Chapter 3 - War Zone
The foyer of the Costa estate was grand, dark, and smelling faintly of ozone and disaster. Before Nora could even shed her coat, a high-pitched shriek echoed down the sweeping mahogany staircase, followed immediately by the sound of breaking glass and a terrified curse from somewhere near the kitchen.
"Leo! Stop throwing the porcelain!" a frantic voice yelled.
Arthur didn't even flinch. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, weary sigh. "Welcome home," he muttered to Nora.
From around the corner came a blur of chaos. A twelve-year-old boy with wild dark hair and murderous eyes was sprinting down the hall, clutching a silver candelabra like a weapon, while a red-faced woman in a torn maid's uniform chased him, screaming bloody murder. Behind them, two younger girls were engaged in a violent tug-of-war over a fluffy white Pomeranian, and a toddler was sitting calmly in the middle of the hallway eating a fistful of dirt from a decorative ficus pot.
This wasn't a family. This was a feral wolf pack.
The twelfth nanny threw her hands in the air, ripped off her apron, and marched right past Arthur and Nora toward the front doors. "I quit! I am not dealing with these psychos another second! Pay me my week's wages or I swear to God I'm calling the feds!"
Arthur didn't blink. He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out a thick wad of cash, peeled off five hundred-dollar bills without looking, and shoved them into her hand. "Get out."
The woman snatched the cash, glared at Nora with a look of pure pity—God help you, you poor soul—and slammed the heavy oak door behind her.
Silence descended on the foyer, save for the heavy breathing of the children, who had suddenly frozen in their tracks to stare at the new arrival. They expected screaming. They expected Arthur to draw a gun or bellow with rage.
Instead, Nora slowly unbuttoned her designer coat, folded it neatly over her arm, and looked down at the toddler eating dirt.
"That's a great way to contract a parasite," Nora said, her voice cutting cleanly through the tension. She walked past the gaping kids, knelt down right beside the toddler, and plucked a clump of dark potting soil out of his sticky fingers. "Spit it out. Now."
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The three-year-old stared at her with wide, defiant dark eyes—Arthur’s exact eyes—and clamped his mouth shut.
"Do it," Nora repeated, her voice dropping an octave, completely devoid of fear.
