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.

That night, the mansion was shrouded in a heavy, suffocating quiet.

After ensuring Noah was sound asleep, I slipped out of my quarters on the second floor. My ribs still burned with a sharp, dull ache, but the image of Noah’s terrifying crayon drawing kept my blood running hot.

I moved down the carpeted hallway, avoiding the soft spots in the floorboards that I had memorized during my cleaning shifts.

The north wing was blocked by a massive, arched mahogany door with a heavy brass keypad.

I stood in the shadows near a marble pillar, watching the door from twenty feet away. At precisely 11:30 PM, the soft click of fine leather shoes echoed from the stairwell.

Dr. Julian Vance walked down the hall.

He was a tall, silver-haired man in his late fifties, dressed in a sharp gray suit beneath a crisp lab coat. He carried a silver metallic briefcase with a biometric lock.

Mrs. Hargrove, the house manager, stepped out from a side door to meet him.

“Is the dose ready?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“It is,” Dr. Julian replied smoothly. “The boy’s outbursts are becoming harder to explain to Dominic. We need to increase the sedative compound before the child starts speaking clearly again.”

“Dominic hired a new girl,” Mrs. Hargrove warned, her tone bitter. “A cleaner. The boy dropped his guard around her yesterday.”

Dr. Julian smiled, a cold, clinical expression that made my stomach turn.

“Then we will ensure the cleaner doesn't remain a problem,” Julian said calmly. “If she pokes her nose where it doesn't belong, she can meet the same fate as the boy’s mother.”