THE BILLIONAIRE’S FOUR SONS DESTROYED EVERY NANNY—UNTIL SERENA COOKED THEIR DEAD MOTHER’S LAST MEAL

The mansion was suffocatingly quiet.

The quadruplets had finally crashed, sugar-and-carb comas hitting them simultaneously right after they finished a secondary round of garlic bread. Serena had tucked them into their matching mahogany beds, listening to their even, heavy breathing until she was certain they were truly asleep.

Now, she sat at the end of the long mahogany dining table, the single overhead pendant light casting a warm, harsh circle over her tired face. Her phone lay beside her.

1 new text message from Lawyer: “Court date confirmed. Don't screw this up, Serena. If you don't show $10,000 in your bank account and a stable residence, Marcus will win custody of Lucia. He has the judges in his pocket.”

Serena pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, fighting back the hot, bitter prickle of tears. Thirty-six dollars. An overdue power bill. A dingy studio apartment with a landlord threatening eviction.

“He’s ruthless, isn't he?”

Serena jumped, dropping her hands.

Victor stood at the edge of the light, wearing a black silk robe loosely tied at his waist, holding a fresh glass of bourbon. He walked silently across the marble floor, stopping a few feet away from her.

“Mr. Rinaldi,” she breathed, steadying her voice. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I don't sleep much. Comes with the territory.” Victor pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, resting his elbows on the table. He didn't look at her face; his sharp eyes had locked onto her phone screen, which was still lit up with the lawyer's text.

Serena snatched the phone up, flipping it face down with a sharp motion of her wrist.

“That’s private.”

“Everything in this house is my business, Serena,” he said, using her first name for the first time. It sounded intimate and heavy, like a warning wrapped in velvet. “Especially the people working under my roof. Who is Marcus?”

“None of your concern.”

“An ex-husband? A boyfriend who thinks he can push you around?” Victor’s eyes darkened, the temperature in the room dropping ten degrees. “Give me a name. By sunrise, he won't have the capacity to hold a pen, let alone file for custody.”

Serena stared at him, stunned by the casual, terrifying violence in his voice. This wasn't a billionaire playing pretend; this was a man who owned half the city and could erase a human being like a typo on a legal document.

“I don't need your underworld favors, Mr. Rinaldi,” Serena said, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage. “I need a job. I need a paycheck. I need enough money to prove to a corrupt family court judge that I can give my seven-year-old daughter a safe home before her father strips her away from me out of pure malice.”

Victor went completely still. The casual swagger vanished, replaced by the terrifying, calculating stillness of a apex predator evaluating wounded prey.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Victor said quietly.

Serena froze.

“That’s what you need, right? To grease the wheels of justice and keep your kid?” Victor leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “Work for me for one month. Full-time. Manage the boys. Keep them alive, keep them fed, and keep them from burning down the East Coast.”

“And the pay?” Serena whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“Ten thousand a week,” Victor said smoothly. “Plus full legal representation from my personal firm. We’ll tear your ex-husband’s case to pieces and feed it to the sharks before you even step foot in that courtroom.”

Serena stared at him, the offer hanging in the air like a lightning bolt. It was insane. It was dangerous. It tied her to a mafia boss, a world of shadows, and four terrifying little monsters.

It was also the only lifeline she had left.

“Deal,” Serena said.