Page 60 of Protecting My Nanny

I stay silent, my back against the cold wall, arms wrapped around my knees.

He steps closer, his boots stopping just outside my little cell. "Stop this, Nicola. Agree to what we ask, and come upstairs. We can be a family again."

A bitter laugh bubbles up from my throat before I can stop it.Family. What a joke. I spit in his direction, though it barely reaches his boots.

"Nicola," he sighs, frustration seeping into his voice. "Shane doesn't have to get hurt. Neither does Jaime. You can go back to them. Just give us what we need."

I clench my jaw, trying to suppress the rage rising inside me. "I've told you a hundred times—I don't know anything. And even if I did, I'd rather rot down here than help you."

He pulls out his phone, the glow of the screen lighting up his face. I don't even bother looking up until I hear a familiar voice on the other end of the call.

"Hello?" Giovanni's voice echoes from the speaker.

My heart lurches in my chest. I whip around to face Raffaele, full of panic and hope as I shout, "Gio! It's Nicola! Are you alright? Where are you?"

He doesn't respond, just repeats, "Hello?"

Raffaele smirks. "It's muted, Nicola."

I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. The call ends with a quiet click, leaving the room colder than before. At least I know he's alive.

Raffaele tucks his phone back into his pocket. "See? Gio's working to pay off what your parents left behind, just like you should be. But he's actually doing the work. No billionaire to help him out."

I turn away, staring at the bare wall, my back to him. His words grate on me, but I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

"I'll come back when you're ready to cooperate," Raffaele says, his voice low and threatening. "We're tired of these pointless visits. If you don't start talking soon, maybe we'll just leave you down here for a few days. Let you sit in your filth, hungry and thirsty. Maybe then you'll be ready to be reasonable."

He turns and heads back up the stairs, his boots thudding with each step, the sound fading as the door closes behind him.

I curl up tighter, pulling the sleeping bag around me, my body shivering from more than just the cold. I know what's coming. Raffaele's not patient, and he's running out of time. Soon, he'll stop asking and start taking.

Hours later, I hear footsteps descending the stairs—lighter this time, definitely not Raffaele's. The smell of herbs and tomato sauce fills the stale, musky air, making my stomach growl involuntarily. I turn my head to look, and Fredo is at the foot of the steps. He stands awkwardly, holding a wrapped plate of what I can only assume is the Bolognese Raffaele mentioned earlier. Beside him, a bucket of water with a small white cloth draped over the edge.

He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at me with that familiar mix of pity and discomfort. Fredo's never been like the others. He follows Raffaele's orders, sure, but there's always been a hesitation in his movements—a reluctance that sets him apart. From what I hear through the thin walls, he doesn't agree with this new direction. He questions things, always second-guessing. I see my chance.

"You want to wash up before you eat?" he asks nervously, his voice wavering slightly.

I don't reply. I just stare at him, curiosity piqued. His eyes dart from me to the bucket, uncertainty written all over his face.

"The water's clean," he adds quickly, almost apologetic. "I can turn my back, give you some time." He nudges the bucket forward, sliding it just within my reach.

I look down at the bucket, hesitating for a moment. The idea of fresh water, of feeling clean again, is tempting, but I can't afford to trust him fully. Still, the grime on my skin feels unbearable.

"Go on," he says, his voice steady but distant. He turns his back to me, folding his arms. I wait for a moment, watching him. When I'm sure he's not looking, I shuffle over and pull the bucket closer. Quickly and efficiently, I splash the water on my skin, wiping away days' worth of dirt and sweat, hitting the essential areas first. It's cold, but it feels incredible.

"Slide it back when you're done," Fredo says, his tone softer, less harsh than usual. I finish up quickly, pushing the bucket back toward him with a nod. Only then does he turn around.

He starts to hand me the plate of food, but pauses, eyeing me with a strange mix of caution and something like... sympathy? "If anyone asks, you had a tuna sandwich," he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching.

I nod in agreement, eager to take the food. He hands me the plate, and I dig in immediately. The warmth of the pasta and sauce is a shock to my system—it's hot, fresh, and, at that moment, the best thing I've ever tasted. I eat quickly, savoring each bite, knowing it might be a long time before I have something like this again.

Fredo watches me in silence, his eyes studying me but never quite meeting mine. When I finish, I slide the plate back toward him. He dips a small cloth into the water bucket and hands it to me, gesturing at his own mouth. I realize there's sauce on my face, and I quickly wipe it away, handing the cloth back to him.

He turns to leave, but I can't let this opportunity pass. "Raffaele," I say, my voice breaking the heavy quiet. "He's reckless. He's going to get us all killed."

Fredo stops mid-step, one foot on the bottom stair, his shoulders tense. "Perhaps," he replies, his voice flat. "But that's the life we live in, huh?" Fredo's voice is almost resigned, as if he's accepted the inevitability of his world.

"It doesn't have to be," I press, my heart pounding, knowing I'm treading dangerous ground. "I didn't choose this life. My parents did, and I've been paying for it ever since they died. You know I don't deserve this. Help me, please," I whisper, my voice cracking with desperation.

---