Page 1 of Protecting My Nanny

Prologue

Nicole

For the life of me, I can't recall what it was that stirred me from my sleep that night. A shout, fleeting footsteps, the slamming of a door—whatever it was, it was loud, brief, and over before my eyes had even fully opened. What I do remember in great detail is the sickening silence I awoke to. My mother and father had spent the entire afternoon talking in hushed tones.

The looks on their faces each time they glanced at me were something I could only describe as unrelenting fear. It was around 9 p.m., just after dinner, when I tucked Giovanni in at my mother's request and laid with him until he fell asleep. Then I went down the hall and snuggled into my own bed. I remember being terrified of a single word I'd heard my mother speak before Maria, our nanny, urged us off to bed that night. And to this day,I swear it's the last word I ever heard her speak: "Sindacato." Her tone was the most frightening part—such sadness and worry, unavoidable and devastating like an oncoming storm.

Awakening alone in my bedroom, the shadows seemed to dance along the walls in the pale of night. I moved my legs to the side of the bed, slid into my slippers, and was about to head for the door when I noticed the fluttering of my balcony window curtains in the cool breeze. Security had demanded we keep our windows locked, and I was sure I had done just that. Anonymous phone calls laced with threats had the entire staff on edge and my parents in a state of total despair. They had tried to hide their ties to the local mobs well enough, but certain things were not able to be hidden at my age.

Outside my room, the hall was quiet and undisturbed. As ordinary as it all seemed, there was an unease in the back of my mind, a soreness in the pit of my throat, and a tremble somewhere deep down, climbing up my spine and making my heart race. I made my way down the hall to the large wooden doors where my parents slept and slowly opened them. There was something in the air of the dark room—a scent I would later come to associate with death, though it was likely a combination of that and the herbal incense my mother would buy from the local market square.

I called out, "Mom... Dad," soft enough to be heard but not surprising. There was no response, only the same chilling silence that had haunted me since I'd woken up. My initial instinct was to turn on the lights, but my intuition told me that wasn't a good idea. Instead, I eased over to the bed. As I neared, I caught a glimpse of my mother's eyes—beautiful, glimmering, and lifelessin the moonlight casting through the window. I saw the red glistening on her head, leaking onto the bedspread and dripping to the floor.

I held my hand across my mouth to stifle the gasp, feeling the air in my lungs suddenly disappear. First came the uncontrollable shivers and convulsions, then a sudden urge to jump backward, realizing my bare toes had sunk into the pool of my mother's blood on the floor. I turned my head and called out to her out of pure instinct. I didn't expect a response, but my heart sank all the same when none came. Quickly, I rounded the bed, eager to see my dad.

My father's body lay half-slumped across the edge of the bed, one arm dangling lifelessly toward the floor, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were open but unseeing, staring blankly into the void. A deep gash ran across his forehead, the blood congealing on his skin. I wept, finally uncontrollably, for a moment before my heart jumped again, pounding against my chest.

Giovanni, I thought, still not fully comprehending what I had just seen. My concern for my parents was pocketed, as was any fear that the culprits might still be in the house. I raced down the hall, my heart pounding, my eyes blurred by tears.

When I reached his room, I opened the door expecting the worst, and felt a sudden comfort. His room was untouched, and from the lump beneath the silk spread on his bed came the sound of a smooth, nasally snore. The most beautiful sound in the world, at that moment. I walked over to him and pulled the covers back, desperate to confirm his safety. Beneath was his soft face, asinnocent and beautiful as I'd ever seen him, and for the first time since I'd awoken, I felt a small sense of calm wash over me.

It's just us now. The thought killed my newfound comfort. I had to tell him. There was no one else. I had to tell him our parents were dead and we needed to flee our childhood home right now.

I hesitated briefly, then gave him a gentle shake. Giovanni's snores ceased as his little eyes opened, his hazel pupils fixating on my face. He had a sense of panic, as if he already knew. He sat up, looking me in the face, concern clear in his expression and even the pace of his breathing. He moved closer to me.

"Nicole," he said. "What's happened?"

Puzzled by his awareness that something had happened, I responded, "We have to go, Gio."

I began to speak, but the words got caught in my throat.

"What happened?" Giovanni pleaded. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"No, Giovanni, but we need to—"

"What happened to you? Your face?" he asked.

My heart fluttered. I stood and turned, looking into the mirror over the dresser beside his bed. There it was—a thumbprint, a bloodied thumbprint, smeared across my left cheek.

Confusion overwhelmed me. I looked down at my hands.Clean.I hadn't touched blood and hadn't—

It hit me. The open window, the eerie feeling in my bedroom. Someone had come to me after they hurt my parents and had touched me in my sleep.

A shiver ran through me, chilling me to the bones.

I turned to Giovanni. "We have to go now. Put on your pants and shoes. We're leaving."

"Where's Mom and Dad?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Gio, listen. I'm in charge right now, and what would Mom and Dad tell you?"

"To listen to you," he said reassuringly.

"Then get dressed."

Without another word, he was up, pulling on his pants and moments later sliding into his shoes. I handed him a jacket from his closet, suddenly wishing I had grabbed one for myself, but there was no way I was going back to my room—not then, maybe not ever. The thought of the killer caressing my cheek as I slept made me want to vomit.

A few moments later, I was grasping his hand and peeking out his door into the hallway.Clear, I told myself as I pulled himfrom the room and rushed down the corridor, dragging him in my wake. The back door was our best bet; the darkness could shield us from any potential setbacks.

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