Chapter 6 - The Rules of the Cage
The next morning, Clara woke up in a guest suite that was larger than her entire Brooklyn apartment.
The bed was made of Egyptian cotton, the bathroom featured a rainfall shower and heated marble floors, and a walk-in closet was already stocked with brand-new clothes that actually fit her.
Yet, as she stared out the bulletproof glass window at the morning fog rolling over the East River, she felt like a prisoner in a gilded cage.
She wasn't just a nanny; she was a hostage to circumstance.
“Good morning, Miss Vance.”
Clara spun around. Standing in the doorway was an older woman with sharp gray hair and a stern, military-style posture—Mrs. Gault, the head housekeeper of the Moretti estate.
“Breakfast is served in the formal dining room,” Mrs. Gault said, her voice completely devoid of warmth. “Mr. Moretti expects you at the table at 7:30 sharp. Rule number one in this house: we do not keep Mr. Moretti waiting.”
“Where is Leo?” Clara asked, ignoring the housekeeper’s condescending tone.
“Master Leo is still sleeping in the nursery. Though he woke up screaming twice before dawn,” Mrs. Gault replied coldly. “Let’s see how long you last before you pack your bags and beg to go back to your diner.”
Clara bit back a sharp retort, straightened her blouse, and walked out into the hallway.
When she entered the sprawling dining room, Rico was already seated at the head of a massive mahogany table. He was reading the financial section of the Wall Street Journal while sipping black coffee. A plate of eggs and bacon sat untouched beside him.
He looked up as Clara walked in and pulled out a chair opposite him.
“Sit,” Rico ordered.
Clara sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “Did you sleep well, Mr. Moretti?”
“I don't sleep, Miss Vance. I operate,” Rico replied dryly. He folded the newspaper, set it aside, and pinned her with a piercing stare. “Mrs. Gault has already briefed you on the household rules, I assume?”
“She briefed me on her attitude,” Clara shot back, unable to hold her tongue any longer. “If she’s going to treat me like a criminal interloper every time I walk down the hall, this arrangement isn't going to work.”
A flicker of surprise—almost like amusement—flashed across Rico’s dark eyes. It was the first time she had seen him react with anything other than cold menace or stoic indifference.
“Mrs. Gault protects this family with the same ferocity she protected my mother thirty years ago,” Rico said evenly. “Earn her respect, and she’ll take a bullet for you. Disobey her, and you’ll find yourself scrubbing the kitchen floors with a toothbrush. Those are the rules of the house.”
Before Clara could reply, the heavy doors of the dining room burst open.
Little Leo stood in the doorway. He was wearing blue dinosaur pajamas, his hair sticking up in every direction, rubbing his eyes with chubby fists. For a split second, he looked around the massive room as if searching for something.
Then his eyes locked onto Clara.
A tiny, breathless gasp escaped his lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, Leo sprinted across the polished wood floor as fast as his little legs could carry him, completely ignoring his father, and threw his arms around Clara’s knees, burying his face in her skirt.
Clara instantly melted. She knelt down on the floor, wrapping her arms around the boy and lifting him into her lap. Leo rested his head against her shoulder, letting out a soft, contented sigh.
Rico watched the scene unfold from the head of the table. The grip on his coffee cup tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. For a man who owned half of Brooklyn and commanded an army of killers, seeing his son give another human being the unconditional trust he had denied his own father was a profound, silent gut punch.
“He hasn’t smiled like that since the day his mother disappeared,” Rico whispered, his voice dangerously low, thick with a pain he usually kept locked away behind iron doors.
Clara looked up at him, her heart aching for the broken family sitting across from her. “Maybe you should try smiling back at him once in a while, Mr. Moretti. You don't have to be the Butcher of Brooklyn inside your own home.”
May you like
Rico’s eyes darkened. He stood up abruptly, the heavy oak chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“Watch your tongue, Clara,” he warned, his voice a low rumble of thunder. He turned and walked out of the room without another word, leaving her alone with the boy who had just changed the trajectory of both their lives forever.
