4

The Moretti estate sits in Pacific Heights, a imposing fortress of grey stone and wrought iron overlooking the fog rolling in off the Golden Gate. I stand at the gate, my stomach doing somersaults. I dressed carefully—black tailored trousers, a cream silk blouse, a blazer that hides the tremor in my hands. I look professional, harmless. A student looking for work.

A guard eyes me through the iron bars, checks a list, and buzzes the gate open. The walk to the front door feels like a mile, the gravel crunching loudly under my boots. The door opens before I even knock, revealing a woman who looks like she stepped out of a fashion editorial.

Jenilya Moretti. She’s taller than me, wearing a silk lounging set that costs more than my car used to. Her face is impeccable, sculpted by genetics and probably a very good surgeon, but her eyes are flat. Bored. She looks me up and down, a flicker of distaste crossing her features before she masks it with a polite, icy smile.

"You must be the applicant," she says, her voice smooth but lacking warmth. "Come in."

The foyer is a cavern of marble and modern art. Everything is white, gold, and sharp edges. It feels sterile, like a hospital for the very rich.

"Luca is in the study. Follow me."

She doesn’t offer to take my coat. She glides through the house, her movements fluid, indifferent. I trail behind, clutching my bag.

The study is dark, the curtains drawn against the afternoon light. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows over the walls. Behind a massive mahogany desk sits Luca Moretti.

The air in the room seems to thicken, heavy with his presence. He stands as we enter, and the sheer physicality of him is a slap in the face. He’s tall—towering—with broad shoulders that strain the fabric of his dark suit. His face is handsome in a predatory way, framed by a well-groomed black beard that hides the sharp line of his jaw. But it’s his eyes that stop me. Dark blue, intelligent, and assessing. They strip me bare in seconds, reading my posture, my fear, my lies.

He walks around the desk, extending a hand. "Mr. Moretti," he says. His voice is a low rumble, gravel and velvet.

"Velanora Martins," I reply, taking his hand. His grip is firm, dry, his palm rough. I notice the tattoo on his knuckles, a skull. A reminder of what he is.

"Please, sit." He gestures to a leather chair opposite his desk.

I sit, perching on the edge. Jenilya leans against the mantelpiece, picking at her manicure, completely disengaged from the process.

Luca opens a folder on his desk, glancing at a resume I forged three days ago. "Art student," he notes. "No formal nanny experience."

"I helped raise my younger siblings," I say, keeping my voice steady. "And I’ve done occasional babysitting for families in the Mission."

He looks up, pinning me with those blue eyes. "This isn’t occasional babysitting, Miss Martins. My sister passed away recently. Her son, Matthew, is less than a month old. He is... everything to me."

His jaw tightens, a flicker of raw emotion breaking through the polished exterior. It softens him, just a fraction. Makes him human.

"I understand," I say softly. "I’m very sorry for your loss."

He nods, accepting the platitude but not dwelling on it. He leans back, steepling his fingers. "The rules are simple, but they are absolute. You will live here, 24/7. Your room is adjacent to the nursery. You will feed him, change him, keep him clean. You take full responsibility for his well-being. If he cries, you go to him. If he is sick, you call me immediately."

He pauses, letting the weight of it settle.

"I checked your enrollment at the Art Institute," he continues, surprising me. "I am a man who values education. I will arrange for a driver to take you to your classes and pick you up. Your schedule will be adjusted around Matthew’s needs. But when you are in this house, you belong to him."

"I can do that," I say. It’s a generous offer. Too generous. But I don’t question it.

Luca studies me for a long moment, searching for any sign of hesitation. I hold his gaze, projecting a calm I don’t feel. I need this job. I need the walls of a fortress to hide behind.

"Good," he says, closing the folder. "When can you start?"

"Now," I say. "I have my things in the car."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Direct. I like that."

He stands, signaling the end of the interview. Jenilya pushes off the mantelpiece, sighing audibly.

"Walk her out, Luca," she says, already turning toward the door. "I have a fitting."

"Jenilya," Luca says, his voice sharpening. "A moment."

She pauses, rolling her eyes before turning back slowly. "What?"

"Velanora is hired. Treat her with respect."

She laughs, a light, chilling sound. "She’s the nanny, Luca. Not the new mistress."

Luca’s expression hardens, the temperature in the room dropping ten degrees. "She is the woman caring for your nephew. Show some courtesy."

Jenilya shrugs, glancing at me. Her eyes rake over my face, cold and calculating.

"Come with me," she says to me, ignoring her husband. "I’ll show you the nursery."

I follow her out of the study, leaving the heavy, protective presence of Luca behind. She leads me up the grand staircase, her heels clicking sharply on the marble.

The nursery is on the second floor, painted in soft greys and blues. It’s beautiful, stocked with every conceivable gadget and toy a baby could need. In the center of the room lies a crib, and inside, a small bundle stirs.

"This is him," Jenilya says, gesturing vaguely toward the crib. She doesn’t even look inside. "Matthew."

I walk over and peer down. The baby is sleeping, his face scrunched up, tiny fists balled near his cheeks. He’s perfect. Innocent. A stark contrast to the house he lives in.

"He's beautiful," I whisper.

Jenilya is standing by the door, checking her reflection in a small wall mirror. She fixes a stray hair, then turns to me. She walks over, her movements sudden, closing the distance between us.

She stops inches from me, her perfume, cloying florals and expensive chemicals, assaulting my senses. She looks me in the eye, her gaze dropping to my lips, then back up.

"Just so we are clear," she says, her voice low, dripping with venom. "I know what Luca likes. I know he has a... type. Young. Innocent. Desperate."

She reaches out, trailing a manicured finger down the lapel of my blazer. I stiffen but force myself not to recoil.

"Don't get any ideas," she warns. "Don't look at him with those big, sad eyes. Don't flirt with my husband."

"I—"

"Shh," she hushes me, pressing a finger to my lips. "I don't care about the baby. You can have him. But Luca? He is off-limits. If I catch you so much as smiling at him for a second too long, I will destroy you. Do you understand?"

I look at her, really look at her. She’s beautiful on the outside, but inside, she’s rotting. She’s insecure, lashing out at a stranger because she knows her husband’s heart isn’t in her keeping.

"Sure, ma'am," I respond, keeping my voice innocent, my eyes wide and unthreatening. "I’m just here to take care of Matthew."

She pulls her hand back, satisfied with my submission. "Good. The staff will bring your bags up."

She turns and sweeps out of the room, leaving the door open behind her. I stand by the crib, listening to the silence of the house. The baby lets out a small sigh, a soft, breathy sound that seems to vibrate in my chest.

I reach down, my fingers hovering over the blanket. I haven’t held a baby since I was a child myself, before my life became a negotiation of assets and alliances. Gently, I touch the soft fabric of his onesie. He’s warm. Alive.

This is my life now. Velanora Martins, the nanny. Hiding in plain sight, in the house of a mafia boss, under the nose of a jealous wife.

I walk to the window and look out over the city. The fog is rolling in fast, swallowing the Golden Gate Bridge, turning the world into a grey, shapeless void. Somewhere out there, Dmitri is probably still searching, wondering where his bride went.

But here, in this room, with the smell of talcum powder and milk, I am invisible.

A floorboard creaks in the hallway. I turn, expecting Jenilya returning for one last jab, or perhaps a maid.

Instead, Luca Moretti fills the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me. The firelight from downstairs isn’t here, but the dim hallway light catches the sharp angle of his jaw, the darkness of his beard.

He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me, his gaze intense and unreadable. I feel the weight of it again, the prickle of awareness on my skin.

"She can be… difficult," Luca says, his voice low so as not to wake the baby.

"She was clear," I reply, matching his tone.

He pushes off the frame and takes a step into the room, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He stops next to me, looking down at his nephew. The hardness in his face melts away, replaced by a fierce tenderness that makes my throat tighten.

"He has her eyes," he murmurs. "My sister."

He turns to look at me, and in the shadows of the nursery, his proximity is overwhelming. He smells like sandalwood and the sharp tang of gunpowder hidden beneath expensive cologne. It’s a dangerous scent.

"Why are you really here, Velanora?"

The question hangs in the air, sharp and sudden. My heart skips a beat, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I force myself to breathe, to keep my face a mask of calm confusion.

"I need the job, Mr. Moretti. I’m a student. I need the money."

He stares at me for a long moment, his blue eyes searching my face for cracks. I hold still, counting the seconds, reminding myself that I am Velanora Martins, art student, orphan of the system.

Finally, he nods, accepting the lie or deciding to let it slide for now.

"Welcome to the family, Velanora," he says, though the words sound like a warning.

He turns and walks away, his silhouette disappearing into the dark hallway. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my knees trembling slightly.

I look back at the baby, Matthew, who is still sleeping peacefully. I sit in the rocking chair by the window, the wood creaking softly beneath me. Outside, the city lights flicker on, one by one, battling the encroaching fog.

I am safe for now. I have a roof, a job, and a new name. But as I rock gently, listening to the deep silence of a house filled with secrets, I know the danger has only just begun. I have stepped into the lion’s den, and the lion is watching me with eyes that see too much.