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Chapter One

Dante

“ T his is ridiculous. I don’t have time for this.” I shove the folder my aunt places on my desk right back at her.

“You have to make time, Dante.” She pushes it toward me again, firmer this time. “I’m sixty-three years old. I have a husband and a life to get back to. I love your twins, truly I do, but I can’t keep playing nanny.”

I take off my glasses and press my fingers to my eyes like I can push the headache back into my skull where it belongs. “Their mother just died.”

She was my wife, on paper, at least. It would feel hypocritical to play the grieving widower. Maria had been smart. She got pregnant and trapped me in a marriage I never wanted.

And I was the one who let it happen. The one who trusted her when she said she was on birth control.

She won the game, and I got my heirs. So, in the end, it was a draw. I didn’t hate her. She did what she had to do to secure the position she craved.

For five years, our marriage was almost amicable. She had her lovers. I had mine. We played the part of a united front when my father died, and I became the capo of the Forzi family.

I wished her no harm. I stood by her side when she fought the cancer that eventually took her.

And when the end came… I was there.

“She died four months ago, figlio.”

My aunt sighs as she sits down.

“They’re five years old, Dante. I can’t keep up with them. They need someone who’ll be there for them, someone who knows how to help them deal with their grief.”

“You’re family. Who better than you? Just a few more weeks.”

“No. You’ve been saying that for two months now.” She folds her arms, steel behind the softness. “I must go back to my life, and you need to step into yours. You’re a single father now unless you’re ready to?—”

“Absolutely not.” Marriage? No. I’m not marriage material. Never have been. Never will be.

Now that I have my children and the convenient cover of grief, I could probably avoid it forever.

“Exactly,” she says, tapping her forefinger against the folder. “Nannies. The best of the best, all fully vetted. Perfect for the children… and your lifestyle.”

I scowl at the stupid blue folder on my desk.

“You pick.”

She lets out a short laugh. “Nice try. I did the preliminary vetting. You’ve got five perfectly competent women in there. You pick. I don’t think any of them would be a mistake, and you need to do it fast because come next Monday? I’m gone.”

“What? That’s in a week!”

“Yes. I’m a grandma, too, you know. I’m needed. And Lucia and Alessio are your children. They need consistency.”

I drag a hand down my face. “I’m your capo. I can order you.”

She lets out a little laugh as she rises from the chair. “You can try… but we both know it won’t work.”

I shake my head and pull the folder toward me just as she escapes the room with a victorious little smile.

I open it with a huff, flip to the first profile, and wince. She looks old enough to be my nonna. And no, I’m not being ageist. It’s just that an older nanny wouldn’t last a week with Alessio. That child is a machine powered by chaos and sugar. I can barely keep up, and I’m thirty-two.

The second profile looks better. Early forties, solid credentials, glowing recommendations.

Okay, fine. My aunt wasn’t lying; she did pick the top of the basket.

Each profile is as impressive as the last, and I keep going, flipping through, one after another… until I hit the sixth one.

I blink and shake my head. She said five. And yet here we are.

This one is younger. The youngest of the lot at only twenty-three.

And for some reason, I think that might actually be better for the kids.

Someone closer to their world. Someone they can connect with emotionally, something they, unfortunately, don’t really get from me.

I’m a fair father. I treat them well. But I know I lack the emotional range to be a good one.

I love my children. I truly do. I would die for them. But I don’t show it. We don’t do that in the famiglia.

Alice Winters. Degree in child development. Speaks English and French.

I pause at that. I take it as a plus. She doesn’t speak Italian, which means less risk of her listening behind closed doors.

She’s not bad to look at either, which is always a plus. Not that I’ll get involved with her.

God, no.

But with that dark-red hair and deep-brown eyes, there’s something about her… A kind of femme fatale edge that intrigues me more than I’d care to admit.

At the very least, she’s interesting enough to make her my first interview .

I call the agency’s number to request an interview tomorrow in my office downtown. She has been vetted by our team already, and the sooner she can start, the less guilty I will feel.

I’m significantly sleep-deprived, running on less than three hours of sleep.

Lucia came into my room again last night.

I sat up startled as soon as the door opened, my lifestyle forcing me to be alert.

She didn’t say anything, just stood there, her eyes big and wet, her lip trembling and clutching that stupid stuffed giraffe like it could shield her from nightmares.

I didn’t know what to say. I never do.

So I did the only thing I could. I lifted the blanket and let her crawl in beside me.

She curled against me, warm and silent, and I stayed still, afraid any move might shatter her calm.

She eventually fell asleep. I didn’t.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Maria’s face in those final weeks, gaunt, angry, and afraid, and I wondered if Lucia remembered it too.

The knock on my office door pulls me back into the present.

“Your eleven o’clock, Mr. Forzi.”

I glance up with a grunt. My temples ache from a tension headache that’s been threatening since dawn.

“Send her in.”

Alice Winters walks in like she’s trying not to take up space.

Ten minutes early. Neat and quiet. Looks younger than the picture, with red hair, brown eyes, and nervous energy barely concealed beneath a polite smile.

My attitude’s already shot, and I’m not in the mood for small talk.

“Sit.”

She startles slightly but obeys, clutching her bag like it's armor. Her posture is perfect, legs crossed at the ankle. Trained. Coached. Polished. Too polished?

“You’ve read the job details?”

“Yes, sir. Your assistant sent them yesterday.”

“It’s extremely demanding. Twenty-four hours, seven days a week.”

“I’m aware.”

“And yet you showed up.”

That earns me a flicker of surprise, quickly hidden. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re twenty-three. This job won’t allow for a social life, and I’m not interested in finding another nanny in two months when you realize it’s too much for you.”

She straightens a little, her chin lifting just slightly. “No, that won’t happen. I want this job,” she says. “I think I can help.”

“Everyone thinks they can help. Until Alessio locks them in the bathroom and sets something on fire.”

She blinks. “He… did that?”

I raise a brow. “Twice.”

She swallows. I don’t miss it. But she doesn’t bolt. “Isn’t he five? ”

“Yes. An early bloomer. Like his father.”

I flip open her file without enthusiasm. “Child development degree. Fluent in English and French. No Italian?”

“No, but I can learn if?—”

I wave my hand dismissively. “There’s no need. Speak French to me.”

“Je ne sais pas vraiment ce que vous souhaitez savoir sur moi. Pourriez-vous développer?”

I blink at her, feeling vaguely stupid. The language sounds nice coming from her. Too nice. It’s… attractive .

Not good. Not good at all . I’ll probably have to forbid her from speaking French around me.

“French won’t be necessary,” I mutter, glancing back down at her CV, suddenly unsure what the hell else to ask.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Dante Forzi. Owner of Forzi Group.”

I look up again. She’s watching me with that too-calm expression people wear when they’re terrified underneath.

“What are you afraid of, Miss Winters?”

“Nothing.” Too fast. Too defensive.

I snort. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Guilt? Embarrassment? I can’t tell. I don’t have the bandwidth to care.

I sigh. “The twins lost their mother a few months ago. They need care, consistency, and attention. What makes you think you’re qualified for this role? You’re barely more than a child yourself.”

She presses her lips together, holding herself in check. And I’ll admit I admire the restraint .

“I can assure you, sir, I am not a child. I’ve studied child psychology extensively, and I understand developmental grief.

I’ve also had my fair share of it.” She draws a breath, her voice steady now.

“I lost my mother too. And while no two experiences are ever the same, I believe my firsthand experience gives me a unique ability to help.”

I look at her again. Grief leaves fingerprints on people. Maybe that’s why she seems too polished, like someone who learned how to cover the bruises.

“Also,” she adds with a flash of something dangerously close to smug, “I know how to pick locks. So the bathroom won’t be a challenge.”

I stare at her.

Not because of the lock-picking comment. Although, yes, that was unexpected.

It’s the way she said it. Calm. Composed. Like she’s already played this scenario out in her head and won.

She’s young, yes, but there’s a sharpness there. A control I didn’t expect. That kind of composure doesn’t come from books. It comes from experience. And I’m not sure I want to know what kind. I’m not sure if that makes me trust her or distrust her more.

Still, Lucia needs someone. Alessio needs a keeper. And I need sleep.

I close the file with a quiet thud and lean back in my chair. “You start Monday. Ask my secretary for the address. Be there at eight.”

She blinks. “Just like that?”

I meet her eyes. “Unless you’d prefer I find someone else. ”

“No, sir.” She stands quickly, smoothing her skirt. “Thank you.”

She offers a polite nod and turns to leave. I watch her go, silent, my mind already spinning through a dozen things I should have asked. A dozen ways this could blow up in my face.

The door clicks shut behind her, and I lean back in my chair with a sigh.

“God help me.”

Because something about Alice Winters doesn’t sit right.

And yet I just handed her the keys to my children’s lives.