Yuna's POV
Rain has a way of washing away everything except the truth. By the time I reach the Mancini estate, I'm soaked to the bone, cold, and tired enough to cry, but I don't. Crying doesn't get you through gates like these.
The place looks more like a fortress than a home. Tall iron gates, cameras in every corner and tall guards that look like they were carved out of concrete. When I stop in front of them, one steps forward and scans me from head to toe.
"ID," the closest one says.
I slide my fingers into the pocket of my bag and draw out the forged papers I've kept folded inside. The name on the document reads Yuna Marlowe. Fresh face. Fresh history. A nanny with good references.
The tallest and scariest guard seizes the paper from my hand and scans it intensely. "No previous employers listed," he says.
That could be a problem, but I don't panic. I have the sense of all the things I was taught to be good at, disappearing being the top of the list, and now I'm performing the second-best thing: pretending to be someone else in front of people with guns.
"Oh, I will be happy to provide one if it's necessary." I say with the most polite smile I could muster while baiting my eyelids just the right amount of naiveness.
He exchanges a look with colleagues before turning to me. "You'll wait in the foyer. No devices on the premises."
No devices. That's fine, the internet is something I can live without. The guards' eyes slide to my hand, to my bag and there's a brief search. His hands roam all over me, before stepping back and giving me a curt nod to move inside. Two more guards appear out of nowhere. One takes my suitcase, the other walks beside me like I might try to bolt.
The doors of the foyer open and heat spills out and hits me like a shock. The guards say nothing as I peel off my wet coat.
One of them mutters into a radio: "She's here," then they both leave me standing alone.
For a minute, the only sound is the rain and the ticking of a clock somewhere down the hall. Then steady footsteps draw closer and the air shifts before I even see him.
Ze'ev Mancini, the Underboss of the Mancini Syndicate.
If the guards were built from steel, then this man was forged from something colder. His suit is dark charcoal and perfectly fitted to his huge muscles. His expression doesn't change even as his eyes lock onto mine.
"You don't look like a nanny," he says blankly. It is not a question.
I smile because that's what people do when confronted with dangerous things. "No," I say. "I suppose I don't. I clean up well."
He closes the distance between us in three steps. "Who sent you?"
The question is small and vast at the same time. I could answer with the truth, but the truth is tricky when you're being evaluated by someone of his calibre.
But I don't. Instead, I square my shoulders and say: "Word of mouth from a local pub."
Ze'ev's mouth tightens as his gaze shifts from me to my damp coat. For a moment, I think he is about to tear my head off for ruining his expensive carpet, but he roams his eyes all over my body, stopping a moment too long on my chest and says; "You're wet. Where have you been?"
I could say I was fleeing from my past. I could say I changed my name and my hair colour and my social security number. But I don't, because again, lying is the safer option.
"The train station. I walked under the rain to be on time." I reply, suddenly feeling too conscious of my appearance. Ze'ev nods and walks to his seat.
A footman appears and suddenly, I am being asked about allergies, emergency contacts, vaccination records, all of which are nonexistent, so I give him names that mean nothing and therefore cannot be checked.
Ze'ev reads them and pins the paper between his long, manicured fingers. He tilts his head quizzically as though something didn't quite sit right with him regarding me.
"Why this job? Why here?"
Because I need a place with walls and a child with a name that will get me through life without turning me into a headline in the underground. Because I am tired of running and waiting for the wrong person to notice me. Because he's the underboss that will, hopefully, notice a quiet nanny far less than anyone else would notice someone who faked her death.
I do not say any of that. I say, "Stable work. Good references, and I like children."
He turns his head just slightly, to my left, and there, in the tacked-up portraits on the wall, in the way the staff flinches when he speaks — I see the gravity of the decision I made. This place is like a hub designed to contain violence and to export it on demand. I am not stupid enough to smile about it.
"Do you have police records, Miss Marlowe?" I almost laugh at the irony of his question.
"No."
"Any aliases?"
"No."
He studies my face and there's a moment of silence so thick you could cut it and sell it for information. If this were a test, it would be an advanced one: reading a person by absence.
"You step out of line," he says then, and his voice is as calm as once can imagine, "and I'll end you myself."
He says it like it is a courtesy, like he's offering me the chance to make a smart choice. It is not the worst thing anyone's said to me, nor is it the first guarantee of violence I have heard. Oddly, there is a strange, ridiculous relief in the clarity of threat. At least it's direct.
"That's an unusual thing to say during an interview," I say.
He does not smile. He tucks the little paper with my references into his jacket pocket. "Do you understand the rules?"
"Yes."
"Rule one: you do not bring friends. Rule two: you do not leave the estate with my approval. Rule three: you do not ask questions about business. Rule four: you do not mistake softness for weakness."
I nod along as he speaks. I can follow them. I can pretend. I can be quiet, because sometimes in the quietness there is safety.
"Good," he says. Then, because I have the impression of the job on the table, he adds, "You start immediately. If you fail any of these conditions, I will know."
______