the next forty-eight hours. And if you want to play games, you have to play by my rules."

Nico looked up at me, his dark eyes narrowing with curiosity. "What games?"

"Survival," I said, looking up at Leo. "If that bucket of slime falls on my head, Leo, I will personally ensure that your father’s chefs only serve steamed broccoli and boiled fish for the next two weeks. No pizza. No ice cream. No candy."

"You can't do that!" Leo yelled, his mischievous smile faltering. "Henry wouldn't let you!"

"Try me," I said, crossing my arms. "I've handled late-night rushes of thirty hungry truckers who wanted their steak rare and their coffee hot. You three are amateurs compared to them."

For the first time, a flicker of genuine respect crossed Nico's face. He stood up, brushing wood shavings off his knees. "She's not running, Leo."

"Yet," Asher muttered, grabbing a red rubber ball from the floor.

Over the next four hours, I didn't try to force them to clean or study. Instead, I joined their chaos, but on my terms. When Asher threw a ball at the window, I intercepted it with a plastic tray, turning the destructive act into a high-speed game of indoor dodgeball. When Leo tried to paint the walls, I handed him a massive roll of butcher paper and challenged him to draw the largest, most detailed map of New York City he could manage.

By the time the sun began to set behind the Glastonbury hills, the room was still messy, but the destructive energy had been channeled into exhausted compliance. The boys were sitting at the low wooden table, eating the ham-and-cheese sandwiches I had convinced the kitchen staff to make, when the door opened.

Matteo Ricci stood in the doorway.

He had shed his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a dark, intricate tattoo of a coiled serpent wrapping around his left wrist. His gray eyes scanned the room, noting the butcher paper on the floor, the neat stacks of blocks, and the three boys quietly chewing their food.

"They're eating," Matteo said, his deep baritone sending a cold shiver down my spine. "And the windows are still intact."

"They were hungry," I said, wiping down the art easel. "And we came to an understanding."

Matteo walked into the room, his presence immediately dominating the space. The triplets went unusually quiet, their boisterous personalities shrinking in the shadow of their father. He stopped in front of me, his gaze dropping to the faint smear of blue paint on my cheek.

"You haven't asked for your paycheck yet," he noted.

"I haven't earned it yet," I replied, meeting his gaze. "But I intend to."

"Do not mistake a quiet afternoon for victory, Clare," Matteo said softly, leaning closer. "My sons are not your only concern in this house. Sleep with one eye open."