Chapter 2

Nora’s pov

The Castellano estate was not a home; it was a stone fortress tucked into the private hills overlooking the river, surrounded by high iron gates and security cameras humming quietly in the mist.

Inside, the grand mansion smelled of old mahogany, beeswax, and a faint, metallic tang that reminded me of copper coins.

An older waiter carrying a tray of polished crystal met me near the grand staircase, his eyes scanning my damp clothes with scrutiny.

"Mr. Castellano is looking for a qualified private tutor for his nephew, Master Leo," the waiter said softly, leaning in close while keeping his voice strictly professional. "He is not looking for a companion. If you have any absurd ideas about climbing into the Don's bed, throw them out now. He has long been fed up with women trying to manipulate him by getting pregnant, they’ll switch his birth control pills for vitamins or puncture holes in his condoms just to secure a title. Keep your focus on your work."

A cold prickle ran down my neck, but I straightened my spine. "I came here to earn a salary for my mother’s medical treatment, not to play games."

The waiter offered a brief, approving nod and opened the heavy double doors leading into the main drawing room.

The room was vast, under a towering crystal chandelier. At the far end sat a four-year-old boy on a hand-woven rug. He was small, wearing a dark sweater, his small arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He didn't look up when we entered. He stared intently at the floor, his frame rigid, entirely trapped within his own silent world.

"He has autism and does not speak," the waiter whispered to me. "He rejects every tutor."

Luca Castellano sat in a dark leather armchair nearby, an unread document resting on his lap. He looked exhausted, the sharp lethal edge he carried in the alley still lingering around his shoulders, but under the amber light, dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes.

"Try," Luca said flatly, his deep voice heavy. "If he throws a tantrum, your driver back to the city will be waiting."

I took a quiet breath. I didn't rush toward the boy. Children who retreat into silence do not like to be cornered.

Instead, I walked calmly toward the corner of the room where a stunning obsidian-black grand piano stood. I lifted the heavy mahogany key cover, sat down on the leather bench, and placed my fingers over the ivory keys.

I didn't play a loud, complex piece. I played a soft, gentle lullaby, one my mother used to play when the night felt too big and cold. The notes floated softly into the high ceiling, filling the quiet space with warm melody.

From the edge of my vision, I watched the boy.

At first, his shoulders twitched and slowly, his knees unclasped. His small head turned toward the instrument. His eyes, huge, dark, and filled with a profound, quiet shadow fixed on my hands.

I pitched my voice low and began to sing softly, matching the quiet rhythm of the chords.

Leo stood up. He took three small, hesitant steps forward, his tiny hands clutched into fists. He stopped right beside the piano bench.

I didn't reach out to touch him. I simply patted the empty space beside me on the cushion. 

"It's wide enough for two," I murmured gently, keeping the left hand moving over the keys.

He hesitated, then hoisted himself onto the bench. He extended one small, pale finger and pressed a single high key.

Plink.

I instantly wove a warm, rich chord around his note, turning his single touch into a piece of music.

A tiny, almost invisible twitch appeared at the corner of Leo's lips. He pressed another key. Plink. I answered it with a warm harmony again.

And then, it happened. A tiny, breathy sound bubbled up from his chest. A faint giggle. A bright, genuine smile broke across his face, lighting up his dark eyes as he looked up at me.

I looked across the top of the grand piano.

Luca Castellano was standing by his chair. The documents had fallen to the rug, the cold mafia don was staring at his nephew with a look of raw, unadulterated shock.