The job

The next afternoon, the car pulled up right on time.

Black, sleek, the type of machine that glided instead of drove.

Maya lingered on the curb, her small overnight bag hugged to her chest, until the driver, a man in a crisp black suit and dark sunglasses, emerged.

Maya Ferraro?" he asked.

"Yes."

Get in." His voice was level, professional, the words offering no warmth and no encouragement to argue.

She slid into the back seat, leather cool under her palms. The door shut with a soft clunk, wrapping her in a cocoon of silence. The city blurred by as they drove, the streets gradually widening, the buildings newer, cleaner, and more spread out.

The sea showed itself briefly between lines of villas, turquoise and gold in the afternoon sun. Then the road curved, rising, and the houses turned into mansions, tall walls, high gates, security cameras rotating like attentive eyes.

As the car slowed, she saw them: wrought-iron gates twice her height, with two men in black standing beside them, each with a discreet bulge beneath his jacket. One gave the interior of the car a professional glance; the other checked a clipboard.

The gates swung open with a low, mechanical growl. The driver said nothing.

They turned into a winding driveway lined with cypress trees, the sort that made you feel insignificant just for walking among them. In the distance, the mansion appeared, sprawling white stone, all angles and arched windows, the sort of place built to awe and daunt at the same time.

Maya's hand tightened on her bag. The air here smelled different, cleaner, but also colder, as if the sea breeze carried a warning.

The vehicle halted in front of a broad stone courtyard. Light gravel crackled beneath the tires, tidy enough to appear combed.

Her door was opened by the driver but no hand was offered. She stepped out, the sun catching the white stone walls and sending shafts of light dancing. The house rose above her, beautiful, faultless, yet in some way unwelcoming.

She caught movement near the second-floor windows, a curtain shifting, but when she looked again, it was gone.

A man wearing a dark coat walked up. He stood like someone who'd learned to anticipate trouble before it found him. "Come along," he said, already heading for the main stairs.

The air was too still, as though the outside world had been shut off. The gentle gurgle of the fountain and the sound of her own footsteps echoing off the walls were the only sounds.

Two other staff members passed, their heads down. One carried a tray, the other a clipboard, both of them moving quickly as if lingering was dangerous.

By the time they arrived at the high wooden doors, Maya's heartbeat had resumed. This was not just the home of a wealthy man. It was something else. Something that was watching.

The heavy doors opened into a hall that seemed to swallow her whole. Marble stretched underfoot, veined like frozen lightning, and a chandelier glittered high above.

A woman was waiting. Sharp black dress, hair pinned so tightly it looked painful, eyes that scanned Maya like she was checking for cracks.

You're the applicant?" the woman asked.

Yes. Maya Ferraro.

I am Mrs. Carbone, head housekeeper. Follow." Her heels clacked in perfect cadence as she preceded him to a side office.

Mrs. Carbone was seated behind a tidy desk inside. "The job is high-pressure. Discretion is total. You will keep your mouth closed and your head down. Can you manage that?

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Carbone's eyes remained, as if searching for something unsaid. "Experience?"

Maya listed what she could. housecleaning, cooking, errands, omitting that most of it had been for her father in far less forgiving situations.

At last, Mrs. Carbone nodded briefly. "We'll see. The Moretti family is not… forgiving of errors."

Maya did not know whether it was advice or a warning.

Mrs. Carbone led her down a series of shining corridors. The air was thick with the scent of wood polish and something faintly smoky.

They passed by doors that opened onto rooms that promised luxury, a library with walls of books, a dining room big enough for fifty, before they moved down a smaller hallway.

This is the servants' wing," said Mrs. Carbone. "You will be given a room after dinner.

As they walked, the other end yielded the sound of approaching footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Maya glanced up, and froze.

Tall. Immaculately cut dark suit. A face as austere as the statues in stone outside.

Lucien Moretti.

His cool, appraising eyes landed on her and lingered a beat too long. There was something indecipherable that moved between them, though he didn't hesitate.

Mrs. Carbone bowed her head in respect. Maya followed suit, but she felt the warmth of his gaze until he was out of sight around the corner. It wasn't until he was gone that she realized she'd been holding her breath.