Eighteen terrified nannies had already fled Dominic Vale’s fortified estate,

The grandfather clock in the corner of the grand salon chimed five times, its deep bronze tones vibrating through the stone walls like funeral bells.

Dominic Vale did not move for ten full seconds. His massive hands, which had remained buried in his trouser pockets, slowly emerged. The fingers were trembling—an almost microscopic twitch that only someone kneeling at his feet could notice.

"What did he say?" Dominic’s voice was no longer iron; it was broken glass.

Noah’s grip on my wrist tightened until his tiny fingernails dug through my sleeve, biting into my skin. He buried his face deeper into my collarbone, his breathing shallow and rapid, his little heart fluttering against my bruised ribs like an injured sparrow.

"He said he was tired, Mr. Vale," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice level, though my own pulse was hammering against my temples.

I looked up into the mob boss’s leaden gaze. "He threw the bronze because he expected you to hit him. He’s never been taught that anger can end without blood."

Dominic took two slow, measured steps forward. His polished Italian leather shoes made no sound on the marble. He stopped twelve inches from where I knelt, looking down at his son—the boy who had rejected eighteen professional caretakers, who had bitten guards, who had screamed until his vocal cords bled whenever anyone entered his room.

The child was clinging to me as if I were the only solid object in an ocean of fire.

"Noah," Dominic murmured. The tone was hesitant, awkward, carrying the tragic stiffness of a father who did not know how to touch his own flesh and blood without breaking it.

The boy did not turn around. He pressed himself harder against my chest, his small hands bunching the wool of my gray coat into tight knots.

Dominic’s jaw tightened. The vulnerability that had shattered his face vanished, sealed back behind an impenetrable mask of ruthless command. He looked down at me, his eyes scanning the tear in my blouse where the bronze horse had struck, noticing the pale, bruised swelling already forming above my ribs.

"Dr. Mercer will be here in twenty minutes to strap your ribs," Dominic said coldly. "You have cracked cartilage. Possibly a hairline fracture."

"I don't need a doctor, Mr. Vale," I replied, carefully shifting Noah’s weight so I could stand. My ribs screamed in protest, a sharp, nauseating jolt of pain that made the room blur for a second, but I didn't let a sound escape my lips. "I need a warm bath for your son, a bowl of chicken broth, and the key to the second-floor nursery."

Dominic stared at me. For the first time, a flicker of something resembling respect crossed his severe features.

"The nursery is unlocked," he said, turning back toward the panoramic window. "The north wing, however, is not. If you are found past the double oak doors at the end of the east gallery, Miss Hayes, your contract will be terminated immediately. And you will not leave this estate with your memories intact."

"Understood," I said quietly.

Twenty minutes later, I was kneeling on the tiled floor of the master nursery bathroom, testing the temperature of the steaming tub with my elbow.

Noah sat on the edge of the porcelain basin, his legs dangling. He was watching me with unblinking, diagnostic intensity. He had not let go of my wrist until I began drawing the water, and even now, his dark eyes never strayed more than two feet from my hands.

"No soap," he whispered suddenly.

It was only the second time he had spoken, his voice thin and raspy from months of disuse.

I stopped, holding the lavender-scented bubble bath bottle over the water. I turned my head to look at him. "No soap? Why, Noah?"

The boy pointed a tiny, trembling finger toward the antique silver tea service sitting on the mahogany credenza in the nursery living room—a tray that had been delivered by the estate’s head housekeeper fifteen minutes ago.

"The tea," Noah whispered, his eyes wide with dark, ancient knowledge. "Smells like the soap. Smells like bitter nuts. The woman with the blue eyes puts drops in the cup before Father comes home."

My blood ran arctic cold.

Bitter nuts.

Cyanide. Or amygdalin. A lethal dose of prussic acid carried the distinct, unmistakable odor of bitter almonds.

I stood up slowly, keeping my movements calm so I wouldn't startle the child. I walked out into the nursery living room and approached the silver tray. There was a delicate porcelain teacup, a pot of Earl Grey, and a small silver creamer.

I leaned down. I didn't drink. I wafted the steam toward my nose with a flick of my hand.

Beneath the heavy, bergamot aroma of the black tea lay an unmistakable, sharp, chemical sweetness.

Bitter almonds.

Someone inside Blackwood Manor was systematically poisoning the most feared syndicate boss in North America.

And a four-year-old feral child was the only person who knew.

I turned back to the bathroom door. Noah was standing in the threshold, clutching his fleece blanket, watching me with an expression that was far too old, far too broken for a boy who had only seen four winters.

"Who is Kalliope, Noah?" I whispered, kneeling before him on the parquet floor.