“Yes, with you,” Avery said, standing her ground against the imposing frame of the city’s most feared corporate head.

Dante Mancini crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his charcoal suit tightening slightly across broad shoulders. His dark, impenetrable eyes narrowed. No one negotiated with Dante Mancini. People took his terms or left through the iron gates.

“Name them,” Dante said, his voice flat and low.

“First, no security guards hovering outside the nursery door. Children aren’t prisoners, and if they feel like they’re under armed guard, they’ll act out twice as hard,” Avery said, her tone level and unyielding.

Dante gave a short, sharp nod. “Acceptable. The perimeter is enough.”

“Second, I need a dedicated phone line. Not for personal calls, but so I can check on my daughter every evening at eight o’clock without exception.”

Dante’s gaze flickered, studying her face with clinical precision. “Your daughter, Mia. Where is she staying while you work?”

“That is my business, Mr. Mancini. My condition is simply the phone call.”

A brief silence hung in the room, filled only by the heavy drumming of rain against the tall windows. Dante uncrossed his arms. “Granted. What else?”

“Third—and most importantly—whatever happens inside the nursery stays in the nursery. If the boys break a lamp, paint the walls, or try to launch me out a window, you do not intervene unless I ask. If they realize they can run to daddy every time a nanny stands up to them, this whole arrangement is over in ten minutes.”

Dante stared at her for three long seconds. A flicker of something resembling amusement—or perhaps deep curiosity—touched the corners of his mouth before vanishing entirely.

“You have a remarkable amount of confidence for someone with forty-two dollars to her name, Ms. Parker,” Dante murmured.

“Confidence is cheaper than rent, Mr. Mancini,” Avery retorted without missing a beat. “Do we have a deal?”

Dante extended a large, warm, calloused hand.