Page 40 of Nanny for the Don

We finally make it back to the house, and I rush Lucia to the bathroom to clean up her cut. I’m practically shaking as I turn on the faucet, gently washing away the blood.

Just as I’m about to grab a towel, Ms. M appears in the doorway., her face full of concern. “How did this happenWhat happened?” she asks, hurrying over to us.

“She fell off a rock in the park,” I explain, my voice a little shaky. “I’m worried it might be more than a little cut.”

Ms. M takes a quick look at Lucia’s head, then checks her pupils with a calm efficiency I’m seriously grateful for. “Let’s just let her rest and keep an eye on her,” she says, her tone reassuring.

I nod, trying to take a deep breath as we guide Lucia to the couch. At least Ms. M is here to help—I don’t know what I’d do without her right now.

Giulia’s hovering close, her little face scrunched up with worry. “Is Lucia really hurt?” she asks, her voice trembling.

Ms. M gives her a comforting smile. “She’s going to be just fine, sweetie. We just need to clean her up a bit.” Then she glances at me. “Willow, can you grab some antiseptic?”

“On it,” I say, giving Lucia’s hand a quick squeeze before hurrying out of the room.

Chapter 20

Nico

I’m standing outside the door to the storage room. I’m focused.Inside, Sal’s doing his thing, giving the poor shithead the introductory round of persuasion.

We’ve perfected the routine over the years—Sal comes in swinging, softening them up, and then I step in, giving them a final chance to talk before I get creative.

The room’s completely soundproof, so I can’t hear a damn thing from where I’m standing, but I know the drill. The only sounds in my head are the ticking of the clock and the low hum of adrenaline, sharpening my senses. This is business, pure and simple.

Finally, the door swings open, and Sal steps out, wiping blood off his knuckles with a rag. His face is set in a grim line. “Fucker’s not talking,” he says., frustration seeping into his voice. “If I work his face over any more, his jaw’s gonna be too busted to use.”

I nod, the cold calculation settling in. This is my cue. Sal’s done his part, and now it’s my turn to finish the job. I crack myknuckles, the familiar anticipation buzzing through me.

“Leave it to me,” I say, my tone steady, controlled..”

Sal steps aside, giving me a look that says he knows exactly what’s coming next. I push the door open, ready to make this bastard talk.

Sal nods toward the stairs. “I’m gonna wash up, make a few calls to the other lieutenants.”

I give him a quick nod, watching as he heads out. I turn back to the door, taking a moment to steel myself before stepping inside. The door shuts behind me with a heavy click, sealing us off from the outside world.

The room is our little slice of hell, and I’m about to drag this poor bastard right into the middle of it.

The man in the chair is slumped over, breathing hard, his face a bloody mess.

“Welcome to my little workshop,” I say, my voice low and almost friendly as I circle him. “You’re probably noticing a few things about this room. For starters, it’s soundproof—no one’s going to hear a thing, no matter how loud you scream.”

I let the words sink in, watching as the man’s eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings. “Those doors are solid steel, thick enough to keep anyone out—or in. We’ve got security cameras rolling, so every single moment gets captured. And that drain over there in the corner?” I nod toward it, my smile widening. “That’s for easy cleaning when things get messy.”

I pause, leaning in close. “So, let’s get started, shall we?”

I step closer to the man, sizing him up. He’s in his thirties, longish hair matted with sweat and streaked with blood. His once-fancy suit is now a mess, covered in scuffs and splatters, the kind of designer outfit that screams money and status.His fingers are adorned with expensive rings, and there’s a flashy watch on his wrist. None of that impresses me.

What catches my attention is the sheer terror in his eyes.

I look him up and down, taking my time. “You know, ” I start, my voice calm, almost conversational, “you don’t strike me as a killer. You’re too prissy.” I lean in closer. “, making sure he knows I see right through him. “You’re just a spoiled little shit who’s in way over his head.”

He squirms in the chair, his eyes wide as he tries to scream through the gag. The bindings are tight, cutting into his skin, and he’s trembling so hard I’m half-expecting him to piss his pants any second now.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” I say, my tone dropping an octave. “You’re going to give me the information I need. Whether you leave here with all your limbs and fingers intact? That’s up to you.”

His panic intensifies, his muffled screams growing louder. I watch him struggle, a pathetic sight, really.

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