Chapter 3 - SECRETS OF THE RINALDI TABLE
By 7:45 p.m., a miracle had occurred.
Four bowls of steaming, authentic Roman spaghetti carbonara sat on the massive mahogany dining table. The room was grand, lit by a crystal chandelier that cast a warm glow over polished silver and heavy velvet drapes. There were no flying apples, no puddles of orange juice, and no shattered plates.
The quadruplets sat in their designated chairs, eyeing the food with a mixture of suspicion and undeniable hunger. They had tested every boundary, hurled every insult, and thrown every object within reach, yet the new nanny hadn’t cracked.
Serena pulled out a chair at the end of the table, sitting down with a quiet sigh as she massaged her aching shoulders.
Victor entered the dining room silently, pulling out the head seat opposite her. He looked down at the plate of food, then across the table at his sons, who were cautiously twirling pasta around their forks.
“Eat,” Victor instructed.
Marco took a bite. His chew slowed. His eyes widened slightly. He looked at Serena with a look of profound betrayal mixed with culinary appreciation. “It’s... okay,” he muttered defensively, shoving another forkful into his mouth.
Nico and Alessandro dug in without reservation, while Tommy quietly buttered a piece of crusty bread.
Victor took a bite of his own. The flavors were balanced, rich, perfectly executed. He set his fork down and looked up at Serena, resting his chin on his knuckles. “Where did you learn to cook like that? That’s not something they teach in standard nanny certifications.”
“My grandmother ran a trattoria in Queens,” Serena replied evenly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Before the medical bills ate the business and everything else we owned.”
“Trattoria,” Victor repeated, tasting the word. “Small business. Honest work. Hard losses.”
“You make it sound like a file in your criminal database,” Serena retorted, a spark of defiance flashing in her eyes.
Victor’s lips twitched upward—not a smile, but the ghost of one. “Everyone in New York is a file, Miss Valente. The only question is whether you’re written in ink or pencil.”
“And which one am I?”
“We’ll find out tomorrow morning,” Victor said, standing up from the table. “If you’re still breathing.”
He walked out of the room, leaving Serena alone with four boys who were suddenly eating in complete silence.
Once footsteps faded down the hall, Marco leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You’re not going to last the week.”
“Is that a warning or a bet?” Serena asked, taking a sip of water.
“Both,” Nico chimed in. “Dad doesn’t keep people. The longest anyone stayed before you was three days. Then Uncle Mateo scared her off with the guard dogs.”
Serena froze, her water glass halfway to her mouth. Guard dogs?
“Uncle Mateo?” she asked carefully.
“My brother,” a voice echoed from the dark doorway of the dining room.
May you like
Serena turned sharply. Standing in the shadow of the archway was a man who looked like Victor’s twin, save for a jagged scar running down his left jawline and a smile that didn't reach his cold, dead eyes. Mateo Rinaldi stepped into the light, wearing an expensive grey suit, twoking a silver lighter between his fingers.
“So,” Mateo murmured, walking slowly around the table toward Serena’s chair. “This is the new lamb. Let’s see how long her wool lasts.”
