The first night

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!”

That broke her stillness. She padded into the room and sat on the closed toilet lid, a tiny judge on her throne. I took it as permission to continue.

The bath was a quick, tactical operation. I washed Luca’s hair with efficient speed, distracting him with a story about a shark who was afraid of ducks. He giggled, splashing lightly. Sophia watched every move I made, from the way I tested the rinse water on my wrist to the specific fold of the towel.

Mission accomplished. Luca was clean, smelling of baby shampoo and declared the drain monster “sleeping.” I wrapped him in a fluffy towel.

“Pajamas,” he demanded, his energy returning.

“Your room first, captain,” I said.

He led me by the hand to a room nearby. It was a typical little boy’s room, but too neat. The toys looked staged, not played with. As I helped him into rocket ship pajamas, I did a casual visual sweep. No obvious cameras in the smoke detector. The window had a discrete contact sensor. Standard high-end security.

“Story?” Luca asked, climbing into bed.

“One short story,” I said. I picked a book from the shelf about a lost star. I read it quickly, my voice soft. Halfway through, I saw Sophia’s silhouette in the hallway again, listening.

When I finished, Luca’s eyes were already heavy. “Is Papa coming?”

“I’m sure he’ll check on you,” I said, smoothing his hair. It wasn’t my place to promise.

I turned off the main light, leaving a small constellation nightlight glowing on the ceiling. As I stepped into the hall, I found myself face to face with Massimo Vitelli. He was leaning against the wall, just outside the pool of light from Luca’s door. I hadn’t heard him approach.

“He asked for you,” I said quietly.

Vitelli looked past me into the dark room. “He usually fights bedtime for an hour.”

“He was tired. The monster fight took a lot out of him.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened. He pushed off the wall and walked into his son’s room. I heard the soft creak of the bed as he sat down, and a low, murmured whisper. “Sleep, soldatino.”

I turned to leave and saw Sophia, still standing like a shadow at the end of the hall. She looked from me to her father’s back in the doorway, then turned and disappeared into her own room.

My room, it turned out, was next to the children’s. It was beautiful and impersonal, like a luxury hotel. My two suitcases, packed with carefully vetted “Bella Conti” clothes and a few well-hidden Section Nine tools, were on a luggage rack.

I texted a pre-arranged code to Carter. In place. First night.

The reply was instantaneous. Establish routine. Identify study location.

I changed into simple pajamas and sat on the edge of the bed. The silence of the house was absolute. I was inside the fortress. Step one was complete.

A soft knock at my door made my heart jump. It was too light to be the bodyguard.

I opened it. Sophia stood there, holding a well-loved, threadbare rabbit by one ear.

“Can’t sleep?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. She just held up the rabbit.

“Oh,” I said, understanding. “Does he need a button fixed?”

She nodded. In the dim hall light, I could see a small button eye hanging by a few threads.

“Come in,” I said, stepping back. I found a small sewing kit in my bathroom amenities bag. I sat on the floor, patting the space beside me. She sat, tucking her feet under her nightgown, watching my hands with intense focus.

I threaded the needle. “This is a simple back stitch. Strong. It will hold.” I worked quietly for a minute, re-attaching the button securely. “There. Good as new.”

She took the rabbit, inspected my work closely, and then hugged it to her chest. She looked up at me, and for the first time, her gaze wasn’t just observational. There was a question in it.

“You’re a very good big sister,” I said softly. “Luca is lucky.”

Her small hand darted out and touched the locket I always wore. It was part of my cover, a cheap piece of jewelry with a fake photo inside. She looked at it, then back at my face.

“It was my nonna’s,” I lied smoothly.

She seemed to accept this. She stood up, still clutching her rabbit, and walked to the door. She paused, looking back at me.

“Goodnight, Sophia,” I said.

She didn’t say goodnight. She just looked at me for one long, silent moment, and then she was gone.

The next morning started at 6:30 AM with the sound of little feet running past my door. I got dressed quickly in jeans and a soft sweater, practical, approachable. In the kitchen, I found a woman in her sixties with a kind face and wary eyes scrambling eggs.

“You must be Bella,” she said. “I’m Maria. I cook and… well, I try to help with the little ones since the last nanny left.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Maria.” I could see Luca already in his booster seat, banging a spoon. Sophia sat beside him, methodically arranging cereal pieces in a line.

“Can I help?” I asked.

Maria looked relieved. “The eggs are almost done. The toast is there. He likes the crusts cut off, but don’t let him see you do it or it becomes a game.”

I got to work. I poured juice, cut toast into soldiers, and placed the plates in front of them. “Alright, team. Fuel up.”

Massimo Vitelli entered as I was wiping Luca’s chin. He was dressed for the day in a charcoal suit that cost more than my car. He looked at the scene: his children eating, Maria at the stove, me with a damp napkin. He didn’t smile, but some of the harsh tension from yesterday was gone, replaced by a weary acceptance.

“Papa! Bella fed the monster!” Luca announced through a mouthful of egg.

Vitelli’s eyes flicked to me. “Did she?”

“He’s sleeping,” I confirmed, pouring him a cup of coffee from the pot Maria had ready. I handed it to him. “Black, right?”

He took the mug, his fingers brushing mine. A simple, accidental contact. His hands were warm. “Right.” He took a sip, watching me over the rim. “Today, Maria will show you the house. The routines. The security protocols. You do not leave the children’s side outside of the secure garden without myself or Marco present.”

“Marco?”

“The man who let you in. He is head of security here. You will listen to him as you listen to me.”

“Understood.”

"Sophia has speech therapy at ten. You will take her. Marco drives.” He set the coffee down, untouched after that first sip. “We will talk more this evening.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a decree. He placed a kiss on top of each child’s head. “Be good.” He looked at me one last time, a silent transfer of responsibility, and then he was gone.

Maria let out a breath she seemed to have been holding. “He’s… particular.”

“I gathered,” I said, clearing plates.

The tour was brief. Maria showed me the laundry room, the playroom, the “secure garden” a walled patio with a swing set and soft turf. She pointed out the panic buttons in every room, disguised as light switches.

“And Don Vitelli’s study?” I asked, trying to sound casually curious.

Maria’s face closed off. “That room is private. No one goes in. Not even me to clean. He does it himself.” She changed the subject quickly. “Speech therapy is across town. You should get Sophia ready.”

An hour later, I was in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, Sophia buckled beside me. Marco drove, his eyes constantly moving in the rearview mirror. The therapy clinic was in a bland medical building. Marco walked us to the door of the suite, took a seat in the waiting room, and pulled out a phone.

The therapist, Dr. Evans, was a woman with a gentle smile. “Hello, Sophia. And you must be the new nanny.”

“Bella,” I said.

“Wonderful. Sophia, shall we go play?” Dr. Evans held out her hand. Sophia took it, but she looked back at me.

“I’ll be right here,” I said, settling into a chair near Marco.

The session lasted forty-five minutes. I could hear faint sounds through the door: the chime of a bell, Dr. Evans’s encouraging voice, but never a child’s. Marco scanned the room, the hallway, his body a coiled spring of alertness.

On the drive back, Sophia was quiet. She stared out the window. As we turned onto the long, private road to the house, she suddenly spoke. Her voice was a dry, unused whisper, so faint I almost didn’t hear it.

“The monster isn’t in the drain.”

I turned to look at her. Her eyes were still on the passing trees.

“Where is the monster, Sophia?” I asked softly.

She didn’t answer. She just leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.

When we got back, Luca was down for his nap. Maria was folding laundry. The house was quiet again.

I found myself in the playroom, picking up blocks. My mind was working. The study was the obvious intelligence goldmine. In a private room he cleaned himself. No domestic staff allowed. That’s where the ledgers would be. The safe. The computer.

I needed access.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Carter. Report.

I typed back, my fingers moving quickly. Children secured. Father detached but observant. Primary target: private study. No staff access. Seeking opportunity.

The reply came. Good. Create opportunities. Use the children if necessary.

I stared at the words. Use the children.

Luca’s trusting hug from that morning flashed in my mind. Sophia’s whisper in the car.

The liability wasn’t my empathy.

It was the terrifying, mission-breaking thought that had just taken root: I didn’t w

ant to use them. I wanted to protect them, even from the man who employed me, even from my own mission.

And that was a flaw no perfect cover story could ever explain.