The Interview

Chapter 1: The Interview

The 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 there, his face as expressive as stone. He gave a single, sharp nod.

An hour later, I was in his sterile office. The “Bertram Agency” was a cover for Section Nine, a deniable intelligence unit that went after targets too messy for the FBI. Like the Vitelli family.

“Your cover is Bella Conti,” Carter said, sliding a file across the metal desk. “Born in Palermo, educated in childcare at Milan University. Impeccable, forged references. You specialize in high-security households.”

I opened the file. Two children’s faces stared back. Sophia, five. Luca, three. Their eyes were too old for their faces.

“The target is Massimo Vitelli,” Carter continued. “Don of the Vitelli syndicate. Calls himself a ‘waste management consultant.’ He’s a ghost. We’ve never gotten a wire inside his primary residence. Until now.”

I looked up. “You want me to bug a mafia don’s house by babysitting?”

“We want you to be his most trusted employee. The nanny has access to the entire household. The private study, the dinner table, the pillow talk if he’s stupid enough to have anyone over.” Carter’s gaze was flat. “Your mission is to embed, observe, and relay any financial ledgers, meeting details, or chain of command you can find. The ultimate goal is the location of the offshore accounts. We collapse the money, we collapse the family.”

I traced the photo of little Luca. He had a smudge of what looked like chocolate on his cheek. “And the children?”

“Leverage. They are your access. Your empathy for them will sell your cover. It’s your greatest asset here, Rossi.” He used my real name, a rare thing. It felt like a warning. “Do not let it become a liability. The real children won’t be dolls. And the real target will shoot you if you fail.”

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Two days later, I stood on the manicured driveway of the Vitelli compound. It wasn’t a mansion; it was a fortress disguised as modern architecture, all clean lines, tinted glass, and silent, sweeping cameras. My heart wasn’t pounding from fear of the mafia. It was thumping from the photo of those two kids, now burning a hole in the lining of my purse.

A man who looked like a retired linebacker in a very expensive suit opened the front door. “Conti?” he grunted.

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

The interior was cold. Beautiful, but cold. Marble floors, abstract art that probably cost millions, and a silence so deep it felt like a held breath. He led me to a sunroom that overlooked a stark, perfect garden. A man stood with his back to us, looking out.

“Sir,” the bodyguard said.

The man turned.

The file photos did not do him justice. Massimo Vitelli was younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, but he carried a weariness that aged him. He was tall, with dark hair swept back and eyes the color of a winter sea. He wore a simple black sweater and trousers, but they draped on him like a uniform. He didn’t speak. He just looked at me, and his gaze was a physical weight. It wasn’t angry. It was… assessing. Like he was calculating my worth, my threat level, my breaking point.

“Bella Conti,” I said, forcing my voice into the warm, professional tone I’d practiced.

“Vitelli,” he said. His voice was low, quiet. It didn’t need to be loud to fill the room. “Your references are flawless.”

“Thank you.”

“Too flawless.” He took a step closer. “Everyone has a flaw, Miss Conti. A grievance, a mistake, a weakness. Your file has none. Explain that.”

This was the test. The first of many. I met his gaze, letting a flicker of manufactured sadness touch my eyes. “My last employer, the Ambrosi family in Milan, had a security incident. A kidnapping attempt on their son. I got him to safety. The family was… grateful, but the publicity was damaging to them. We agreed a quiet departure and stellar references were best for everyone. My flaw, Mr. Vitelli, is that I am sometimes too good at my job, and it makes powerful people uncomfortable.”

It was a good lie. Built on a sliver of truth from a different Section Nine op in Milan. His expression didn’t change, but I saw a flicker in those cold eyes. Recognition, perhaps.

Before he could respond, a door burst open down the hall. The sound of tiny, furious feet echoed on the marble, followed by the harried shuffle of who I assumed was the current, failing nanny.

“No! No bath! Monster in the drain!” a little boy’s voice shrieked.

A small blur of blue pajamas shot into the sunroom. Luca. He was taller in person, his face red and tear-streaked. He skidded to a halt, seeing his father and a stranger. His lower lip trembled.

The older nanny, flustered and pale, appeared in the doorway. “I am so sorry, Don Vitelli, he just….”

“Leave us,” Vitelli said, his voice cutting through her apology. She vanished.

He looked down at his son, then back at me. A new test, unplanned, real. “He is afraid of the bath drain.”

I didn’t wait for permission. This was the moment. I knelt down, putting myself at Luca’s eye level, but not too close. I didn’t reach for him.

“The drain, huh?” I said, my voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Is it a gurgly monster? The kind that just wants to eat your soap bubbles?”

Luca’s crying hiccupped. He nodded, big eyes wide.

“My nonna in Sicily told me a secret about drain monsters,” I said, leaning in a little. “They’re not scary. They’re just… very, very hungry for dirty water and bubbles. They’re the clean-up crew. If you let them eat the yucky bath water, they get full and fall asleep. Then they can’t bother anyone.”

Luca sniffled. “They eat bubbles?”

“They love bubbles. They’re like bubble gum for them.”

A tiny, wet giggle escaped him. I chanced to look up at Vitelli. He was watching, utterly still, his face unreadable.

I turned back to Luca. “Tell you what. We can do a test. One super fast bath. We’ll feed the monster some bubbles and see if he goes to sleep. If he’s still gurgly, we’ll pull the plug and say goodbye. Deal?”

Luca looked at his father, then back at me. He shoved his thumb in his mouth and nodded.

I stood up. I didn’t touch him. I just held out my hand. After a moment, his small, damp hand slipped into mine.

“The bathroom is down the hall, first on the left,” Vitelli said. His voice had lost none of its ice.

“Come on, Luca,” I said. “Let’s go feed a monster.”

As I walked out, holding the little boy’s hand, I felt Vitelli’s gaze on my back like a crosshair. I passed the first test. I’d used empathy as my weapon.

But as I walked down the cold, silent hall, the little boy’s trust warm in my hand, Carter’s warning echoed in my head, louder than any monster in any drain.

Your greatest asset. Do not let it become a liability.

The mission had begun.