Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Nico
The knock echoes through Bruno's door like a gunshot. No response. I didn't expect one.
I turn the handle and step inside.
The room smells stale. Old coffee. Antiseptic from whatever medical supplies the latest doctor left behind.
The curtains are drawn, blocking out the afternoon sun, but a sliver of light cuts through where the fabric doesn't quite meet.
Bruno sits in that narrow beam, his wheelchair positioned by the window, his back to me.
He doesn't turn around.
"Get out." His voice scrapes like gravel against concrete.
"No."
His shoulders tense. Even from behind, I can see how the muscle has started to waste. Not much. Bruno still does his physical therapy with the kind of brutal determination that's sent three therapists running. But there's a difference. A softening where there used to be steel.
The wheelchair is state-of-the-art. Custom built. Cost a lot. Bruno hates it with every fiber of his being.
"I said get out, Nico."
I close the door behind me and lean against it. "And I said no."
He finally turns. The movement is aggressive. He's gotten good at maneuvering that chair like a weapon. His dark eyes find mine, and there's nothing in them but cold fury.
This is what Bruno has become.
After Riccardo died, the position of Don should have passed to Bruno.
Second-born. The golden son. Pietro never wanted the crown.
He took it because someone had to, because Bruno was lying in a hospital bed with machines breathing for him, and the family needed a leader or we'd have been eaten alive.
The doctors say there's hope. Some days, I believe them. Bruno has feeling in his legs. Inconsistent, unpredictable, but present. Nerves that might heal. Muscles that might remember how to work. A spine that might, might, let him walk again.
Or might not.
Nobody says that part out loud anymore. Not after what happened to the last doctor who mentioned "permanent paralysis" within Bruno's hearing. The man didn't lose any teeth, but it was a close thing.
"Mamma's worried about you," I say.
Bruno's jaw tightens. "Mamma can worry from downstairs."
"She wants to see you."
"I don't want to see her."
The words are flat. Final.
Bruno wasn't always like this. Before the shooting, he was hard. Ruthless when necessary. But there was warmth underneath. He laughed at Vittoria's terrible jokes. He held her together after our father's death, even while grieving himself.
Then he woke up.
Six months of darkness, and when Bruno finally opened his eyes, he wanted to see our oldest brother.
Riccardo is dead. The Russians killed him. The same men who shot you.
He shattered that day. Not only for what happened to Riccardo, but for what happened to him too.
The men responsible ended up dead the same moment. But revenge doesn't heal bullet wounds. It doesn't make legs work again. It doesn't bring back the brother who should be sitting in the Don's chair while Bruno stood at his right hand.
"The new doctor starts Monday," I say.
"I'll give him a week."
"You gave the last one three days."
Bruno's mouth twists into something that isn't quite a smile. "He cried. I don't tolerate crying."
He cried because you threw a glass at his head, I think but don't say. There's no point. Bruno knows exactly what he did. He knows exactly what he's become. That's the worst part.
My brother isn't cruel by accident. He's cruel on purpose.
He's building walls so high that nobody can see the wreckage behind them.
I leave Bruno's room with the contract folded in my jacket pocket.
The idea came to me last night. A toddler solved my housekeeper problem. The irony isn't lost on me.
The contract is straightforward. Temporary household manager position. Two months, covering Giulia's absence. Salary generous enough to make Kristen's eyes widen, but not so ridiculous she'll think we're buying her. Health insurance for her and Lily.
The only complication is housing.
Giulia lives on the compound. The position was designed for someone with round-the-clock access. But Kristen Thomas isn't going to agree to move here with her daughter.
So I made adjustments.
Daily transportation. A car will pick her up each morning and return her every evening. It adds complexity. More logistics, more security concerns, more variables I'll need to monitor. But it's the only way she'll say yes.
If she says yes.
I head toward the main entrance.
"Nico."
I stop at the sound of Nora's voice.
She's coming down the east corridor.
"Nora," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
She falls into step beside me as I continue toward the door.
"It's really kind," Nora says. "What you're doing for Kristen."
I stop walking. Turn to face her. "Kind?"
She doesn't flinch at my tone. Some months ago, she would have. Back when I discovered who she really was. Nora O'Sullivan. Daughter of Connor O'Sullivan, lieutenant in the Boston Irish mob. The same Irish families we'd been at war with.
She showed up as Pietro's secretary with a fake identity and a desperate need to disappear. I found out the truth eventually. I always find out the truth.
The confrontation was... unpleasant.
"Kind isn't a word people use for me," I tell her now.
Nora's green eyes meet mine without wavering. "Maybe they should."
I think about the first time I watched Pietro look at her.
I didn't understand it then. I'm not sure I understand it now.
But I know they're in love.
Real love. The kind that makes people do stupid, reckless, dangerous things. The kind that made Pietro marry an Irish mob princess and dare anyone to challenge him. The kind that made Nora choose this family over her own blood.
I don't trust love.
But I respect it in others.
Kristen
I've cleaned the apartment three times.
Not that it helps. The water stain on the ceiling still looks like a map of a country I can't name.
But the dishes are done. The toys are put away. I even found a candle under the sink—vanilla something—and lit it to mask the smell of old carpet and desperation.
Very classy, Kristen. Nothing says "I'm a competent professional" like a three-dollar candle from the dollar store.
The knock comes at exactly six o'clock.
Of course it does. Nico Sartori probably schedules his bathroom breaks.
I smooth down my shirt and take a breath. My reflection in the dark TV screen shows a woman who looks like she hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.
Because she hasn't.
I spent all night staring at the ceiling, running numbers in my head.
Just hear the terms. That's all. You can say no.
I open the door.
Nico stands in the hallway, looking exactly as out of place as he did yesterday. Dark suit. White shirt.
His eyes sweep over me once.
I step aside. "Come in."
He moves past me without a word.
I close the door and turn to find him standing in the middle of my living room, a leather folder in his hands. He's looking around, and I can see him noticing everything I tried to hide.
"Lily's not here," I say, because the silence feels too heavy. "My mother took her to the park."
His gaze lands on me. Holds. "You asked her to."
It's not a question.
"I wanted to hear what you had to say without..." I trail off, searching for the right word.
"Without a kid negotiating for more stuffed rabbits?"
My lips twitch despite myself. "Something like that."
He nods once, then gestures to the couch. "Sit."
Sit. Like I'm a dog. Like this is his apartment and I'm the guest.
I sit anyway. Because I need this job, and fighting with him over furniture won't pay my bills.
Nico doesn't sit. He stands across from me, opening the leather folder to reveal a stack of papers. His fingers flip through them.
"The position is temporary," he says. "Two months. You'll manage the household staff. Cleaning schedules, meal planning, supply orders. The current manager is taking personal leave."
"The salary," he continues, flipping to a new page. "Three thousand per week."
I blink.
Three thousand—
"That's..." I do the math in my head, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears. "That's twelve thousand a month."
"Yes."
"For managing a household."
"For managing our household." He sets the folder down on my coffee table, the papers fanning out. "Which requires discretion. Flexibility. The ability to handle unusual situations."
Unusual situations. I think about the armed guard who drove us home. The way everyone at dinner moved like they were ready for violence at any moment.
"What kind of unusual situations?"
Nico's expression doesn't change. "The kind you don't ask questions about."
Right. Of course.
I look down at the contract. The numbers swim in front of my eyes. Twelve thousand a month. Plus health insurance for me and Lily. I spotted that line immediately. Plus daily transportation.
This could change everything for a while.
This could also get me killed.
"I need to think about it," I say.
"You have until tomorrow morning." Nico straightens, buttoning his suit jacket with one hand. "I'll send a car at seven. If you're not ready, I'll know your answer."
He moves toward the door.
And then he stops.
Just for a second. Just long enough to look back at me over his shoulder.
Those dark eyes pin me in place. Not threatening. Not warm either.
His gaze drops to the contract on my coffee table. Then back to me.
"Sleep on it," he says. "But don't overthink."
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stare at the empty space where he stood, my heart beating too fast for someone who just had a business meeting.
What was that?
That look. That pause. Like he was trying to tell me something without saying it. Like he was giving me one last chance to run.
Or maybe warning me that running wouldn't help.
I grab the contract and flip through the pages.
Legal jargon. Salary breakdowns. Benefits packages that make my eyes water.
There's a confidentiality clause that spans three pages.
A non-disclosure agreement. Something about "discretionary matters" that I'm pretty sure translates to whatever you see, you pretend you didn't.
Three thousand a week.
I set the papers down. Pick them up again.
They're paying you enough to forget what you see.
Normal households don't pay this much and don't have armed drivers and security gates and family dinners where everyone sits like they're expecting an attack. And most importantly, normal households don't make you sign confidentiality agreements longer than rental leases.
They're criminals?
The word feels too big. Too dramatic. Like something from a movie.
But the contract in my hands feels very real.
I drop it on the coffee table and press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
Think, Kristen. Think.
Twelve thousand a month. For two months. That's twenty-four thousand dollars.
I could pay off some months of Lily's medical debt. I could build a savings cushion. I could breathe for the first time in years.
And after?
The Sartoris know people. That much is obvious. Rich people always know other rich people. If I do this job well. Meaning if I keep my head down and my mouth shut and manage their household without incident, they could recommend me to someone else.
Or they could get you killed.
I laugh out loud. It sounds hysterical in the empty apartment.
Killed. Like I matter enough to kill.
I'm nobody. A single mom from the South Side with a talent for CPR. Whatever the Sartoris are involved in, I'm not important enough to be a threat.
I just need to clean their house and manage their staff and not ask questions.
How hard can that be?
Or I could keep applying to restaurants and retail stores and hope someone takes a chance on a woman with gaps in her resume and a kid who needs health insurance.
But we both know I won't.
Because I'm out of options.
The Sartoris are offering me a lifeline.
All I have to do is grab it and not look too closely at what's attached.
I pick up the contract again. Read through every page twice. The salary is listed in clear black type. So is the health insurance. So is the transportation allowance.
This is either the smartest thing you've ever done or the dumbest.
Probably both.
I find a pen in the kitchen drawer and sign my name on the dotted line.
Kristen Thomas.
Two months.
I can survive anything for two months.