Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Table
The dining room was vast, echoing, and entirely unnecessary for five people. A mahogany table long enough to seat a king sat beneath a crystal chandelier that caught the amber light of the candles Serena insisted on lighting.
“No screens,” Serena commanded, snatching an iPad out of Alessandro’s hands before he could prop it up against his water glass.
“Hey!” Alessandro protested. “How am I supposed to eat without my show?”
“By tasting your food,” Serena said, sliding a steaming bowl of carbonara in front of him. The rich, creamy sauce coated the thick pasta, dotted with crispy cubes of rendered pancetta and a generous dusting of sharp cheese. “Food tells a story, kid. If you’re staring at a screen, you’re missing the plot.”
For a full minute, the only sound in the grand dining room was the clink of silverware against porcelain.
Marco took his first hesitant bite. His eyes widened slightly. He looked down at the bowl, then across the table at Serena, who was cutting a piece of garlic bread for Tommy.
“It’s… it’s not poisoned,” Marco muttered in disappointment.
“It’s better than what the last lady made,” Nico admitted begrudgingly, inhaling half his bowl in three massive bites. “She tried to make us eat kale smoothies. They tasted like wet lawn clippings.”
“Because kale is an insult to agriculture, Nico,” Serena said, taking her seat at the foot of the table, directly opposite Victor.
Victor hadn’t touched his food yet. He was swirling the wine in his glass, his dark eyes fixed on Serena with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. He looked like a predator analyzing a new, unpredictable species in its territory.
“You’re not from around here,” Victor stated, cutting a piece of pancetta with surgical precision. “Brooklyn accent. Cheap blazer. Shoes that have walked ten miles too many. And you smell like laundry detergent that hasn’t been trendy since 2012.”
“Observant,” Serena replied evenly, taking a sip of water. “Must be why you run a syndicate.”
“And you’re desperate,” Victor continued, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany table. “People who aren’t desperate don’t walk into a house where four nannies have fled in tears within forty-eight hours. People who aren’t desperate don’t look at a room full of federal targets and wild animals without blinking. What are you running from, Serena Valente?”
Serena’s heart skipped a beat. The image of her lawyer’s text flashed in her mind: Custody hearing moved up. Two weeks. Two weeks to prove she was stable. Two weeks before her ex-husband, a man with deep pockets and dirty friends, could legally strip her daughter away because Serena couldn't afford a proper apartment in Manhattan.
She set her fork down very slowly.
“I’m not running from anything, Mr. Rinaldi,” Serena said, her voice dropping to a fierce, quiet whisper that carried across the massive table. “I’m fighting. And unlike you, I don’t have an army of goon squads or millions in offshore accounts to win my battles. I have thirty-six dollars, two weeks, and a seven-year-old daughter who deserves a mother who doesn't give up. So if you’re wondering if I’ll quit because your sons threw fruit at me, save your breath. I’ve survived worse than four spoiled boys in red pajamas.”
The quadruplets went utterly still. They had never heard an adult speak to their father like that—let alone a stranger, let alone a woman.
May you like
Victor stared at her for a long, heavy moment. The air between them crackled with raw, untamed friction. Then, slowly, Victor picked up his fork, took a bite of the pasta, and chewed thoughtfully.
“You’re hired,” Victor said quietly. “Full salary. Double if you survive the week.”
