Serena POV
At exactly eight o'clock in the evening, a sharp knock sounds at my bedroom door.
"The Don has returned," the Consigliere says through the thick wood. "He is waiting for you in the foyer."
I stand, smoothing the wrinkles out of my plain black skirt. I take a deep breath to steady the frantic beat in my chest, but it does nothing to quiet the pulse hammering at the base of my throat.
I walk out of my room and descend the grand staircase.
A man stands in the center of the foyer, in the process of shrugging out of a tailored black overcoat.
He is impossibly tall and lean, with broad shoulders that seem to alter the very architecture of the room. The expensive fabric of his suit stretches across his back as he moves, and I catch myself staring at the way the material pulls taut before I force my gaze away. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and the line of his jaw is severe and sharp—a face carved from marble by a sculptor who valued intimidation over beauty.
He hands his coat to the Consigliere and turns his head to look at me.
His eyes are a striking, icy blue. That pair of blue eyes passes over my face, and for one suspended heartbeat, I feel utterly naked under that gaze—as if he has already catalogued every secret I've ever kept and found them all tedious. Then he looks away, dismissing me as easily as he might a piece of furniture.
"You are the new hire," he says. His voice is low and deliberate, each word carrying the texture of sand scraping against metal, a sound that seems to abrade the quiet of the room. Something about that voice travels down my spine and settles low in my stomach.
"Yes, sir," I say. "My name is Serena."
Lucian Marcello walks over to a crystal decanter on a side table. I watch his hands as he moves—large, lethal hands that I know have ended lives, yet they handle the crystal with an unexpected, almost elegant precision. He pours a small amount of amber liquid into a glass.
"Your education," he demands, not looking at me.
"I hold a Master's in Clinical Medicine," I say. "I minored in child psychology."
Lucian picks up the glass. He turns and pins me with his gaze. The full weight of his attention lands on me like a physical blow, and for one terrifying moment, I forget how to breathe.
"Why is a medical prodigy applying to be a governess in my house?" he asks.
Meeting that gaze, I force my chin a fraction higher. My lashes do not so much as flutter, though a film of cold sweat has begun to form against my spine.
"I need the money," I say.
Lucian stares at me. His expression does not change, but the pressure in the room seems to increase, as if before a storm. Those ice-blue eyes hold mine for a beat too long—long enough that the air between us grows thick, charged with something I cannot name.
"The previous eight women barely lasted seven days," Lucian says. "How long do you think you can survive here?"
"I don't know," I reply. "But he didn't throw a vase at my head this afternoon."
Lucian's long finger pauses on the rim of his crystal glass. He remains perfectly still for a few seconds.
"He placed a block next to yours," the Consigliere says quietly from the shadows. "Voluntarily."
Lucian looks at the Consigliere, then back at me. Something flickers in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or a predator's calculation.
"You have a one-month probationary period," Lucian dictates. His tone leaves no room for negotiation. "Nico's routine is absolute. He dislikes strangers touching him. You are never to force him to speak."
"I understand," I say.
Lucian takes a step closer to the stairs.
"The third floor," he says, his voice dropping into a dark, threatening register. "Do not go up there."
I nod. "I will not."
Lucian walks past me—close enough that I could reach out and touch the sleeve of his jacket. The scent of expensive cologne and something sharper, like burnt gunpowder mixed with clean male skin, trails behind him. It invades my senses before I can guard against it, and I hate that my body notices. I hate that I want to breathe deeper.
"You are dismissed," he says as he climbs the stairs.
I turn to walk back to my room. As I move away, I hear the Consigliere quietly speak to the Don on the landing.
"She holds her nerve well," the Consigliere remarks.
I close my bedroom door and lean against the heavy wood, a tremor finally working its way through my legs.
My fingers curl against the doorframe. I press my palm flat against my stomach, where a strange, unwelcome heat still lingers. This is absurd. The man is a killer. A monster in a bespoke suit. And yet my body reacted to him in a way it never did to Zane—not in three years of engagement.
I shove the thought down violently and pull out my phone.
My available balance is two hundred and eighty-seven dollars. My mother's medical fee of twelve thousand dollars is due tomorrow afternoon. If I do not pay it, they will stop her treatments.
I stare at the screen. Each breath feels like dragging air through wet concrete, a dry, rasping ache settling into the hollows of my lungs.
I open my messages, find the number the Consigliere used to text me the estate rules earlier today, and type out a message, my thumbs moving stiffly over the illuminated screen.
"Is it possible to get an advance on my salary? Just for the first week."
I hit send before I can lose my nerve. I am asking a mafia syndicate for a loan on my first night. It is incredibly stupid, but I have no choice.
Two minutes later, my screen lights up.
A message from the Consigliere: "The Don has authorized a daily payout starting from day one of your probation. One thousand six hundred and sixty-six dollars a day. It will be wired to your account every morning."
I drop the phone onto the mattress and cover my face with my hands, a single shaky breath escaping me.
This is blood money. Dangerous, dirty money from a ruthless criminal empire. But even as I tell myself to be afraid, my traitorous mind conjures the image of ice-blue eyes catching the light as Lucian Marcello looked at me like he could see straight through to my bones.
And I am not nearly as afraid of that as I should be.
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