Chapter 1 - The First Rule of the Estate
Adrian Moretti’s dark, calculating eyes locked onto Claire Donovan across the polished mahogany desk. The tension in the oversized office was heavy, thick with the unsaid threats that defined the mafia boss's everyday existence. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the relentless Westchester rain continued to lash against the glass, matching the gloomy, oppressive atmosphere of the Westchester estate.
"Why hire you?" Adrian repeated her question, his deep voice carrying a cold, detached amusement. "Because the last six women who walked through those gates were professionals. They had degrees in child psychology, recommendations from European boarding schools, and spotless resumes filled with glowing endorsements from high-society elites."
Claire didn't flinch. She sat up a little straighter, despite being soaked through to the skin from Caleb's water bucket prank. "And they all ran away screaming within forty-eight hours."
"Precisely," Adrian leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "They tried to be teachers. They tried to be disciplinarians. They tried to buy the boys' affection with expensive gifts or appeal to their logic. They didn't understand that my sons aren't normal children. They are wolves testing a new alpha in the pack. And when they bared their teeth, those professionals tucked their tails and bolted."
"I am not a professional nanny," Claire said steadily, her voice calm and unwavering. "I’m a mother who needs a roof over her daughter's head. And I don't scare easily. Especially not by boys who think throwing water from a balcony is the pinnacle of tactical warfare."
Adrian’s lips twitched—just a fraction of a millimeter—before returning to their hard, impassive line. "We shall see, Mrs. Donovan. The east wing is your domain for the next forty-eight hours. Dinner is served promptly at seven. Do not enter my private study without permission. And whatever you do, do not touch the locked door at the end of the second-floor hallway."
"What's behind it?" Claire asked, her curiosity naturally piqued.
"Things that do not concern you," Adrian replied flatly, standing up to signal the end of the interview. "Welcome to the Moretti household. Try to survive until Sunday."
Claire walked out of the office, her wet shoes squeaking softly against the immaculate hardwood floor. As she made her way up the grand staircase toward the east wing, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just stepped into a lion's den. But she had no choice. Lily was counting on her.
The east wing was surprisingly warm, filled with antique furniture, a comfortable canopy bed, and a private bathroom stocked with fresh towels. After stripping out of her damp blazer and blouse, Claire dried herself with thick Egyptian cotton towels and put on a simple cotton sweater she had packed in her thrift-store suitcase.
Scarcely had she finished unpacking when a soft knock sounded at the door.
Claire opened it to find a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a grey bun—the same housekeeper who had gasped downstairs earlier.
"I'm Martha," the woman whispered, stepping inside and handing Claire a mug of steaming hot chamomile tea. "You handled the boys well downstairs, Mrs. Donovan. Most of them burst into tears by the time the water hit their hair."
"Thank you, Martha," Claire smiled gratefully, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. "Do they always operate like a tactical strike team?"
"Always," Martha sighed, glancing nervously down the hallway. "Mr. Moretti... he loves them more than his own life, but he doesn't know how to reach them. Ever since their mother passed away three years ago, the house has been a graveyard of rules and cold silences. The boys act out because they're angry. And scared."
Claire’s maternal heart softened. "Where are they now?"
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"Plotting phase two," Martha warned grimly. "Be careful, child. They've got a jar of live earthworms and a tripwire planned for the upper landing before dinner."
Claire took a sip of her tea, a slow, determined smile spreading across her lips. "Earthworms, huh? Amateur hour."
