Novels by Mariyam

Chapter 5: The Crack in the IceThe shift started small.Maria, with a conspiratorial wink, began leaving an extra cup of coffee next to the pot in the mornings. “For you, Bella. You look like you need it more than he does.”The coffee was good. Strong and Italian, the way I actually liked it. It was a tiny anchor of normalcy.A week after the “storm incident,” the routine had solidified. Mornings were chaotic with Luca. Afternoons were quiet with Sophia’s therapies or lessons. Evenings were Massimo’s brief, intense appearances, a check-in, a rule reminder, a distant nod.He was always watching. I felt his gaze like a physical touch when I wasn’t looking. When I turned, his eyes would be elsewhere. It was a silent, unsettling game.Then, on Thursday, Sophia got sick.It started at lunch. She pushed her food away, her face pale. I touched her forehead. It was furnace-hot.“I don’t feel good,” she whispered, her voice raspy.Maria fretted. “The signore is in a meeting across town. He do

Chapter 4: The Morning AfterThe morning was a quiet battlefield.Maria moved through the kitchen like she was defusing a bomb, her usual chatter absent. Luca sat at the table, subdued, clutching Bubbles the dog in a death grip. Sophia ate her cereal, her eyes flicking between the empty chair at the head of the table and me.Massimo entered, and the air pressure dropped. He was dressed for business again, his face a mask of calm control. But the storm from last night was still in his eyes.“Papa!” Luca scrambled down from his chair and ran to him. Massimo caught him, lifting him up for a brief, tight hug.“Did you sleep, soldatino?”“Yes. The storm is gone.”“Good.” He set Luca back down and looked at me. “A word in my office, Bella.”It wasn’t a request. Maria didn’t look up from the stove. I followed him out of the kitchen, not to the forbidden east wing, but to a small, windowless room near the front door, a utilitarian space with a desk and monitors showing security camera feeds.

Chapter 3: The Rules of the HouseThe “talk” that evening happened in the kitchen. Maria had gone home. The children were in bed, the monitor on the counter emitting soft, staticky silence. Massimo Vitelli stood by the island, pouring a glass of water. He’d discarded his suit jacket. The white shirt and suspenders made him look less like a don and more like a tired, devastatingly handsome man who’d had a long day.“Sit,” he said, not looking at me.I took a stool on the opposite side of the island. The marble was cold under my palms.He slid a single sheet of paper toward me. It was a list. Typed, concise. “Rules,” he said.I scanned it.1. Children’s schedules are paramount. Adherence is non-negotiable.2. You do not answer the door, the house phone, or the gate intercom.3. Your personal phone remains in your room after 8 PM.4. You do not enter the east wing hallway. This includes my study and private quarters.5. All outings are pre-approved by me and accompanied by Marco or mysel

Chapter 2: The First Night The bathroom was a cartoon paradise. Ducks, boats, and waterproof books lined the shelves. It was the warmest room I’d seen in the house. I ran the water, making sure it wasn’t too hot, and poured in a generous stream of bubble bath.Luca stood by the tub, clutching a rubber shark, his earlier bravado gone. “He’s gonna wake up,” he whispered, staring at the drain.“Only if we don’t feed him enough,” I said, keeping my voice light. I swirled the water, creating a mountain of suds. “Look at all this food! He’s going to be so full, he’ll snore.”A faint, almost silent presence made me glance at the doorway. Sophia stood there, a ghost in a white nightgown. She didn’t enter. She just watched with those huge, dark eyes that held no childlike curiosity, only a deep, weary observation.“Hello, Sophia,” I said, smiling. “Want to help?”She didn’t nod. She didn’t shake her head. She just stared.Luca, emboldened by the bubbles, let go of my leg. “Sophie! Bubbles!”T

Chapter 1: The InterviewThe crying child was, technically, a piece of advanced robotics. The data chip was hidden in the instructor’s silk waistcoat pocket. My final exam at the Bertram Domestic Agency, which was not an agency at all, was simple: extract the chip while successfully calming the “child.”I knelt, ignoring the shrieking audio, and began to fold a paper bird from a napkin on the side table. “Look, piccolo,” I murmured, my voice a soft, steady melody against the digital wails. “A dove. See how quiet its wings are?”The crying hitched. I kept folding, my fingers moving with practiced ease. I hummed a Sicilian lullaby my nonna had taught me, the one that always worked. As the final synthetic sob faded, I reached up, as if to steady myself, and plucked the chip from Instructor Grayson’s pocket with two fingers.I stood, placing the paper dove in the doll’s plastic hand. “All better.”The observation window across the room tinted from black to clear. My handler, Carter, stood