Nico (Feretti Syndicate #9)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Nico

The spreadsheet on my phone glows back at me like a middle finger.

Something doesn't add up. The weight discrepancies on the construction materials from our Jersey supplier are minor. Three percent variance, maybe four. Anyone else would call it rounding error.

I don't believe in rounding errors.

"Nico." Vittoria's voice cuts through my calculations. "You're going to burn a hole through that phone."

I don't look up. "I'm working."

"Earth to Nico." A piece of bread bounces off my shoulder.

That gets my attention. I raise my head slowly, fixing my sister with a look that's made grown men confess to things they didn't even do. "Did you just throw food at me?"

Vittoria grins, completely unbothered. Her dark hair is piled in that messy bun she wears when she's been up all night coding, and there's a smugness in her eyes that tells me she knows exactly how much it irritates me. "You weren't responding to verbal stimuli. I had to escalate."

"Next time, try a bullet. It'll be more effective."

"Nico," Nora says mildly from across the table, not looking up from her coffee. "Play nice."

I shift my gaze to Pietro's wife. Still strange to think of her that way, the Irish mob princess who somehow became family.

I spent the first three months half-expecting her to slit Pietro's throat in his sleep.

She didn't. Obviously. Instead, she married him, and now she sits at our breakfast table like she was born to it.

My brother looks different these days. The sharp edges are still there. He's still the Don. But there's something that wasn't there six months ago, when he was running headfirst into bullets like he was trying to find the one with his name on it.

Nora did that. Gave him a reason to come home.

I don't understand it. Don't trust it, either. Love makes people sloppy. Predictable. It creates vulnerabilities where there shouldn't be any.

But Pietro's alive, and he's leading better than he did when he first took the role, so I keep my opinions to myself.

"Nico."

I look up at Pietro's voice.

"I need you to handle something."

"The Jersey shipments are off," I say immediately. "Three percent variance, but it's consistent across—"

"Not that." Pietro waves a hand. "I'll look at it later. This is different."

I wait. My fingers stop their tapping against the table.

"Giulia's taking time off."

The words don't compute. I run them through my brain again, searching for the hidden meaning, the subtext.

Nothing.

"What?"

"A couple months," Pietro continues, like he hasn't just said something completely insane. "She's going to Sicily. It's long overdue."

I stare at him. Giulia. Taking time off.

Giulia, who has run this household since before I could walk.

Giulia, who survived things that would have broken anyone else and came out the other side with iron in her spine and love in her hands.

Giulia, who hasn't taken a vacation in the fifteen years I've been old enough to notice.

"What the fuck?"

Vittoria snorts into her orange juice.

"She deserves it," Nora says quietly. "She's been carrying this family a long time."

I'm not disagreeing with that. Giulia is the closest thing to a mother most of us have. She's also the emotional backbone of this entire operation, the one person who can look at Pietro like he's still the boy who used to steal cookies from her kitchen.

But two months?

"Who's going to—" I stop. The answer is already forming in Pietro's expression. That slight quirk of his mouth. The way Vittoria suddenly won't meet my eyes.

No.

"We need a temporary replacement," Pietro says. "Someone to run the household staff. Handle the domestic operations."

"Hire someone," I say flatly.

"I am." He takes a sip of his espresso. "You're going to find them."

The silence that follows is deafening.

"No."

"It's not a request, Nico."

"I run construction. I handle logistics. I manage three hundred employees and seventeen shell companies." My voice is perfectly level. Controlled. "I don't hire maids."

"You hire everyone who sets foot in this compound," Pietro counters. "You run background checks on the gardeners. You personally vetted every member of the kitchen staff. You have files on people who delivered packages here once, three years ago."

Vittoria coughs. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

"That's different."

"How?"

Because those are security concerns. Those are pattern recognition, threat assessment, protecting this family from infiltration. That's what I do. What I'm good at.

Interviewing housekeepers is... domestic. Mundane. Beneath the scope of what requires my attention.

"Pietro." I set my phone down carefully. "Be reasonable."

"I am being reasonable. You're the most thorough person in this family. You'll find someone trustworthy." He pauses. "Someone who can handle the... unique aspects of working here."

He means the guns. The blood. The men who come and go at odd hours. The fact that our household staff has to sign NDAs thicker than most corporate contracts and understand that what they see never leaves these walls.

"There must be an agency—"

"You think I trust an agency?" Pietro's voice hardens. "Someone walks into this house, they see everything. They see Vittoria. They see Nora. They see where we sleep, what we eat, when we're vulnerable."

"I need someone you've vetted personally," he finishes. "Someone you'd stake your life on."

I want to tell him this is a waste of my skills, my time, my attention.

But he's right.

Anyone who works inside these walls has access to everything. One compromised staff member, one planted mole, and the entire family is exposed. I've seen it happen to other organizations. I won't let it happen to ours.

My jaw works. "Fine."

Pietro nods, like he knew I'd agree all along. Bastard.

"Giulia leaves in two weeks. Have someone trained by then."

I pick up my phone again, pulling up a blank file. Already my mind is spinning through requirements. Background check protocols. Security clearances. Interview frameworks.

Two weeks to find someone I'd trust inside our home.

Someone who won't run screaming when they realize what we are.

Someone who can handle this family's particular brand of chaos.

Fuck.