The Nanny and the Mafia Don (Dark Mafia Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Chloe

“Mei?” I keep my voice low, not wanting to wake the other girls. “Sweetie, where are you?”

Silence.

I check the bathroom—empty. Look under the beds, even though Mei is too old for that kind of hiding game. Nothing.

My heart rate picks up, my palms starting to sweat. Don’t panic. She’s probably in the kitchen getting water. Or she had a nightmare and went to find Jay.

But even as I think it, I know it isn’t true. Mei is nine years old, responsible, the kind of child who follows rules because breaking them means chaos, and she’s had enough of that in her short life.

I move into the hallway, checking each room systematically. Boys’ dormitory—all accounted for. The playroom—empty. Jay’s office—dark.

The buzz of my phone in my pocket causes me to pause. A text message in the middle of the night? Pulling the phone from my pocket, I click the home button, and the screen lights up. The bright light cuts through the darkness of the hallway like a blade. 2:47 AM.

Swiping across the screen, the text pops up immediately upon unlocking. Two words glow at me: Thank you.

No name. No context. Just an unknown number and gratitude for a deed I can’t remember doing.

I frown, my thumb hovering over the screen. Wrong number, probably. Or some drunk person texting their ex. It happens. I start to type back—I think you have the wrong number—but stop. What’s the point? Whoever sent it will figure out their mistake eventually.

A chill runs down my spine as I look at the timestamp again. 2:47 AM. Exactly now. Not hours ago, not yesterday—this very moment.

Who sends a “thank you” text at nearly three in the morning?

I slip the phone back into my cardigan pocket and continue my rounds, my footsteps silent on the worn wooden floors.

The orphanage settles around me with familiar sounds: the ancient radiator hissing in the corner, wind rattling the windows, the soft breathing of twenty-three children sleeping in their beds.

Twenty-three. I count them every night, a habit I can’t break even after three years of working here. Old fears die hard.

I’m heading toward the kitchen when I hear it: the soft thump of the back door closing.

My blood goes cold.

Outside. Mei went outside.

I break into a run, my mind already spiraling through terrible possibilities. It’s October in New York, the temperature hovering just above freezing. Mei is wearing thin pajamas. What if she wandered into the street? What if someone has lured her out? What if—

I slam through the back door and into the yard behind the orphanage.

The cold hits me like a slap, making my teeth chatter instantly and stealing my breath.

The yard is dark except for the single light above the door, casting long shadows across the brown grass and the chain-link fence that separates our property from the alley beyond.

“Mei!” This time I don’t bother keeping my voice down. “Mei, answer me right now!”

Movement at the edge of where the light touches catches my attention. I spin toward it, my body automatically shifting into a defensive stance—weight balanced, hands ready. Ten years of training have made it instinct.

But it’s just Mei, appearing from behind the storage shed, her chest heaving like she’s been running. Her breath comes out in visible puffs, her cheeks flushed red from the cold.

Relief crashes through me so hard my knees go weak. Then anger rushes in to fill the space relief left behind.

“Mei Zhang, what are you doing out here? Do you have any idea how dangerous—”

“I found a child!” Mei interrupts, her eyes bright with excitement rather than fear. She grabs my hand, tugging insistently. “You have to come see. Please, Miss Chloe. I think… I think he’s hurt.”

The anger evaporates. A child… out here? In the dead of night and the frigid cold?

“What? Where?”

“By the fence. I heard a noise when I got up to use the bathroom, and I looked out the window, and I saw a shape moving. So, I came to check.”

“Mei, you should have come and found me first—”

“There wasn’t time! Come on.”

Mei pulls me toward the far corner of the yard, where the fence is hidden by overgrown bushes that Jay keeps meaning to trim.

That’s when I see him.

At first, I think it’s just a pile of discarded clothes someone had thrown over the fence. But then the pile moves—a tremor that is distinctly human.

“Oh my God.”

I close the distance in three strides, dropping to my knees beside the huddled form.

It’s a child, I realize. A boy, around nine years old, curled into himself so tightly, he looks half his actual size.

He’s wearing a thin t-shirt and jeans, no jacket, no shoes.

His dark hair is matted with dirt and sweat, and his skin has taken on an alarming grayish pallor in the weak light.

“Hey, sweetie. Hey, can you hear me?” I reach out slowly, telegraphing my movements the way Jay taught me. Frightened children are like frightened animals—they need to see you aren’t a threat.

The boy flinches when my hand touches his shoulder, curling tighter into himself.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now. My name is Chloe; this is Mei. We’re going to help you.” I’m already shrugging out of my cardigan, wrapping it around his thin shoulders. He’s freezing, his skin like ice under my fingers. How long has he been out here?

“Mei, run inside and get Jay. Tell him we need blankets and the first aid kit. Go.”

Mei nods and takes off running, her footsteps fading into the distance.

I turn my full attention back to the boy. “Can you tell me your name? Are you hurt?”

The boy lifts his head slightly. In the dim light, I can just make out his features—delicate bone structure, large brown eyes that seem almost black in the darkness, a mouth pressed into a thin line. He looks at me for a long moment, and I see an expression that makes my chest ache: uncertainty.

Not of me, specifically. But of the situation. The fear. The uncertainty of whether this new adult will hurt him or help him.

I know that look. I wore it myself, once upon a time.

“It’s okay if you can’t talk right now,” I say softly. “You don’t have to be scared. I promise I’m going to keep you safe.”

The boy just stares at me. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

I frown. “You’re not scared? Or you don’t believe me?”

Another head shake, more emphatic this time.

I try a different approach. “Are you hurt? Does anything feel broken?”

Head shake.

“Are you lost?”

Hesitation. Then a tiny nod.

“Do you need help?”

A more confident nod.

Progress. Sort of. But why isn’t he speaking? I study him more carefully. He doesn’t seem physically unable to speak—his breathing is normal, no signs of injury to his throat or mouth. So, either he can’t speak, or he’s choosing not to.

An idea occurs to me. It’s a long shot, but I learned ASL years ago when one of the children at the orphanage was deaf. I still practice occasionally, though I’m rusty.

I raise my hands and sign slowly: “Can you understand this?”

The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. Then, with trembling hands, he lifts his own: “Yes.”

Relief floods through me. At least we have a way to communicate.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” I sign.

“No. Just cold.”

“What’s your name?”

The boy’s hands still. His lips press together, and he looks away, shaking his head firmly.

“It’s okay,” I sign. “You don’t have to tell me yet. Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”

I stand carefully and hold out my hands. The boy stares at them for a long moment before finally reaching up. His hands are tiny and cold in mine, and when I help him to his feet, I realize just how light he is. Too light for a child his age.

When did he last eat?

I crouch down and turn my back to him. “Climb on. I’m going to carry you inside, okay?”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then I feel thin arms wrap around my neck and legs hook around my waist. I stand carefully, adjusting his weight, and start walking back toward the orphanage.

He’s shivering against my back, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I rub his arm gently as I walk, murmuring soft reassurances. “Almost there. You’re doing so good. Just a little further.”

We’re halfway across the yard when I feel him shift. His head comes to rest against my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear despite the cold.

And then he whispers—so quietly I almost miss it: “The monster is coming for me.”

I stop walking.

My heart stutters in my chest, and for a moment, I’m nine years old again, huddled in a closet, listening to heavy footsteps in the hallway outside. Waiting for the door to open. Waiting for the monster to find me.

I force the memory away and turn my head slightly. “What monster, sweetie?”

But the boy has gone completely still against my back, his breathing shallow and fast. When I try to look at his face, he buries it in my shoulder.

So, he can speak. He just chooses not to. The realization settles over me like a heavy blanket—this child has been through terrible events, experiences that make silence feel safer than words.

I understand that better than most.

I swallow hard and continue walking. The back door stands open now, light spilling out into the darkness. I can see Jay’s silhouette in the doorway, arms full of blankets.

As I carry the boy toward safety, toward warmth and light, one thought keeps circling through my mind: What if he’s right? What if whoever hurt him really is coming after him? It will lead them right to the orphanage when they find him.

And somewhere in the back of my consciousness, that strange text message nags at me: Thank you. Sent at the exact moment I’d been walking these halls. Sent just before I’d found this terrified child.

Coincidence?

Probably.

Inside, the orphanage wraps around us like a warm embrace. Jay has turned on all the lights in the common room and built up the fire in the old fireplace that usually only gets used on special occasions. The heat hits my face as I step inside, and I feel the boy relax slightly against my back.