If someone from my family wanted to hurt you, this phone call would be a waste of time.
The words replay in my head. Over and over. A threat wrapped in reassurance. Or maybe reassurance wrapped in a threat. I can't tell which.
I should call the police. File a report. Tell them a strange man knows where I live and is sending a car for me tomorrow.
And say what? That a rich family wants to thank me for saving their mother's life? That they're sending transportation so I don't have to take the bus?
They'd laugh me off the phone.
I look at Lily. She's abandoned her pasta in favor of making Mr. Bunny dance across the table.
Tomorrow at seven.
I have roughly twenty-four hours to figure out what the hell I'm going to do.
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.
