Chapter 2 - Rules of Engagement
“Condition number one,” Avery said, holding up a finger. “No cameras in the third-floor nursery suite or the adjoining rooms where I’m staying with my daughter.”
Dante’s eyebrows rose. “Your daughter?”
“Mia is six. If I’m living here to look after your sons, she stays with me. That wasn’t negotiable in my mind; it was a prerequisite.”
“The agency didn’t mention a child.”
“The agency represents people who need jobs desperately enough to leave their families behind. I’m not one of them. Mia goes where I go.”
Dante tapped his finger against the edge of the mahogany desk. He didn't look angry; if anything, a faint trace of professional curiosity flickered in his dark eyes.
“She’ll disrupt the routine,” he said.
“Your sons’ routine currently involves terrorizing domestic workers and smashing seventeenth-century porcelain. I’d say a disruption is precisely what the doctor ordered.”
Dante stared at her for five seconds. Ten. Then he gave a slow, measured nod.
“Accepted. The west wing of the third floor has two suites. You and your daughter will take the larger one. No cameras.”
“Condition number two,” Avery continued, pressing her advantage before he could change his mind. “When I’m on duty with the boys, my word is final. If I tell them to clean up a mess or apologize, you don’t override me in front of them. If you have a problem with my methods, you tell me in private behind closed doors. Undermine me once in front of those three, and I walk out that gate before the clock hits forty-seven hours.”
A dark shadow crossed Dante’s face, a flash of ancient territorial instinct.
“Nobody tells me how to handle my children in my own home, Miss Parker.”
“Then you’re welcome to keep hiring nannies who last six hours and run out into the street without their shoes,” Avery fired back, not backing down an inch. “Choice is yours, Mr. Mancini. You want a babysitter who smiles and lets them throw furniture until they break her spirit, or do you want someone who can actually stop the bleeding?”
The room was so quiet they could hear the rain drumming a steady, heavy beat against the leaded glass windows.
Dante slowly leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. The intensity rolling off him was palpable—a suffocating aura of power and absolute control. Most people wilted under it. Avery stood her ground, her jaw set, her hands clenched inside the pockets of her coat.
“Condition number three?” he asked softly.
“What happened to their mother?”
The question dropped into the space between them like a lead weight.
Dante’s expression froze into something terrifyingly absolute. The subtle warmth that had flickered in his eyes vanished entirely, replaced by an arctic wall of ice.
“That,” Dante said, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous murmur, “is none of your concern. It has nothing to do with childcare.”
“It has everything to do with childcare,” Avery countered, refusing to look away from his piercing gaze. “Six-year-old boys don't smash priceless antiques and wage guerrilla warfare against innocent bystanders because they’re having a bad Tuesday. They’re angry, they’re terrified, and they’re testing every single person who walks through that door to see how long it takes for them to abandon ship. If I don’t know what kind of earthquake hit this house, I can’t help them rebuild.”
“You are here to supervise their meals, ensure they complete their tutoring sessions, and keep them from destroying the estate,” Dante said coldly, standing up to his full height. The motion was designed to intimidate, to remind her of the massive disparity in their physical size and social standing. “You are not their therapist, Miss Parker. And you certainly are not part of this family.”
“Give me the key to the west wing, Mr. Mancini,” Avery said quietly, holding her ground without flinching. “And let’s start the clock on those forty-eight hours.”
For a heartbeat, Dante looked like he might summon his guards and have her bodily thrown out into the rain. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle leaped beneath his skin.
Then, with a sharp, abrupt movement, he turned to the wall safe behind his desk, spun the dial with practiced speed, and pulled out a heavy brass key attached to a leather tag labeled West Wing - 3rd Floor.
He walked around the desk, stopping just inches from her. Up close, he smelled of expensive sandalwood, wet wool, and old bourbon.
He dropped the key into her open palm. Their fingers brushed briefly—his skin was cool and hard like marble.
“Forty-eight hours,” Dante murmured, his face inches from hers. “And if you fail, Miss Parker, don't expect a cab ride back to the city.”
An hour later, Avery stood in the middle of the third-floor nursery suite, looking around in stunned silence.
The suite was larger than her entire basement apartment in Queens. It featured tall arched windows overlooking the mist-shrouded gardens, a sprawling white-carpeted sitting area, a gorgeous four-poster bed, and an adjoining child’s room decorated in soft pastel yellows with a white wooden crib that had been converted into a toddler bed.
Mia was sitting on the edge of the large bed, swinging her small legs back and forth, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit—a battered gray creature with one floppy ear.
“Mommy, is this a castle?” Mia whispered, her wide brown eyes taking in the carved molding and the crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling.
“Something like that, honey,” Avery said, kneeling down to take off her damp boots. “And we get to stay here for a little while. So we’re going to be very polite, we’re going to eat whatever snacks they give us, and we’re not going to touch anything expensive.”
“Are there guards downstairs?” Mia asked seriously. “The man with the big coat at the front door looked like a robot.”
“A very stylish robot,” Avery corrected with a small, tired smile. “Now, come on. Let’s unpack our one suitcase and figure out where the kitchen is. Apparently, we have a war to wage against three miniature mobsters.”
Before they could open the zipper of their suitcase, a sharp knock sounded at the double doors of the suite.
Avery opened it.
Standing in the hallway was an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a severe bun, wearing a crisp black dress with a white lace collar. Her face was lined with decades of work, but her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and carrying a heavy load of exhaustion.
“Mrs. Higgins,” the woman introduced herself in a crisp, accented voice. “Head housekeeper. Mr. Mancini informed me that you have arrived.”
“Hello, Mrs. Higgins. This is my daughter, Mia.”
Mrs. Higgins looked down at the little girl, and for a fraction of a second, something warm flickered across her stern features. She gave Mia a small, stiff nod before returning her attention to Avery.
“Dinner is served in the formal dining room at seven o’clock sharp,” Mrs. Higgins said, her tone businesslike. “The boys will be present. I should warn you, Miss Parker—the last nanny tried to serve them steamed broccoli on Tuesday night. Mateo poured a bowl of hot soup into her handbag, and Leo released a box of crickets under her chair.”
Avery smiled grimly. “Good thing I brought a change of clothes.”
“Mr. Mancini does not tolerate lateness, nor does he tolerate disruptions at the table,” Mrs. Higgins added, turning to walk down the hall. Over her shoulder, she added softly, “Good luck, my dear. You’re going to need a miracle.”
At seven o’clock sharp, Avery and Mia walked down the grand staircase into the formal dining room.
The dining room looked like a set piece from a Gothic romance novel. A mahogany table long enough to seat twenty people stretched down the center of the room beneath a roaring stone fireplace. Crystal candelabras cast flickering shadows across the dark wood panelling.
At the far end of the table sat Dante Mancini, reading a tablet with one hand while holding a cup of black coffee in the other.
Seated along the left side of the table were the triplets.
Leo, Mateo, and Enzo.
They had changed out of their daytime clothes into matching dark blue sweaters and pressed trousers. They looked angelic, innocent, and utterly lethal.
As Avery and Mia approached, Mateo whispered something to Leo, who immediately kicked his brother under the table. Enzo sat slightly apart from the other two, staring down at his plate of roasted chicken and potatoes with his chin resting in his hand, looking completely detached from the world.
“Sit,” Dante commanded without looking up from his tablet.
Avery pulled out a chair for Mia directly opposite the three boys, then took the seat beside her daughter.
For a few minutes, the only sound in the cavernous room was the quiet clinking of silver against bone china. Mia ate her chicken quietly, her eyes darting nervously back and forth between Dante and the triplets.
Then, Mateo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the linen tablecloth. He looked directly at Mia.
“Hey,” he said loudly. “What’s your name?”
Mia looked up, clutching her fork. “Mia.”
“That’s a baby name,” Mateo said with a smirk. “My name is Mateo. This is Leo. And that’s Enzo. We own this house. If you live here now, you have to pay rent.”
Leo chimed in immediately, his eyes flashing with mischief. “Rent is five pieces of candy per day or your favorite toy.”
Avery opened her mouth to intervene, remembering her rule about handling them herself, but before she could speak, Enzo raised his head.
“Shut up, Mateo,” Enzo said quietly, his voice surprisingly soft. “She just got here.”
“Shut up yourself,” Mateo snapped back, his face flushing red. “You’re just weird.”
“Enough,” Dante’s voice cut through the room like a razor blade. He didn't raise his voice, but the entire table went instantly rigid. He lowered his tablet and looked down the length of the mahogany at his sons. “We do not harass guests at my table. Finish your meal in silence.”
Mateo scowled, stabbing a potato with his fork so hard it skidded across the plate and landed on the tablecloth.
Avery leaned over to Mia and whispered, “Pass me the salt, honey, please.”
As Mia reached for the crystal salt shaker, Mateo’s hand shot out with blinding speed, flicking a heavy silver butter knife across the table. It spun rapidly through the air, heading straight for Mia’s juice glass.
Avery didn't hesitate.
Her hand whipped out, catching the spinning knife out of mid-air by the handle barely two inches from the glass.
The dining room went drop-dead silent.
Even Dante froze, his coffee cup hovering halfway to his mouth.
Avery slowly lowered her hand, holding the silver butter knife. She looked down the table straight into Mateo’s wide, startled eyes.
“Nice reflexes,” Avery said smoothly, her voice calm, icy, and entirely unbothered. “But your spin rate is too high. It wobbles to the left in the last three feet.”
Mateo’s jaw dropped open.
Leo stared at her in absolute awe.
Even Enzo’s dark eyes widened slightly as he looked at the strange new nanny who had just caught a flying knife without spilling a drop of apple juice.
Avery placed the butter knife down neatly beside her plate, wiped her fingers on her napkin, and looked up at the head of the table where Dante Mancini was staring at her with an expression she couldn't quite decipher.
May you like
It wasn't anger.
It was the look of a man who had just realized he might have invited a hurricane into his living room.
