Chapter 2 - The Rules of Ricci Territory
The contract was six pages long.
I read every word.
Matteo Ricci watched from across the library while Henry Brandt stood beside a silver tea tray, pretending not to listen. The room smelled like leather, cedarwood, and money. Every book on the floor-to-ceiling shelves looked untouched.
My daughter, Rosie, sat on the rug near the fireplace with a coloring book someone had brought her. The triplets stood at the far end of the room, whispering together like tiny mobsters planning a hostile takeover.
Leo was the loud one.
Asher was the dramatic one.
Nico was the quiet one.
Quiet children always worried me more.
“You’re reading it?” Matteo asked after several minutes.
“Yes.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Most people probably have eleven dollars less to lose.”
His gray eyes narrowed slightly.
I turned another page.
The job included a private suite in the east wing, meals, medical coverage, use of the grounds, and six thousand dollars a month. There was a clause about confidentiality. Another about security restrictions. And one about “behavioral management of minor residents.”
I looked up.
“Behavioral management?”
Henry cleared his throat. “The boys can be challenging.”
From behind me, something crashed.
I turned.
A porcelain vase had shattered across the marble floor.
Rosie jumped.
The three boys stared at me.
Leo pointed at Asher. “He did it.”
“I did not.”
“You threw the ball.”
“You moved.”
Nico folded his arms. “Technically, all three of us caused it.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“Enough.”
The boys froze.
Not because he raised his voice.
Because he didn’t.
That was when I understood the truth about the Ricci house.
Nobody screamed here.
They were too afraid to.
Rosie stood beside me and wrapped both arms around my waist. I put one hand on her hair.
Then I looked at Matteo.
“My first rule,” I said.
He gave me a cold, questioning look.
“You have rules?”
“If I’m responsible for the children, yes.”
“You are responsible for my sons. Not me.”
“That’s not how children work.”
Henry stopped pouring tea.
The boys stared openly.
Matteo walked closer, his expression unreadable.
“What is your rule, Ms. Bennett?”
I met his eyes.
“No one threatens, humiliates, or frightens a child in front of me. Not staff. Not guards. Not relatives. Not you.”
The silence that followed was enormous.
Leo’s mouth fell open.
Asher whispered, “She’s dead.”
Nico looked fascinated.
Matteo’s face did not change.
“You are making demands on your first day.”
“I’m setting boundaries on my first day.”
“You think you understand my family because you caught a water balloon?”
“No,” I said. “I think your sons are acting like boys who are angry, scared, and desperate for someone to notice why.”
Something flashed in Matteo’s eyes.
Pain.
It disappeared so quickly I might have imagined it.
“You have forty-eight hours,” he said.
“Then I’ll start now.”
I turned toward the boys.
“Who broke the vase?”
No one spoke.
I crouched until I was eye level with them.
“I’m not asking so I can punish you.”
Leo looked suspicious. “Then why?”
“Because lying makes a mess bigger. And somebody has to clean this up.”
Asher pointed to the broken vase. “The maids clean it.”
“Not today.”
All three boys blinked.
“What?” Leo asked.
“You break it, you help clean it.”
“You can’t make us,” Asher said.
“You’re right. I can’t make you.”
I looked at the shattered porcelain.
“But no lunch, no games, no television, no backyard, and no giant cookie Henry was planning to give you at three o’clock until the mess is cleaned.”
Henry looked offended. “How did you know about the cookies?”
“I can smell cinnamon.”
The boys looked at one another.
Then Nico, the quiet one, walked to the closet and took out a broom.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
Leo stared at him. “Traitor.”
“No,” Nico replied. “I want cookies.”
Within ten minutes, the three of them were sweeping broken porcelain into a dustpan while Rosie sat nearby and gave them unsolicited advice.
“You should not step on the sharp pieces,” she informed Leo.
“I know that,” Leo snapped.
“You almost did.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I almost did,” he muttered.
Rosie smiled.
For the first time, I saw one of the boys smile back.
It was Nico.
That night, after unpacking our two suitcases in the east wing, Rosie climbed into the large bed beside me.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Is Mr. Ricci bad?”
I stared at the ceiling.
Outside our window, security lights swept across the estate grounds.
“No,” I said carefully. “I think he’s a man who has forgotten how to be anything else.”
Rosie was quiet.
“Are the boys bad?”
“No.”
“They threw a balloon at you.”
“They did.”
“And broke a vase.”
“Yes.”
She considered that.
“Then maybe they’re medium bad.”
I laughed softly and kissed her forehead.
But after she fell asleep, I found a folded piece of paper beneath our door.
No name.
No message.
Just a photograph.
It showed a woman with dark hair standing beside Matteo Ricci.
The triplets were babies in her arms.
Across her face, someone had drawn a red X.
And beneath the photograph, written in black ink, were four words.
May you like
LEAVE BEFORE YOU DISAPPEAR TOO.
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