The rules of the house

Chapter 3: The Rules of the House

The “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 myself.

6. You report any unusual occurrence, no matter how small, to me directly.

7. You do not discuss my business, this household, or your employment with anyone.

8. Discretion is your primary duty. You see nothing. You hear nothing.

It was a prison manual. I kept my face neutral. “These are clear.”

“They are for your safety as much as ours,” he said, finally looking at me. His gaze was direct, probing. “The world I operate in is not kind to loose ends. A nanny with a mobile phone and loose lips is a loose end.”

“I understand the need for security, Mr. Vitelli.”

“Massimo,” he corrected, his tone flat. “The children will call you Bella. You will call me Massimo in front of them. It creates a… familial illusion. It is less confusing.”

“Massimo,” I repeated. The name felt foreign and heavy on my tongue.

He watched me say it, his expression unchanging. “Sophia spoke today. In the car.”

It wasn’t a question. Marco had reported. “She said one sentence.”

“What was it?”

I hesitated. The whisper felt like a secret, one I didn’t want to give him. But Rule #6 was clear. “She said, ‘The monster isn’t in the drain.’”

He went very still. The only movement was the slow clench of his hand around the water glass. For a second, I saw raw, unguarded pain in his eyes. Then it was gone, locked away behind a wall of ice. “I see.”

“What does it mean?” I dared to ask.

“It means,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, “that my five-year-old daughter has a better grasp of reality than most adults.” He set the glass down with a sharp click. “You will not encourage this kind of talk. You will redirect her. To stories. To toys. Do you understand?”

“I understand the instructions. But if she’s trying to process something…”

“She is five,” he cut in, a flash of heat in his tone. “She does not need to ‘process.’ She needs to feel safe. It is your job to make her feel safe with bubble baths and bedtime stories, not to psychoanalyze her. Am I clear?”

The order was a slap. I felt my cheeks warm. “Crystal clear.”

He seemed to regret the outburst, but only slightly. He ran a hand through his hair. “The… incident with her mother was traumatic. She has not been the same. Her therapist says silence is a common response. We are patient.”

“Incident.” A car accident, the file had said. I knew it was a lie. I wondered if he knew I knew.

“My point is,” he continued, “your role is stability. Routine. Normalcy. You are not here to dig up the past.”

But I am, I thought. That’s exactly why I’m here.

“Understood,” I said again.

He studied me for a long moment, as if trying to find a crack in the facade. “You are very good at saying the right thing, Bella Conti.”

“It’s part of the job.”

“Is it?” He pushed off the island. “The rules are not flexible. Break one, and you will be dismissed immediately. There will be no second chances. This is not a negotiation.”

“I didn’t imagine it was.”

A faint, almost imperceptible sound came from the monitor. A soft whimper. Luca.

We both turned to look at it. Before I could move, Massimo held up a hand. “I’ll go.”

He left the kitchen. I sat there, listening to the silence. My mind raced. The east wing was forbidden. The study was in the east wing. I needed a reason to break Rule #4.

A few minutes later, he returned. “A nightmare. He is settled.”

“He asked if you were coming last night. You should go in, even if he’s asleep. It… matters.”

He stopped, turning back to me. “You are giving me parenting advice?”

“I’m giving you an observation from a professional. Children sense presence. Even in sleep.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he gave a curt nod. “Noted. Goodnight, Bella.”

“Goodnight, Massimo.”

I went to my room, but I didn’t sleep. I opened my laptop, a secure, encrypted device disguised as an e-reader. I filed my real report to Carter.

Rules established. The East wing is a forbidden zone, containing study. Father is controlling, detached but observant. My daughter made a cryptic comment re: “monster.” Mother’s death is a trigger point. Seeking organic reasons to access the east wing. Current focus: building trust with children to increase household mobility.

Carter’s reply was swift. Organic reason = child in distress. A ball rolls into the forbidden hallway. A pet gets loose. Use your environment. Accelerate timeline.

I closed the laptop, a sick feeling in my stomach. Use your environment. Meaning use the children. I thought of Luca’s warm, sleepy weight when I’d lifted him from the tub. Sophia’s serious eyes watching me sew.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A notification from a weather app. Storm warning. High winds expected after midnight.

An idea, terrible and perfect, clicked into place.

I waited until the house was utterly silent, past 2 AM. The wind had begun, howling around the corners of the fortress. I pulled on a robe and slipped into the hallway.

I went to Luca’s door first, easing it open. He was a little lump under the covers, sound asleep. I carefully took his favorite stuffed animal, a worn blue dog named “Bubbles,” from where it was tucked under his arm.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The first real betrayal.

I walked down the main hall to the dividing point. The east wing corridor stretched to the left, dark and forbidding. The rule was clear. I took a deep breath and threw the blue dog down the hall. It skidded silently on the polished floor, coming to rest about twenty feet in, just past a closed door I assumed was the study.

I returned to my room. Now, I waited.

The storm did the rest. An hour later, a tremendous crack of thunder shook the house. It was followed almost immediately by the sound I’d been waiting for: Luca’s terrified, full-throated scream.

Lights snapped on. I heard Massimo’s door open down the hall, his footsteps rapid. I was already in the hallway, playing my part.

Luca was sitting bolt upright in bed, sobbing hysterically. “Storm! Dog! Bubbles!”

Massimo reached him first, gathering him up. “Shhh, piccolo. It is only noise.”

“Bubbles! I need Bubbles!” Luca wailed, clutching at his father’s shirt.

“Where is your dog?” Massimo asked, his voice low and calm.

“He ran away! In the hall!”

Massimo’s eyes met mine over Luca’s head. His was sharp, questioning. I widened my eyes, feigning confusion and concern. “He must have taken it to bed. Maybe it fell out during the storm?”

Luca cried harder, a pure, desperate child’s grief. “Get him! Please!”

Massimo looked from his son’s devastated face to the dark hallway. I saw the conflict warring in him. The rule versus his child’s immediate need.

“Stay here,” he ordered me. He set Luca down on the bed and strode out of the room.

This was my chance. I knelt by the bed, rubbing Luca’s back. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Papa will find him.” My ears were straining for sounds from the east wing.

I heard a door open. A pause. Then footsteps returned.

Massimo walked back in, the blue dog in his hand. He handed it to Luca, who crushed it to his chest, his sobs subsiding into hiccups.

“Thank you, Papa,” Luca whispered.

Massimo didn’t respond. He was looking at me. His gaze was no longer questioning. It was cold, certainly.

“He was far down the hall,” Massimo said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Almost to my study. How did he get all the way down there, Bella?”

The air left my lungs. He knew.

I kept my voice steady, innocent. “I have no idea. He must have been sleepwalking? Or maybe he threw it earlier and we didn’t notice?”

He held my stare for a beat too long, the silence screaming with accusation. He knew it was a lie. But he had no proof. Only a broken rule and a nanny with a perfectly logical excuse.

“He will sleep in my room tonight,” Massimo said finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. He scooped Luca up, dog and all. “You will go back to bed. We will discuss this in the morning.”

He carried his son out, leaving me alone in the little boy’s room.

I had done it. I had created an “organic reason” to make him break his own rule. I had accessed the east wing by proxy.

As I walked back to my room, the sick feeling was gone, replaced by a hollow chill. I had won the point. But the look in Massimo Vitelli’s eyes wasn’t just suspicion.

It was the first flicker of war.