Chapter 4 - Dinner with the Don
The formal dining room looked like a set piece from a gothic drama. A mahogany table long enough to seat twelve people stretched down the center of the room, illuminated by a wrought-iron chandelier that cast long, dancing shadows across the walls.
Adrian sat at the head of the table. The triplets sat on the left side, subdued and unnaturally quiet. Claire took her seat directly across from them, while an elderly, silver-haired chef named Mateo began serving roast chicken and roasted vegetables from a silver cart.
For the first ten minutes, the only sound in the room was the quiet clinking of silverware against fine china.
Adrian cut a piece of chicken with slow, deliberate precision. He didn't look up, but Claire could feel his sharp gaze lingering on her across the candlelight.
"I heard a commotion on the second-floor landing around four o'clock," Adrian said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence. "Sounded like a marble hitting the wainscoting."
Claire took a sip of water, her expression entirely innocent. "Oh, that was just Noah testing the acoustic properties of the hallway. He has a very promising career in ballistics ahead of him, provided he works on his angles."
Noah choked on his water, coughing violently while Caleb pounded him on the back.
Adrian paused, his knife hovering over his plate. He slowly raised his eyes, looking from his coughing son to Claire’s serene face.
"Ballistics," Adrian repeated flatly.
"Indeed," Claire replied, buttering a dinner roll. "Though I did advise him that damaging antique wainscoting would come out of his future college fund. Or, failing that, his personal stock of comic books."
Miles looked up from his plate, his eyes wide. "You wouldn't touch our comics."
"Try me," Claire said sweetly. "I once organized a library cataloging system that made three grown men weep. Organizing your comic books by publication date, issue number, and artist signature would take me approximately twenty minutes. Destroying them would take five."
The table fell into a profound, stunned silence. Even Mateo the chef stopped rolling his cart, staring at the new nanny with an expression that hovered somewhere between sheer terror and profound admiration.
Adrian set his fork down. A muscle ticked along his jawline.
"Miss Donovan," Adrian said, his tone dangerously low. "My sons are not a library catalog."
"No, Mr. Moretti, they aren't," Claire replied, her voice losing its playful edge, hardening into steel. "Libraries are organized, quiet, and valued by the people who own them. Right now, your sons are acting like unreturned books tossed in a damp basement because no one bothered to put them back on the shelf."
The air in the dining room turned instantly glacial.
Noah, Caleb, and Miles all froze, staring back and forth between their father and the nanny with wide eyes. Everyone in the Westchester estate knew the unspoken rule: Never cross Adrian Moretti. Never speak truth to the beast.
Adrian stared at Claire. His gray eyes were like chips of flint, cold and unyielding. The silence stretched so tight it felt as though the crystal wine glasses might shatter from the tension.
Then, slowly, Adrian picked up his water glass.
"Eat your vegetables, boys," Adrian commanded softly, never breaking eye contact with Claire.
May you like
"Yes, Dad," the triplets muttered in unison, instantly stabbing their carrots with unprecedented enthusiasm.
Adrian took a slow sip of water, his gaze locked onto hers. There was no anger in his face now—only a deep, burning curiosity that felt far more dangerous than his wrath.
