Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Nico
The housekeeper interviews are a disaster.
Candidate one: A woman in her fifties who clutches her purse like I might snatch it. She flinches when I ask about her experience with confidential household matters. Next.
Candidate two: Overqualified. Too many questions about family schedules and security routines. The kind of questions that sound innocent until you've spent years learning they're not.
By candidate seven, I'm ready to put my fist through the wall.
"The last one seemed competent," Pietro says from the doorway of my office.
I don't look up from the background check I'm reviewing. "She asked about our alarm system within five minutes of sitting down."
"Maybe she's safety-conscious."
"Maybe she's working for someone who wants to know our vulnerabilities." I toss the file onto my desk. "I'm not bringing anyone into this house who could compromise us."
Pietro sighs. "Giulia leaves in three days, Nico."
"I'm aware."
There's one more candidate. Margaret Chen. Sixty-two, thirty years of experience with high-profile families, impeccable references. On paper, she's perfect.
In person, she spends the entire interview staring at my hands like she expects me to strangle her.
"Thank you for your time," I say, standing. "We'll be in touch."
We won't.
I've reviewed eighteen candidates these days, and the best I can say is that one of them might work. Patricia Harris. Mid-forties, former military spouse, knows how to keep her mouth shut.
But something about her feels off. The way she answered my questions about discretion was too rehearsed. Too smooth.
I doubt it. I doubt her.
I scrub a hand over my face and check the time. 4:47 p.m. Dinner is at seven. Aria has been in the kitchen since dawn, refusing to let anyone else touch the meal she's preparing for Kristen Thomas.
"This woman saved me," Aria had said this morning, pointing a wooden spoon at me like a weapon. "The least we can do is feed her properly. Now get out of my kitchen."
I got out of her kitchen.
My phone buzzes.
Kristen Thomas: I've thought about it and I really appreciate the invitation, but I won't be able to make it tonight. Thank you for understanding.
I read the message twice. Three times.
My jaw tightens.
She's backing out. Politely, professionally, with just enough gratitude sprinkled in to make it seem like a reasonable decision rather than what it actually is.
Fear.
I type my response without thinking.
Nico: You don't have a choice.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Kristen Thomas: Actually, I do. It's called free will. Maybe you've heard of it? It's this thing where people get to decide what they do with their own time.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. The corner of my mouth twitches.
Nico: The car will be there at 6:30.
I toss the phone onto my bed before she can respond again.
Apparently, I'm picking her up myself. Whether she wants me to or not.
I can't play games anymore. Not with the housekeeper situation unresolved, not with Giulia leaving in three days, not with my mother emotionally invested in thanking this woman properly.
The armored SUV glides through Chicago's streets.
Liam Blackwood sits behind the wheel, steel-gray eyes scanning every intersection, every pedestrian, every shadow. The man doesn't blink. I'm fairly certain he doesn't breathe either, unless oxygen is tactically necessary.
Liam is Pietro's shadow. Former SAS. The British equivalent of being raised by wolves and trained by the military to be even more lethal. When Pietro doesn't need him, I'm next in the chain of command. Which means tonight, I get the pleasure of his silent, assessing company.
"Left on Ashland," I say, checking the address on my phone.
Liam doesn't respond. Just turns. The man communicates in nods, single syllables, and the occasional devastating dry comment that makes you question your entire existence.
The neighborhoods shift as we drive south. Glass towers give way to brick walk-ups. Boutiques transform into check-cashing stores with bars on the windows.
I watch the transformation without judgment.
Funny thing—Kristen Thomas is terrified of having dinner at the Sartori compound, but she lives here. A place where the streetlights flicker like they're sending Morse code warnings. Where the corner store has bulletproof glass between the cashier and customers.
She's more scared of eating a thank you dinner than walking home at night in this neighborhood.
I don't judge her for that. Fear is rarely logical.
When I was a kid, maybe eight or nine, I used to sneak away from the compound to play with the neighborhood kids many blocks over. The ones who went to public school. Who didn't have private tutors or armored cars or bodyguards named things like "Big Tony."
Giuseppe found out eventually. He didn't punish me. Just sat me down in his study, poured himself a whiskey, and said: "Niccolò, you can play with whoever you want. But never forget—you eat dinner in a different house than they do. And one day, you'll understand what that means."
I understood eventually. The system isn't fair. Never has been. Some people are born into marble floors and trust funds. Others are born into apartments with water stains on the ceiling and landlords who don't fix the heat.
I had the marble floors. Kristen Thomas has the water stains.
That's not a moral failing on her part. It's just math.
The apartment complex looks like it's held together by rust and sheer determination. Three stories of faded brick, fire escapes that probably violate seventeen safety codes, and a front door that doesn't appear to lock properly.
I pull up her file on my phone again. Kristen Thomas. Twenty-six. Single mother. Her daughter had heart surgery. I found the hospital payment. $20,ooo. She had money once.
This should be simple. Write a check. Problem solved.
Money fixes things. That's what it's for.
"Wait here," I tell Liam.
Another nod. He's already positioned the SUV to have clear sightlines of both the building entrance and the street. Old habits.
I step out into the evening air. It smells like exhaust fumes.
The front door definitely doesn't lock. I push it open and step into a hallway that's seen better decades. Someone's cooking fish. Someone else is playing music too loud. Bass thumping through thin walls.
Apartment 3B.
I take the stairs. The elevator has an "Out of Order" sign that looks permanent.
Third floor. The hallway carpet is worn through in patches. I find 3B and knock.
Footsteps inside. Light ones. Then heavier ones—an adult moving quickly.
The door opens three inches, stopped by a chain lock. Smart.
Kristen Thomas stares at me through the gap. Her grey-blue eyes are wary, calculating.
Kristen
The chain rattles as I slide it free and open the door wider.
I knew this would cause problems. The second I saved that woman's life, I felt that sinking sensation in my gut that screams nothing good comes for free.
And here's the proof. Six feet of an Italian man standing in my hallway like he owns it.
"Mommy?" Lily tugs my shirt. "Who's this man?"
Great question, baby girl. I'd love to know myself.
Nico Sartori doesn't belong here. Not in this building. Not outside my door with its peeling paint and that stupid chain lock that wouldn't stop a determined toddler, let alone anyone actually dangerous.
But he's here. And if someone sees him questions get asked.
Questions lead to attention. Attention leads to Jack finding out where I live.
He might never used his fists to hurt me, but I'm afraid letting him know where I live because my theory says that if he was capable manipulating me for years once, he can do it again.
"Get inside." I grab his arm and pull.
He lets me. That's the thing. I feel the resistance, the solid muscle under that jacket that says he could plant himself like a concrete pillar if he wanted. But he steps through anyway, and I slam the door shut behind him.
The apartment shrinks.
It was already small. A shoebox, really. Living room that doubles as my bedroom, tiny kitchen with the temperamental toaster, Lily's closet-sized space. But with Nico Sartori filling my doorway, it becomes suffocating.
I searched them last night. The Sartoris. Couldn't help myself after that phone call.
Construction empire. Philanthropy galas. Photos of mansions and charity events and enough zeroes attached to their name to make my head spin.
Now he's in my apartment, and I'm acutely aware of the water stain on the ceiling. The secondhand couch with the suspicious spring in the middle cushion. The stack of overdue bills I shoved into a drawer this morning.
Pathetic.
Lily doesn't seem to notice the sudden tension. She's staring up at Nico with her big eyes, clutching Bunny to her chest.
He surprises me.
Instead of ignoring her with that dismissive glance adults usually give kids when they're focused on business, he lowers himself. One knee on my cheap carpet, bringing himself to her level.
"And who's this?" He nods toward Bunny.
"This is Bunny," Lily says. Then, because she's four and has no concept of stranger danger despite my best efforts: "She's my favorite. I have a whole collection. Bunbun and Sir Floppington the Third too."
"Sir Floppington the Third," Nico repeats, completely serious. "Distinguished name."
"He's very 'stinguished." Lily nods solemnly. "Mommy says he needs a monocle."
What is happening right now?
My daughter doesn't talk to strangers. She hides behind my legs at the grocery store. She refused to speak to her own pediatrician for three visits straight.
"I'm a friend of your mother's," he tells Lily. His voice is different with her. Still low, still direct, but missing that sharp edge. "Tonight, we're going to eat dinner with my family."
"We are?" Lily's face lights up. "Can I bring my bunnies?"
"Lily—" I start.
"They can have their own seats at the table," Nico says.
My daughter beams at him. Actually beams, like he just promised her a pony and a trip to Disneyland rolled into one.
"Go get them, baby girl." My voice comes out strange. Tight. "And your shoes."
Lily scampers off to her room, Bunny bouncing against her chest.
The second she's gone, I round on him.
"I said no."
Nico rises to his full height. The softness disappears. "I heard you."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because my mother wants to thank you." He says it like it's simple. Like showing up uninvited at someone's home is perfectly reasonable behavior. "She's been cooking all day."
"I don't care if she's been cooking all week." I keep my voice low—Lily doesn't need to hear this. "You can't just—I told you—"
"You saved her life."
Three words. Flat. Final. Like they explain everything.
And maybe to him, they do. Maybe in his world, debts get paid and that's that. But I've learned the hard way that nothing comes without strings. Jack taught me that lesson over and over until it was carved into my bones.
Pretty dress, pretty wife. Now smile for my colleagues.
Nice dinner, nice wine. Now don't embarrass me.
I take care of you. Now you owe me.
"I don't want anything from you," I say. "From any of you."
Nico's dark eyes pin me in place. That scanning look again—the one from the gala. Like he's memorising every flinch, every tell, filing it away for later analysis.
"You're scared."
Not a question.
"I'm careful." I cross my arms.
Lily bursts back into the room before he can answer, arms full of stuffed rabbits.
"I'm ready!"
She's wearing her light-up sneakers—the ones I found at a thrift store, half-price because one light was burnt out. Her hair's escaping its ponytail. She looks so happy.
When was the last time she looked that happy?
"The car's waiting," he says. Quieter now. "One dinner. That's all."
I don't believe him.
But Lily's already tugging my hand toward the door, chattering about whether Sir Floppington prefers pasta or chicken.
And I'm out of fight.