Chapter 5
Marco
At six a.m., the espresso machine hisses like it’s personally offended.
I pull a double shot and knock it back while staring at the herb garden through the kitchen window. When I finally look away, my gaze snags on Isotta’s ceramic mixing bowl, still sitting on the shelf where she left it.
I should use it.
Or pack it away.
Instead, I do what I always do.
Nothing.
Rosa’s already moving through the kitchen with the efficiency of a woman who’s cooked for three generations of Italian families. She’s set out Ben’s breakfast. Conchiglie al burro. The kid won’t eat anything else before school. Fine by me. Consistency is the only thing keeping us both upright.
“Mr. Fiore.” Rosa doesn’t look up from the stove. “You need to eat as well.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re not good. You look like hell.”
I don’t bother to respond. I slept maybe two hours. The rest of the night I spent replaying every goddamn second of what happened in Jess Riley’s apartment.
Her skin.
Her sounds.
Her feel.
The taste of her.
The way she said my fucking name when I was fucking the shit out of her.
Marco Marco Marco.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have gone to her place. I sure as hell shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did. And I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about it now while my daughter is about to walk into this kitchen expecting her father to have his shit together.
“Daddy?”
Ben appears in the doorway, already dressed in her school uniform.
Navy jumper, white shirt, those ridiculous knee socks she insists on wearing even though they never stay up.
Her hair is a disaster. Dark corkscrew curls that fight every brush, every elastic, every attempt at control. Just like her mother’s.
“Morning, piccola.” I crouch down and she walks into my arms. Five years old and she still smells like baby shampoo. “Ready for school?”
“I guess.”
That’s her standard answer to everything. Noncommittal. Anxious. She worries about things a five-year-old shouldn’t worry about. Whether the other kids will talk to her. Whether her teacher will be mad if she forgets to raise her hand. Whether I’ll be there when she gets home.
I’m always be there.
Well. Almost always.
“Rosa made your favorite.” I guide her to the table where her breakfast is waiting. She climbs into her chair and stares at the pasta like it might attack her.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat something.”
“My tummy feels weird.”
Christ. Here we go.
I pull out the chair next to her and sit. Keep my voice calm. Steady. This is the routine. This is what works. “What kind of weird? Sick weird or nervous weird?”
She pushes the pasta around with her fork. “Nervous.”
“What are you nervous about?”
“I don’t know.”
She never knows. That’s the problem. The anxiety doesn’t need a reason. It just exists, this low-level hum of worry that colors everything. Her therapist says it’s normal for kids who’ve lost a parent. Give her structure. Give her routine. Give her space to feel safe.
So that’s what I do.
It’s just a phase, the therapists say. She’ll get over it soon.
That was two years ago.
I give her the same breakfast every morning. I pack the same lunch. I drop her off at the same time. I pick her up at the same time. I tuck her in with the same story every night.
And I sure as hell don’t bring random women into the house.
Or into my life.
Or into my goddamn head at six fifteen in the morning when I should be focused on my kid.
But Jess is anything but random.
“Close your eyes and count to ten,” I tell Ben. “You know the drill.”
She closes her eyes and counts quietly. When she opens her eyes again, some of the tension has left her shoulders.
“Better?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Good. Now eat. Please.”
She takes a bite. Then another. I watch her eat and tell myself this is enough. This is what matters.
Not last night.
Not Jess Riley with her curves and her smart mouth and the way she looked at me like I was something other than a widowed single father drowning in grief and routine.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I ignore it.
Valentina’s got my calendar locked down to the minute. Dad blocks, she calls them. Non-negotiable chunks of time where I’m present for Ben. Breakfast. School drop-off. Dinner. Bedtime. Everything else can wait.
Everything else doesn’t matter.
Sure, I could have the nanny take care of her twenty-four seven. It’s not like I don’t have the money.
But I don’t want my daughter to grow up without every knowing her father.
The phone buzzes again.
Then again.
“Daddy, your phone.”
“I know, piccola. It can wait.”
But it keeps buzzing. Three more times in quick succession. That’s not Valentina’s style. She respects the dad blocks.
Something’s wrong.
I stand and cross to the counter. Two missed calls. Three texts. All from Matilda.
My stomach drops.
Matilda’s been Ben’s nanny for eight months. Competent. Professional. Good with the bedtime routine. Ben likes her, which is the only metric that matters. I pay her well. Better than well. Top of market plus benefits.
I open the messages.
Mr. Fiore, I hope this message finds you well.
I’m writing to let you know that today will be my last day.
I’m so grateful for the time with Ben.
What the actual fuck.
My jaw clenches. I read it again. Three sentences. Clean. Polite. Utterly insufficient.
I glance at Ben. She’s eating her pasta, oblivious. Rosa’s at the stove, humming something in Italian.
I step into the pantry and close the door. The space is narrow. Shelves of dry goods pressing in on both sides. I call Matilda.
She answers on the second ring. “Mr. Fiore.”
“What’s going on?” My voice comes out harder than I intend. I dial it back. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I’m sorry for the short notice.”
“Short notice? Matilda, it’s Wednesday morning. You’re scheduled for the next three weeks.”
“I know. And I’m truly sorry. But I have to move on.”
Move on. Like this is a coffee shop job. Like my daughter isn’t going to ask where she is tonight at dinner.
“Tell me what I can do to keep you.” I’m already running numbers. “Listen, I’ll double your salary. Effective immediately.”
She laughs. “That’s very generous, but it’s not about money.”
“Then what is it about?”
“I received an inheritance. A significant one. I don’t need to work anymore. Ever again.”
An inheritance.
Jesus Christ.
“I can triple it,” I say, because apparently I’ve lost my mind. “Whatever you’re making now, times three.”
“Mr. Fiore.” Her voice is patient. Kind. The tone you use with children and idiots. “You don’t understand. I’m set for life. I want to travel. See the world. I’ve been taking care of other people’s children for ten years. It’s time for me to do something for myself.”
The words land like a gut punch. I’m other people. Ben is other people’s child.
“What about Ben?” I ask. “She’s attached to you.”
“I know. And I love her. But she’ll be fine. Kids are resilient.”
Are they? Because my kid cries when I’m ten minutes late to pickup. My kid hoards snack wrappers in her backpack because she’s afraid of running out of food even though the pantry is always stocked.
But I don’t say any of that.
“When can we talk about transition?” I ask instead. “I need time to find someone new.”
“I can finish the week if you need. But after Friday, I’m done.”
Three days. She’s giving me three days.
“Fine.” The word tastes like battery acid. “Thank you for your service.”
I hang up before she can respond.
I stand there in the pantry, surrounded by overpriced organic pasta and imported olive oil, and I want to put my fist through the wall.
But I don’t.
Because Ben is twenty feet away eating breakfast and I need to hold it together.
I’m already mentally mapping the next seventy-two hours.
School pickup. Afternoon coverage. Dinner.
Bedtime. I can shuffle some meetings. Valentina, my personal assistant, will hate it, but she’ll make it work.
Gianna, my COO, can handle the Vegas conference call solo.
Matteo doesn’t need me in the kitchen for Thursday’s menu test.
I can cover this.
I open the pantry door. Ben’s finished her pasta. Rosa’s packing her lunch. The kitchen timer goes off. Six forty-five. Time to get shoes on.
“Let’s move, piccola.” I keep my voice light. Easy. “Backpack check.”
She slides off her chair and runs to get her things. I watch her go and something tightens in my chest.
I need someone long-term.
Someone steady.
Someone Ben can trust.
Someone who won’t bail when life gets inconvenient.
My phone is still in my hand. I pull up Ethan’s contact without thinking.
The call connects.
“Yo,” he answers. “Bit early for you.”
“Got a minute?”
“Yeah, sure. Quiet shift this morning. What’s up?”
I pace the length of the kitchen. Rosa gives me a look but doesn’t comment. “My nanny just quit. Effective Friday.”
“Shit. That’s rough.”
“I need a replacement. Fast.”
“You want me to ask around? I know some EMTs with wives who nanny.”
“Maybe.” I’m still pacing. My brain is working three steps ahead, and that’s dangerous. “Actually. Your sister.”
Silence on the other end.
Fuck.
Why did I say that?
“Jess?” Ethan sounds confused. Wary. “What about her?”
“She’s between jobs, right? She mentioned something last night about needing work.”
Last night. When I sat next to her at the bar and pretended I wasn’t cataloging every detail.
The way she laughs.
The way she deflects.
The way she tastes.
Stop.
“You want Jess to nanny for you?” Ethan asks slowly.
“I’m just throwing out options.” I force myself to stop pacing. “She needs money. I need help. It could work.”
“Man.” Ethan exhales. “I don’t know. Jess is great with kids, don’t get me wrong. But she runs on impulse and heart. Not exactly the Monday-through-Friday type. And definitely not the nanny type. She’s more freestyle than follow-the-rules. As you probably noticed last night.”
I pause a moment.
More freestyle?
Shit.
Does he know I fucked her?