Chapter 3 - The War at the Breakfast Table
The next morning, the sprawling mahogany dining table felt like a frozen battlefield. Meline arrived early, wearing a simple ivory wool sweater and dark slacks from the wardrobe provided for her. She stood quietly near the entrance of the dining room as the four Romano children were escorted in by a stern-faced nanny who was visibly counting down the seconds until her shift ended.
Luca, twelve years old, was the spitting image of his father—the same dark hair, the same piercing blue eyes, and an aura of simmering rage that felt entirely too heavy for a child his age. He glared at Meline with naked hostility the moment he spotted her standing near the doorway.
Matteo, nine, refused to make eye contact with anyone. His shoulders were hunched defensively, his small fingers protectively gripping the hand of six-year-old Sophia, who looked pale, fragile, and exhausted, deep bruised circles beneath her eyes from yet another night of relentless terrors. Finally, little Bianca, barely four, simply stared at Meline with wide, unblinking curiosity, clutching a ragged stuffed rabbit with one missing ear.
"Who are you?" Luca demanded, his voice cracking slightly but layered with venom. He refused to sit down at the table, folding his arms across his chest. "Are you another one of my father's hired babysitters? Because you can pack your bags right now. We don't want you here, and we're going to make you quit just like the last five."
Meline did not flinch under his harsh glare. She did not offer a falsely sweet smile, nor did she adopt the high-pitched, patronizing tone adults often use to placate angry children. Instead, she walked slowly to the table and took a seat opposite him, folding her hands neatly on the polished wood.
"My name is Meline," she said evenly, projecting a calm, steady authority that caused Luca's eyes to narrow in surprise. "And I am not a babysitter. I am not here to be your best friend, and I am certainly not here to replace your mother. I am here because your father asked me to make sure you are safe, fed, and protected. I have nowhere else to go, Luca. So you can yell, you can break things, and you can try to scare me away, but I promise you it will not work. I am staying."
Luca sneered, leaning over the table. "You think you're tough? You're just another gold-digger wanting my father's money."
"I don't care about your father's money," Meline replied calmly, picking up a silver teapot and pouring a cup for herself. "I care that your little sister Sophia looks like she hasn't slept in three days, and that Bianca's rabbit is missing an ear that needs sewing."
Little Bianca blinked, looking down at her ragged stuffed toy, then up at Meline. "You know how to fix Barnaby?"
"I do," Meline said softly, meeting the four-year-old's eyes with a gentle warmth. "I have a sewing kit in my room. If you let me, I can mend his ear after breakfast."
"Bianca, don't talk to her!" Luca snapped, glaring at his little sister. "Father bought her off the street! She doesn't belong here!"
Dominic stepped into the dining room at that exact moment, his tall frame filling the doorway. The temperature in the room instantly dropped. "Luca," Dominic said, his voice quiet yet carrying an edge that made even the twelve-year-old go rigid. "You will speak to Meline with respect under this roof, or you will spend the rest of the day in your room."
Luca glared at his father, his chest heaving with resentment. "She's not our mother! You can't force us to like her!" He knocked his silver fork off the table with a loud clang, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the dining room, slamming the heavy double doors behind him.
Dominic closed his eyes for a brief second, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. He turned to Meline, as if expecting her to be crying or gathering her coat to leave.
Instead, Meline calmly picked up her butter knife and began spreading strawberry jam onto a piece of toast, sliding it gently across the table toward young Matteo, who had been watching her silently.
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"He's protective," Meline noted quietly to Dominic. "That's a good quality in a oldest son. It means he loves his siblings. We just have to teach him where to aim that anger."
Dominic stared at her, an emotion flickering in his cold blue eyes that he couldn't quite name—a mixture of profound relief and quiet respect.
