Chapter 1 - The First Rule of War“Because wasting my time and my water makes no sense,” Serena said calmly, turning the burner on under the heavy pot.
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the low hum of the refrigerator. Nico blinked, his hand still hovering where the apple had been. Alessandro lowered his cereal-box breastplate an inch. Even Marco, the self-appointed general of the mini-mafia brigade, looked momentarily disoriented.
Victor Rinaldi watched from the corner, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. For the past six months, a revolving door of elite pediatricians, child psychologists, and former military nannies had tried every trick in the book. They had bribed, pleaded, threatened, and wept. None of them had simply ignored the terror and started boiling water.
“You missed,” Serena said, turning to look directly at Nico. Her voice was steady, lacking the tremor the children were accustomed to sniffing out like bloodhounds. “If you’re going to throw fruit at a hostile target, lead your target by two inches. Otherwise, you’re just wasting perfectly good produce.”
Nico’s jaw dropped. “It wasn't a hostile target. It was a warning shot.”
“A warning shot requires intent to strike,” Serena replied, grabbing a cutting board and a knife with fluid, practiced precision. “That was a temper tantrum. Do better next time.”
She turned her back on them, beginning to dice pancetta with rhythmic, decisive thuds. The sharp, metallic clack of steel against wood echoed through the vast kitchen, cutting through the residual electricity in the room.
Behind her, a whispered consultation broke out.
“Did she just critique my aim?” Nico hissed.
“She’s malfunctioning,” Marco whispered back. “Call backup.”
“There is no backup, idiot. The last one is currently halfway to New Jersey.”
Serena didn’t look back, but a faint, humorless smile touched the corners of her lips. She wasn’t brave; she was desperate. When you have spent the last three years dodging an abusive ex-husband, counting pennies for groceries, and watching your seven-year-old daughter flinch at sudden noises, a quartet of unruly rich kids throwing apples feels less like a terror threat and more like a Tuesday.
Victor pushed away from the counter, his glass of red wine untouched as he set it down. His stride was long and silent, closing the distance between them until he was standing just behind her shoulder. The scent of sandalwood and expensive whiskey washed over her.
“You have fifty-nine minutes left, Miss Valente,” Victor murmured, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through her spine. “They don’t break easy.”
“Neither do I, Mr. Rinaldi,” she replied without pausing her knife. “Now, unless you want to help me grate the pecorino, I suggest you stay out of my prep zone.”
Silence hung in the air, thick enough to slice with the very knife in her hand. For a terrifying second, Serena wondered if she had crossed a line—if the billionaire crime lord would throw her out right then and there. Instead, a low, rumbling sound vibrated from deep within Victor's chest. A dry, humorless chuckle.
May you like
He didn’t leave. He reached out, grabbed a block of pecorino cheese from the counter, and picked up a grater.
“Don't mess it up,” he muttered, and began to grate.
