Anyone who works inside these walls has access to everything. One compromised staff member, one planted mole, and the entire family is exposed. I've seen it happen to other organizations. I won't let it happen to ours.
My jaw works. "Fine."
Pietro nods, like he knew I'd agree all along. Bastard.
"Giulia leaves in two weeks. Have someone trained by then."
I pick up my phone again, pulling up a blank file. Already my mind is spinning through requirements. Background check protocols. Security clearances. Interview frameworks.
Two weeks to find someone I'd trust inside our home.
Someone who won't run screaming when they realize what we are.
Someone who can handle this family's particular brand of chaos.
Fuck.
CHAPTER TWO
Kristen
The smell of burnt toast fills our cramped apartment at six-fifteen in the morning.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I wave a dish towel at the smoke detector before it can scream and wake the entire building. The toaster—a temperamental beast I picked up at Goodwill for three dollars—has betrayed me again. I fish out the blackened bread with a fork and toss it in the trash, already calculating if we have enough for another attempt.
We do. Barely.
"Mommy?" Lily's voice drifts from the bedroom, sleep-soft and curious. "What's that smell?"
"Nothing, baby girl. Just breakfast being difficult."
She pads into the kitchen in her unicorn pajamas, brown curls a wild halo around her face. Four years old and already wise enough to know when I'm lying. She inherited that from me. The ability to read people. Not from him.
I crouch down and open my arms. She crashes into me, all warm skin and that particular scent. I breathe her in. This. This is why I left.
"Pancakes?" she asks, hopeful.
I glance at the near-empty pantry. "Toast with peanut butter today. Pancake Saturday is coming."
She considers this with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. "With chocolate chips?"
"If you eat all your vegetables this week."
"Deal." She sticks out her tiny hand, and we shake on it.
These mornings used to be different. Before.
When I was still with Jack, mornings meant walking on eggshells. Keeping Lily quiet so she wouldn't disturb him. Making sure his coffee was ready before he woke, eggs done exactly how he liked them. which changed depending on his mood, so I never actually got it right. I'd hold my breath when his footsteps hit the hallway, trying to read the weight of them. Heavy meant bad night. Heavier meant worse morning for me.
Now mornings are ours. Messy and imperfect and ours.
I pop two new slices in the toaster, keeping a closer eye this time. Lily climbs onto her booster seat at our tiny table and starts arranging her stuffed rabbit collection. Three rabbits. She's named them all variations of "Bunny." Bunny, Bunbun, and Sir Floppington the Third.
Sir Floppington was my contribution. She thought it was hilarious.
My phone buzzes. I don't have to look to know who it is but I do.
