Page 14 of Of Lies and Shadows

I scowl at her. She didn’t just weaken my argument. Sheannihilatedit.

“I see. Is there anything else?”

“No, not really. Enzo’s here to pick me up, so I’ll be leaving now, but—” She switches to Italian, tone pointed. “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s young, yes, but she brings them joy—something you’re not able to do. Suck it up and let it go.”

I purse my lips and glance at Alice, who’s watching Teresa with polite curiosity.

At least she doesn’t understand Italian. One less thing to hold against her.

“I’ll think about it,” I reply, switching back to English.

Teresa nods, then turns to Alice. “It was lovely to meet you. Truly.”

“Same to you,” Alice says with a small, uncertain smile.

Once Teresa is gone, I wait a beat. What the hell am I supposed to say now? Before I can figure it out, my phonerings. Just like that, I’m back in capo mode.

I jerk my chin toward the door in dismissal. “That’s all,” I say, already reaching for the phone.

She rises quietly as I answer.

“Pronto.”

She leaves without another word, not even clicking the door shut.

I lean back in my chair, already shifting gears, forgetting all about the nanny who managed to make my children laugh.

At least, I try to.

But that bright smile she gave my son, unfiltered and warm, sticks in my mind like a splinter I can’t dig out.

I don’t know why it lingers. But it does. And it unsettles something inside me I don’t want to name.

Still, it doesn’t last long. It can’t. I’ve got bigger problems. I need my head in the game.

Logistics. Smuggling routes.

Where to hide the new shipment now that our dock storage, disguised as carpet cargo, has been compromised.

Because while the kids and their nanny are playing with imaginary dragons, I’m still hunting real ones.

Chapter Four

Francesca

The kettle clicks off, but I don’t move.

Steam coils in the silence like a whisper I’m not supposed to hear, curling around the edges of the calm I’ve built brick by brick over the last few days. A calm that feels less like peace and more like a waiting room for something I can’t name.

I finally pour the water into the mug, watching it darken the chamomile tea bag and hoping it will smother some of my guilt and let me sleep.

I hear soft footsteps on the marble floor. Lucia, not Alessio. He stomps. She floats.

"Couldn’t sleep?" I ask without turning.

Her voice is small. “Will you braid my hair?”

I glance down at her, the mug still in my hand. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, the kind of tired that doesn’t come from staying up too late but from holding something in too long.

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