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Paulo climbed the stairs, waiting for the quiet click that signaled the hallway was clear. No one outside ever knew about the labyrinth beneath his house. From the street, it looked like a stately three-story home in a wealthy neighborhood. Below ground, though, were six more floors housing his headquarters. Visitors got cocktails and crystal chandeliers. His people got steel doors, biometric locks, and a level of security even the Pentagon would envy.
When the lock released, he stepped into the hallway and made his way toward the sunroom, already bracing himself for a conversation with Madelaine. But she wasn’t there. Only her sketchpad sat on the sofa, abandoned.
He flipped it open—and burst out laughing.
Page after page of his hand, sketched in exquisite detail, until today’s entry: an exaggerated devil and made out of browning leaves and pointed pebbles for claws, the fingers jagged and curling like talons. He laughed harder, actually tipping his head back.
Yeah, she was pissed.
And damn, she was darling when she was pissed. Cute, smart, and lethal with brilliant ideas, like that scheme to hold her father’s “wake.”
Still chuckling, he tucked the sketchpad under his arm and pulled out his phone, only to see Mick had already texted her location. Typical. The man knew him too well. Paulo smirked and, just to amuse himself, gave the nearest hidden camera an obscene gesture.
By the time he reached the kitchen, Rosa was bent over the counter beside Madelaine, who was stirring something that looked…brown. Brown and lumpy. Possibly still alive.
She glanced up at him with a smile, though not the sweet smile he’d grown fond of. No, this one was absolutely polite, her eyes daring him to say the wrong thing.
“Thank you for your help,” Paulo said carefully, eyeing her like she was a ticking bomb. “It’s a brilliant idea.”
She shrugged, then cheerfully announced, “I’m making brownies. I’ll bring them to you when they’re finished baking.”
His blood ran cold.
Memories of her past “cooking” flashed through his mind. He hadn’t known tomato sauce could burn.
And now, she was going to ruin brownies.
He swallowed hard. “I will…uh…look forward to it,” he muttered, then executed the fastest retreat of his life, escaping down the hallway like a man fleeing a live grenade.
Paulo shot off a quick text to Mick: She’s baking again.
Within seconds, guards who’d been strolling the hallways suddenly found urgent business elsewhere. The ones stationed outside whispered, cast nervous glances at the house, and subtly shifted their patrols farther out on the perimeter.
“What the hell?” Paulo muttered, watching them scatter like pigeons. “Do they really think being two hundred yards away will save them from tasting that mess?”
Yeah. Probably.
Lucky bastards.
He retreated to his office, scanned his calendar, and sighed with real relief. Meetings downtown. Perfect. A solid excuse to escape himself.
Still, he knew he couldn’t just vanish without saying something. Reluctantly, he wandered back to the kitchen, but stopped just short of the doorway. Even proximity to whatever was in that bowl felt dangerous.
“I’m heading out,” he announced, lingering at the threshold. “I’ll be gone until dinner.”
Rosa nodded, unbothered, but Madelaine’s grin tightened his gut.
“That’s great! Rosa is teaching me how to make chicken!” she chirped.
Paulo froze. Chicken? He remembered Rosa’s earlier threat—boiled chicken and steamed broccoli every night until he fixed things with Madelaine.
Panic colored his tone. “Why don’t I take you out instead? That new place near the sports center…?”
“Nope.” Madelaine cut him off, practically glowing. “I’m making dinner.” Then, just to twist the knife, her big blue eyes shimmered as if she might cry. “Are you saying you don’t trust me to cook?”
“No!” Paulo blurted so fast it was embarrassing. He risked a glance at Rosa, who stood with one hand on her hip, wielding her wooden spoon like a scepter of judgment.
So much for being a terrifying mafia boss. Here he was, cornered by his housekeeper and a woman with a bowl of mystery batter.
