Chapter 3 - The Art of the Counter-Attack
The next morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the gray stone facades of the Mancini estate glistening under a pale, watery November sun.
Avery woke up at 5:30 AM, dressed in black yoga pants, a fitted gray sweatshirt, and running shoes, and quietly slipped out of her suite while Mia was still fast asleep in her small white bed.
She needed to inspect the perimeter. If you were going to survive forty-eight hours in a fortress run by a suspected mafia boss and his three miniature saboteurs, you needed to know where the exits were, where the blind spots were, and how the household operated before the sun came up.
The third-floor hallway was silent. The grand staircase curved downward into the cavernous foyer, smelling faintly of lemon polish and fresh coffee.
As Avery reached the bottom of the stairs, a heavy shadow detached itself from the archway leading to the east wing.
A man stepped into the light. He was built like a brick wall, wearing a dark turtleneck and a shoulder holster beneath his arm. A small scar ran from the corner of his left eye down to his jawline.
“Morning, Miss Parker,” the guard said, his voice a low gravel rumble. His hand rested casually near his waist. “You’re up early.”
“Fresh air is good for the circulation,” Avery replied without breaking her stride, walking straight toward him. “What’s your name?”
The guard blinked, clearly unaccustomed to staff members interviewing the security detail. “Victor.”
“Well, Victor, if the boys try to drop a water balloon from the second-floor balcony while I’m walking the gardens, I expect you to yell ‘incoming’ rather than just watching for entertainment value.”
Victor’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Mr. Mancini didn't mention you had a sense of humor.”
“Mr. Mancini doesn't know me yet.”
She pushed open the heavy side doors and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
The estate gardens were breathtaking—rows of manicured boxwoods, stone fountains carved with mythological figures, and winding gravel paths that disappeared into a dense grove of weeping willows at the back of the property.
Avery jogged the perimeter, timing her pace, counting the security cameras mounted on the stone walls, and noting the position of the guard shacks near the perimeter fence. It was a well-oiled machine, secure enough to keep out a rival cartel, but porous enough if you knew where the blind spots were behind the greenhouse.
As she rounded the corner of the glass greenhouse, a sudden, high-pitched yelp broke the morning quiet.
Avery stopped dead in her tracks.
From inside the greenhouse came the sound of rustling leaves, frantic scratching, and muffled laughter.
She crept quietly toward the glass double doors. They were unlocked. She pulled one open and stepped inside, surrounded by rows of exotic orchids and potted lemon trees.
Hiding behind a large wooden potting bench were three small figures in matching gray pajamas.
Leo was holding a large, industrial-sized box of multicolored powdered laundry detergent. Mateo was holding a garden hose with the nozzle unscrewed, ready to flood the floor. And Enzo was sitting on an overturned bucket, holding a very confused, fluffy white Persian cat that belonged to Mrs. Higgins.
“Wait,” Leo hissed, shaking the box of detergent over a large galvanized watering trough filled with water. “Dump it in now before she comes downstairs!”
“Are you sure this will make subs?” Mateo whispered loudly. “The last lady cried when we put frogs in her bed, but she didn't quit until noon.”
“This isn’t about making her quit,” Enzo said quietly, stroking the cat’s head. “Dad said she’s staying. He talked to her in the library for an hour.”
“Dad’s just testing her like all the others,” Mateo argued, tipping the box of detergent. A cascade of blue and green powder poured into the water trough. “When the soap bubbles overflow into the main hallway and flood the front parlor, she’ll be crying by breakfast.”
Avery leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You know,” she said casually, “industrial laundry detergent doesn't just make bubbles. It creates a dense, non-dissolving alkaline foam that eats through floor wax and leaves a chemical residue that takes three days to scrub out with an acid wash.”
The three boys froze mid-motion.
Leo’s hand hovered over the detergent box. Mateo dropped the garden hose, spraying water directly onto his own pajama pants. Enzo slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes wide with shock.
They whipped around simultaneously, scrambling backward like startled raccoons caught in headlights.
“How—how did you get here?” Mateo stammered, scrambling to his feet and wiping his wet pants with both hands. “We locked the side doors!”
“You locked the wooden doors,” Avery corrected, stepping further into the greenhouse. “You forgot about the fire exit latch on the north wall.”
Leo scowled, clutching the detergent box to his chest as if defending a sacred relic. “You’re not supposed to be awake yet! Nannies sleep until seven!”
“Nannies who sleep until seven in this house usually wake up covered in itching powder or locked in a closet,” Avery said, walking slowly toward them until she stood just three feet away. “Is this your master plan? Laundry detergent and a garden hose? My four-year-old nephew in daycare has more sophisticated tactical deployment.”
Mateo’s face flushed bright red with insulted pride. “It’s a great plan! The whole foyer is going to be full of soap bubbles three feet deep!”
“And when your father comes downstairs for his morning espresso at seven-thirty, stepping out of the elevator straight into a mountain of toxic green foam that ruins his custom Italian leather shoes, who do you think gets blamed?”
The boys went very still.
They exchanged nervous glances.
“He’ll ground us,” Leo whispered, the bravado suddenly draining out of him like water from a punctured bucket. “He’ll take away our tablets for a month.”
“Worse,” Avery said quietly, crouching down until she was eye-level with the three of them. “He won’t just ground you. He’ll look at you with that cold, disappointed expression that makes you feel like you’re taking up space in his world for no good reason at all.”
Enzo flinched. The Persian cat squirmed out of his arms and bolted between Avery’s legs toward the safety of the garden.
“We don't care,” Mateo muttered, looking down at his sneakers and kicking a pebble across the concrete floor. “He doesn't care about us anyway. He’s always in his office or out meeting bad guys.”
Avery reached out and gently placed her hand on Mateo’s shoulder. He tried to jerk away, but she held him firm—not with force, but with an immovable, comforting weight.
“Your father runs an empire, boys. But every time he looks at you, he doesn't see a nuisance. He sees the only pieces of his life that aren’t made of concrete and ledgers.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “And when you act like wild animals trying to rip your own cage apart, you’re not hurting him. You’re just proving him right about how hard it is to keep this family together.”
Silence hung in the humid air of the greenhouse.
Leo dropped the detergent box. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
“So,” Avery stood up, clapping her hands together with a brisk, energetic snap. “Here’s the deal. We have forty-five minutes before breakfast. Option A: You help me clean up this detergent before Mrs. Higgins sees it and threatens to turn us all into fertilizer, and we pretend this conversation never happened.”
“What’s Option B?” Enzo asked quietly.
Avery smiled—a bright, wicked, conspiratorial grin that made her look ten years younger.
“Option B: We take that industrial hose, we fill the second-floor balcony gutters with bubble bath, and we time how long it takes Victor to slip and fall into the koi pond when he comes on duty at eight o'clock.”
The three boys stared at her.
For three seconds, the universe hung in the balance.
Then Mateo let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. Leo grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. Even Enzo’s mouth twitched upward into a genuine, hesitant smile.
“The koi pond?” Leo whispered, his eyes gleaming with dark delight. “Is that allowed?”
“In forty-eight hours,” Avery said, turning toward the hose, “the rules are whatever we decide they are. Now grab the push brooms. We have a mess to clean before the boss wakes up.”
Upstairs in the master study on the second floor, Dante Mancini stood by the window holding a porcelain cup of black coffee.
Through the heavy glass, he watched the small group working near the greenhouse.
He saw Avery Parker standing with a push broom, directing his three sons as they industriously swept up piles of blue and green laundry powder into dustpans. He saw Mateo actually smiling—a real, unforced smile that Dante hadn't seen on his youngest son’s face since before the funeral. He saw Leo handing a dustpan to Enzo while Avery wiped a smudge of blue powder off Enzo’s forehead with the hem of her sweatshirt.
Dante took a slow sip of his coffee. The bitter liquid burned his throat, but he didn't look away.
His phone buzzed on the mahogany desk behind him.
He walked over and picked it up. It was a text message from his head of security, Victor.
Boss, you need to see the perimeter camera feed from 6:15 AM. The new nanny just negotiated a peace treaty with the triplets inside the greenhouse using a hose and a threat about your shoes.
Dante stared at the screen.
May you like
A slow, dangerous, undeniable smile finally broke across his granite features.
“Forty-eight hours, Miss Parker,” Dante murmured to the empty room. “Let’s see if you survive the rest of the week.”
