"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.
