The eighteenth nanny fled Dominic Vale’s mansion with blood running down her forehead, screaming that his four-year-old son was “not right.” A few hours later, that same little boy smashed a bronze statue into my ribs while one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses watched from the staircase—but when I looked into Noah’s eyes, I didn’t see a violent child. I saw terror.

The eighteenth nanny didn’t just quit; she tore through the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Vale estate with blood streaming from her hairline, screaming at the top of her lungs that the boy was a demon.

Three hours later, I was kneeling on the cold marble floor of the grand foyer, gasping for air as a sharp, agonizing heat radiated through my left rib cage.

A heavy bronze horse lay beside me, its base smeared with my blood.

“Noah!” Dominic Vale’s voice shattered the silence like a gunshot.

The ruler of Chicago’s underground stepped down the grand staircase, his broad shoulders framed by a tailored black suit. His eyes were cold, calculated, and terrifying. Every guard in the room froze.

Four-year-old Noah stood two feet away from me. His pale knuckles were clenched, his chest heaving under a dark velvet sweater. His tiny face was flushed crimson with rage, and his dark eyes burned as he looked around at the towering men surrounding him.

The guards stepped forward, reaching for their guns, expecting the worst.

I held up a trembling hand to stop them.

“Don’t,” I rasped, clutching my side. The pain was blinding, but I forced myself to stay on my knees. I didn’t yell. I didn’t raise my hand.

I looked straight into the boy’s eyes. Behind the wild fury, behind the flying fists and broken glass, I didn't see a brat. I didn't see a monster.

I saw a child drowning in pure, unadulterated terror.

“You don’t want me touching you, do you?” I whispered, keeping my voice soft, steady, and low.

Noah went completely still. His small shoulders dropped an inch.

The silence in the foyer was deafening.

I kept my gaze fixed on him, ignoring the blood warm against my sweater. “Is something over there hurting you?” I asked, gesturing vaguely toward the dimly lit hallway of the north wing.

Noah’s chest hitched. He looked at me, then darted his eyes toward the forbidden hallway where the house manager had strictly warned me never to walk.

He dropped his chin, his lower lip trembling.

Then, he leaned forward and whispered a single name into the quiet room.