Chapter 2 - The Ultimate Ultimatum
The door had been opened by a weary housekeeper in a crisp gray uniform who studied Serena from the damp roots of her hair down to her squeaking shoes with the profound, heavy pity of someone watching a lamb walk willingly into a slaughterhouse.
“You’re the new one?” the woman had asked.
“Serena Valente.”
“The test begins at dinner,” the housekeeper had warned quietly. “If you even last that long. Most of them don’t make it past lunch.”
Now, standing inside the vast, high-ceilinged kitchen, Serena surveyed the chaos up close. One boy, Marco, stood defiantly on top of the central island, pouring fresh orange juice from far above his head as if he were testing the limits of gravity and deeply annoyed by its resistance. Another, Nico, crouched beneath the massive oak table, constructing a fort out of cereal boxes while aggressively emptying their contents across the floor. A third, Alessandro, had discovered that spilled butter made the lower cabinet doors slick enough to use as a makeshift indoor slide. The fourth, Tommy, sat cross-legged in the far corner, entirely silent and deeply observant, dark curls falling across his wide, unreadable eyes.
And then there was Victor Rinaldi.
Dressed in a tailored black suit with the collar open and sleeves pushed back, his dark hair slightly ruffled and his jaw shadowed by a neatly trimmed beard, he looked every bit the billionaire underworld titan. His eyes were like sealed iron doors.
“You’re the new one,” he stated, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the room.
“Serena Valente.”
“I don’t care about your résumé,” Victor interrupted smoothly, taking a slow sip of his wine. “I don’t care about your glowing references, and I certainly don’t care about whatever modern child psychology theories you picked up from some overpriced university program telling you that all children need is endless patience and gentle understanding.”
Up on the island, Marco dumped the remainder of the orange juice carton directly onto the spotless floor. Victor didn't even flinch.
“The rules are simple,” Victor continued, gesturing vaguely with his wine glass toward the destruction. “If you can get these four seated at this table eating an actual, proper dinner before eight o’clock, you’re hired. Full salary, comprehensive benefits, and a private suite on the third floor if you want it.”
Serena glanced sharply at the antique wall clock near the pantry. 6:47 p.m. Exactly seventy-three minutes.
“And if I can’t?” Serena asked evenly.
“Then,” Victor replied, his dark gaze locking onto hers with chilling indifference, “don’t let the heavy oak door hit you on your way out.”
From beneath the table, Marco crawled out with fruit loops tangled in his hair and a sharp, challenging grin splitting his face. “The last one cried,” the boy declared proudly, puffing out his chest. “She cried so hard she couldn’t even breathe right, and then she ran away into the rain.”
“Marco,” Victor warned, a subtle edge sharpening his tone.
The boy just shrugged, treating his father’s dangerous authority like harmless background noise. Serena didn't yell, she didn't scold, and she didn't burst into tears. Instead, she calmly unzipped her worn leather purse, placed it on the only clean corner of the marble counter, and slowly rolled up her sleeves.
“Where do you keep the sharp knives?” she asked.
May you like
Victor arched a single dark eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. “Why?”
“Because,” Serena replied, her voice steady and crisp, “if I have exactly seventy-three minutes to get four hyperactive, destructive boys fed a real, hot dinner from scratch, I’m going to need to cook.”
