Page 4 of Devil Seeks Nanny

As she pulls out of the parking spot, I walk down the sidewalk in the direction of my dad’s bakery. I’ve known Cathy since we met on the first day of ninth grade, and we’ve been friends ever since. There aren’t that many people from high school I’m still friends with, but Cathy is definitely one of them, and right after telling dad I was moving back to San Francisco, I told Cathy as well. She was still living in the area, so she had been excited to have me back, and the two of us made plans to meet up for lunch before I headed to the bakery to work.

We just spent the last two hours or so catching up. One of the times I had visited last year was because Cathy was getting married, and now she just told me that she and her husband, Jay, are planning on having kids sometime soon. Her telling me that was a startling reminder of how we aren’t in high school—or even college—anymore. That the people I went to high school with are engaged, already married, or popping out kids. It’s such a different stage of where I am in my life, and I can’t help but wonder if and when I’ll ever get there.

I push the thought out of my head as soon as it flits through. I have more important things to focus on these days.

I make my way down the familiar sidewalk, taking in the various stores located on the strip. Cafés, boutiques, all sorts of stores—some new, some that have been around since I was a kid. It’s not too busy in the middle of the afternoon, with people walking around me, shopping, and going about their day. The sun is up high, warm against my skin, and just as I near the bakery, a car pulls up on the street right alongside the sidewalk.

Glancing over, I take note of the luxury black SUV, the windows too tinted for me to be able to make out anyone inside. An unsettling feeling churns low in my stomach as the car comes to a stop and, logically, I know I should keep walking. But I don’t know why I stop, too, frozen in place when the passenger door opens, and out steps a tall, handsome man dressed in all black.

He’s got sunglasses on, so I can’t see his eyes, but he’s older than me and towers over my five-foot-six frame, and I can just tell he’s looking directly at me. When he asks, “Diana Elliott?” I feel myself freeze up.

He knows my name. Panic pulses through me for a moment, wondering who the hell this guy is. Still, I find myself stammering out, “Y-Yeah, that’s me.”

The guy steps toward the backseat door, gripping the handle and saying to me, “Get in the car.” Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Please.”

What the fuck?

I gape at him as he opens the door, and from where I’m standing, I can’t see the backseat. Still, though, I stare at the man in disbelief, my heart thundering as I try to make sense of what the hell is going on. If people around me find this exchange suspicious or weird, no one says anything.

Hasn’t this man heard of stranger danger? Why the fuck would I get into some random, scary-looking guy’s car?

As if he’s reading my mind, the man with light brown hair says, “Mr. Cataldi doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

The name sends ice through my veins, freezing me over. Mr. Cataldi. . . He couldn’t possibly mean Bruno Cataldi.

How many other Cataldis do you know in San Francisco, Diana?

To be fair, I don’t know any Bruno Cataldi, but I sure as hell know of him, and that’s more than enough. But I also know I can’t just outright refuse to get in the car, not when that particular man is expecting to see me. And that itself is a shocking, slightly terrifying idea because what the hell could the number one crime boss in San Francisco want with me?

Still, I don’t want to piss him off, so I force my feet to move. Warily, I get into the SUV, sliding into the leather seat, and the breath catches in my throat at the man who is already seated on the benched seats right across from me.

I try not to jump when the man outside slams the door shut, closing me in this small space with a man whose mere presence takes up all of the room in the car. Bruno Cataldi is a man of legends, kind of like the monster under your bed. The one you tell kids about so they’ll behave unless they want the scariest man in San Francisco to take you away.

I have never met the man, but everyone knows of him. What’s more, a couple of years ago, he purchased the building my dad’s bakery is in, making Bruno Cataldi the overall owner of all the businesses on that particular side of the street. So, while dad runs Slice of Life and makes a good living out of it, it’s all owned by the man sitting across from me in a black suit and an expensive silver Rolex gleaming on his wrist.

He is much more handsome than I thought he would be.

I know he’s older than me—a little over fifteen years older than me. And still, despite the intimidating circumstances, I find myself admiring his features. His dark hair is thick and styled back, his beard closely trimmed to what looks like a sharp, chiseled jaw. The material of his suit seems to strain against his muscular build, and his dark eyes are sharp and intense like he can see right through me.

The car smells like leather and something else—cologne mixed with a sandalwood scent, and I realize that it’s him. My stomach dips. A good-smelling man is an attractive thing all on its own.

“Ms. Elliott.” I press my tongue to the back of my bottom row of teeth, trying not to react to the velvety smooth, deep tone of his voice. Oh, hell. He even sounds as attractive as he looks. He’s sitting relaxed in the seat, ankle resting on his knee and an arm stretched over the top of the seat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Bruno Cataldi.”

“I know who you are.” The words are slipping from my mouth before I can help myself, my cheeks flaming up. If Bruno—Mr. Cataldi? I don’t know what the hell to call a crime boss—is amused by my words, he doesn’t let on. His expression remains expertly stoic, which is unnerving. I try to steal some of the confidence he exudes. “And you know who I am. So, can I ask, why am I here?”

My nerves are shot. Why the hell am I talking to this man like he’s any other kind of guy? He’s obviously not. He’s probably armed and could shoot me square in the forehead for disrespecting him if he wanted to. My stomach churns once again, and I tell myself not to throw up in Bruno Cataldi’s car.

“I apologize for the cloak and dagger.” Funny, he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But I have a business proposal for you.”

I blink, bewildered. “A business propo—”

“I have two children if you weren’t aware. Twins, five years old,” Bruno continues as if I never spoke up. I press my lips together. I didn’t know he had kids, because I don’t make it my business to keep up with San Francisco’s mafia families. “And I’m looking for a live-in nanny and tutor for them. You come highly recommended, the best of the best, I’ve heard. The job is yours if you accept.”

I like how he uses the word if because I feel like I don’t have a choice in the matter. But even so, I try art to calm down my racing he as I find the words to speak. Because this is shocking. Nannying is one thing, but nannying the children of a notorious criminal? That doesn’t exactly look stellar on my resumé.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cataldi,” I begin, hoping my voice is steady. “But I’m not currently looking for any kind of nannying job.”

He doesn’t let me continue, cutting in, “I’ll pay you half a million annually.”

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