Chapter 6 - The Sabotage at SchoolThe elite Saint Jude Academy was a fortress of privilege, old money, and pristine lawns—which made it the absolute favorite hunting ground for the Rinaldi quadruplets.
Serena sat in the back of the armored SUV, her laptop balanced on her knees as she furiously reviewed financial documents with Victor’s legal team. Across from her, the four boys sat in dead silence, whispering conspiracies back and forth like a cartel cell planning a bank heist.
“She’s distracted,” Nico muttered, poking Alessandro in the ribs. “She’s looking at the computer. This is our moment.”
“Negative,” Tommy said without looking up from his handheld game. “The lawyer is on the phone. If we act now, she’ll double our chores.”
“I don't care about chores,” Marco hissed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I care about the chemistry lab. The substitute teacher today is Mr. Higgins. He cries if you look at him sideways.”
Serena didn't look up from her screen, but her voice cut across the back seat with supernatural precision.
“If Mr. Higgins cries today, Marco, your PlayStation is going into a blender. And Nico, if you try to hotwire the golf carts again, I’m calling your father to demonstrate what a real timeout looks like.”
All four boys snapped their heads toward her in unison.
“Are you psychic?” Nico demanded, horrified.
“I have younger siblings and three years of retail management experience,” Serena said dryly, finally closing her laptop with a sharp snap. “You kids are amateur hour compared to a Black Friday customer base.”
The SUV pulled up to the grand wrought-iron gates of Saint Jude Academy. The moment the doors opened, the boys scattered like cockroaches when the kitchen light snaps on—except for Tommy, who paused by the door, looked back at Serena, and gave a crisp, solemn military salute before running off to join his brothers.
Serena exhaled, leaning her head back against the leather seat. Her phone buzzed.
A text from Victor: “Did they survive drop-off, or do I need to send a rescue chopper?”
Serena smiled faintly, typing back: “They survived. For now. But Mr. Higgins might need therapy by noon.”
A reply came instantly: “Good. Meet me at the downtown office at two. We’re reviewing your ex-husband’s financial offshore accounts. It’s time to bury him.”
Ten minutes later, Serena was standing in the towering glass-and-steel skyscraper that housed Rinaldi Enterprises. The lobby was a cathedral of black marble, polished chrome, and intimidation. As she stepped out of the private elevator on the 40th floor, Victor’s chief enforcer, a hulking wall of a man named Luca, nodded respectfully.
“Miss Valente. Boss is waiting in the war room.”
The war room was a panoramic glass-walled suite overlooking the New York skyline. Spread across the massive mahogany conference table were not blueprints or corporate mergers, but stacks of financial documents, bank statements, and tax returns bearing Marcus’s name.
Victor stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her, looking out over the city. He turned around slowly as the door clicked shut behind her.
“Your ex-husband thinks he’s clever,” Victor said, walking over to the table and picking up a thick folder. “He’s been hiding assets in a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands under his mother’s maiden name. Total value: roughly 1.4 million dollars.”
Serena’s jaw dropped. “Where did you—how did you get this?”
“My accountants don't sleep,” Victor said simply, tossing the folder onto the table in front of her. “More importantly, this money was siphoned from joint accounts he shared with you during your marriage. Legally, half of it belongs to you. Plus interest.”
Serena stared at the documents, her hands trembling as she flipped through page after undeniable page of financial betrayal. For months, Marcus had screamed at her that she was broke, that she was a failure, that she couldn't afford a lawyer, that he would crush her in court because he had the financial upper hand.
And all along, he was sitting on a mountain of stolen cash.
“He was going to use my own poverty to steal my daughter,” Serena whispered, a cold, blinding fury washing over her.
“Was,” Victor corrected softly, stepping closer until he was standing right beside her chair. The scent of sandalwood and danger enveloped her. “Past tense. By the time we walk into that courtroom next week, Marcus won't just lose custody. He’ll be facing federal tax fraud and embezzlement charges.”
Serena looked up, meeting Victor’s dark, intense gaze. There was no mockery there, no calculating mobster cruelty—only a fierce, unwavering solidarity.
“Why are you doing this, Victor?” she asked softly, the question hanging heavily between them. “You don't owe me anything. I’m just a nanny.”
Victor reached down, his fingers lightly brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man who broke bones with his bare hands.
“You walked into a house where four ruthless little demons had driven away the best professionals in the city,” Victor murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum. “You didn't flinch. You didn't cry. You made carbonara and took control. You’re the first person in five years who didn't look at my sons like monsters, and the first person who looked at me like a man instead of a headline.”
Serena’s breath hitched. The space between them shrank until she could feel the heat radiating off his chest.
Before either of them could close the distance, the heavy oak doors of the conference room flew open with a deafening crash.
May you like
Luca burst in, his face pale, breathing heavily.
“Boss,” Luca gasped. “We’ve got a situation at Saint Jude Academy.”
