Chapter 1 - The First Audit at Breakfast
Morning at the Costa estate did not begin with the gentle chirping of birds or the smell of brewing coffee. It began with the tactical deployment of five hostile teenagers, two silent pre-teens, and a butler who looked like he had survived a coup d'état and expected another one before lunch.
I stood in the vast, professional-grade stainless-steel kitchen wearing an old cotton apron over a simple grey sweater. My hair was pinned back with a pencil. On the marble island before me sat a row of nine mason jars, three cartons of organic eggs, a block of sharp Vermont cheddar, and my father’s third-generation leather-bound ledger, wedged safely between a toaster and a cookbook on French pastry.
Julian was the first to enter. At seventeen, he wore the permanent expression of a young prince who had been told his crown was made of tin. He leaned against the doorframe, his school blazer unbuttoned, watching me with sharp, suspicious eyes.
“Where’s Mrs. Gable?” he asked, his tone flat. “She used to make waffles.”
“Mrs. Gable suffered a minor nervous breakdown yesterday afternoon after Felix tried to smuggle a live iguana into the pantry,” I said without looking up, vigorously whisking a bowl of eggs. “She’s taking a three-week paid vacation in the Bahamas courtesy of your father. Until then, you get me.”
Julian pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, stopping just short of the island. “We don’t need a new mother. And we definitely don’t need a failed accountant playing domestic. My dad is under a lot of stress. He makes bad calls when people get into his head. You’re just another expense.”
I stopped whisking. I set the metal whisk down on the marble with a sharp clink.
I turned slowly to face him. Julian was tall, nearly my height, and built like an athlete, but his shoulders were tight with a boy's defensive tension.
“Julian,” I said softly, my voice cutting cleanly through the hum of the massive industrial refrigerator. “Your father didn’t hire me to be your mother. He hired me because your house is bleeding money, your siblings are running wild, and someone needed to cook a decent meal before scurvy broke out in the west wing. Furthermore, if you’re going to critique my accounting background, try to do it before I finish reviewing Sloan Capital’s secondary loan origination fees from last November. Otherwise, you’ll sound foolish.”
His eyes flashed. “What do you know about Sloan Capital?”
“More than the man who signed for it,” I replied, turning back to the stove. “Sit down. Eat your eggs. And if you slam the front door on your way to school, I’m locking you out until dinner.”
Before Julian could fire back a retort, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Leonardo Costa walked in. He wore a dark charcoal suit, his white shirt collar open at the throat, dark stubble shadowing his jaw. He looked like a man who had slept for three hours and spent the other five calculating collateral damage.
He stopped, eyeing the kitchen. The atmosphere shifted instantly—the air pressure seemed to drop as the children began filtering in, one by one, silent and watchful.
“Coffee,” Leonardo muttered, pulling out a stool.
“Black, two drops of honey because your cortisol levels are through the roof, and if you drink it on an empty stomach today, you’ll throw it up by nine o’clock,” I said, sliding a steaming ceramic mug across the marble counter right to his hand.
Leonardo froze. He looked down at the mug, then up at me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.
“How do you know what my stomach does?”
“You have the posture of a man with chronic gastritis, dark circles under your eyes that aren't from lack of sleep alone, and your tailor let out the left side of your jacket to accommodate a hidden holster that strains your lower back when you sit,” I said smoothly, flipping a golden pancake. “Eat your breakfast, Leonardo. We have a lot to talk about.”
Across the table, ten-year-old Theo choked on a piece of bacon. Felix and Flora stared at me in stunned silence. Even Bianca, the fifteen-year-old rebel, paused mid-stride with her phone in her hand.
Leonardo took a slow, deliberate sip of the coffee. He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. Instead, a very faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
May you like
“A wife who cooks,” Leonardo murmured, his voice low and rich. “And reads my posture better than my personal physician. This should be an interesting week.”
“Oh, it will be,” I replied, setting a plate of pancakes in front of little Eliana, who beamed up at me. “Especially when I show you where the missing four hundred million dollars went.”
