I spot the sign for the parent meeting area and start toward it when a polite voice stops me. “Ma’am, please enter through this gate.”
That’s when I notice the new security gate—metal detector, conveyor belt, the whole airport-style setup. It definitely wasn’t here before. I glance back at my three bodyguards, all of them heavily armed. Tony’s name has always been enough to get us through without questions. Until now.
“These men are my security detail,” I say calmly. “Their weapons are fully licensed.”
“Ma’am,” the young guard replies politely, “after everything that’s been happening lately, we’ve put a strict no-weapons policy in place. It’s for the safety of all the kids, including your daughter.”
It makes sense on paper. But we’ve been here plenty of times before, and no one has ever asked Tony, or us, to disarm.
One of my bodyguards clearly has the same thought. His deep voice cuts in. “Why wasn’t this policy here before?”
The guard stays perfectly calm. “One of the kids killed in last week’s school shooting in Illinois was the director’s nephew. It hit him hard, so he decided to tighten security.”
“You should’ve given the parents a heads-up about this,” my bodyguard grumbles.
Just then, Angela, Adam’s mom, arrives. We exchange quick, polite hellos before she sets her bag on the conveyor belt and walks through the gate without any trouble. Watching how relaxed she is makes me wonder if I’m overreacting.
I turn to my lead bodyguard. “Collect their weapons and wait outside.”
They aren’t happy. Thick necks tense, jaws tight, they shoot uneasy glances around the hallway.
In the end, they dig in their heels. “We need Mr. Bruni’s approval first.”
Neither Tony nor Rafael answers their phones. After several minutes of my persistent grumbling, my bodyguards finally give in with reluctant sighs.
I step into the meeting room and let out a small breath of relief at all the familiar faces. I slip into an empty chair among the other mothers. Only one father sits among us; the rest are mothers. In an adjacent room, the director and the children’s teacher meet with parents one-on-one.
When my turn comes, I walk in with my two bodyguards right behind me, solid and reassuring. Instead of Mrs. Robinson and Emma, a massive man in an expensive tailored suit sits behind the desk. His shoulders strain against the fabric, and his face looks like it belongs in a dark alley, not a preschool.
He rises with a pleasant smile and extends his hand. I shake it and take the seat across from him, while my bodyguards remain standing behind me.
He picks up a thick notebook. The thin glasses look strangely out of place on his brutal face.
“I was expecting Mrs. Robinson and Emma,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
His voice comes out low and gravelly. “Yes, Mrs. Bruni. I’m Robert Bennett, a child behavior specialist. I needed to speak with you privately. Mrs. Robinson and Emma will see you right after our meeting.”
My stomach tightens. “Has something happened with Antonia?”
He sets his glasses down, expression turning grave. “Unfortunately, yes. We’ve noticed some concerning traits in your daughter’s behavior, traits that could cause real problems for her later.”
Tension shoots through me. I lean forward a little. “Please just tell me what’s going on, Mr. Bennett. You’re starting to scare me.”
He holds my gaze, eyes cold and unreadable, as he casually slides open the desk drawer.
“No need to worry, Mrs. Bruni,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Your daughter’s only problem is her treacherous parents. But don’t worry…we’ll take care of that.”
Before the words even sink in, his hand whips up from under the desk. Two muffled pops. Both my bodyguards drop instantly.
My breath catches in my throat. My body freezes, my eyes go wide with shock. Something warm drips down my cheek. I reach up and touch my face, my fingers come away slick with blood.
A shadow falls over me. I look up, just as a sharp sting pierces the side of my neck. A needle.
My arms and legs turn to lead. The room blurs, my eyelids too heavy to fight. As everything fades, a low voice brushes my ear.
“This is from Carlo Bruni.”
TWENTY-THREE
