Page 23 of The Art of Ruin

They.

Adriano and Letty. Father and daughter. The unit I’m entering but not part of. I know this role. I know the edges of it. Nannies live in the margins of family life, close enough to learn the rhythms, far enough to remember the music belongs to someone else.

“I don’t want to intrude,” I say.

Elena gives me a look that reminds me so sharply of Isabella that I almost smile again.

“You are not intruding if you are invited. Come.”

She turns before I can argue, and I follow because it’s easier than standing in the doorway pretending I have a choice.

The main house smells like garlic, basil, and something warm enough to make my stomach pull tight with hunger I hadn’t realized I was ignoring. The kitchen is brighter now than it was earlier; the late afternoon sun stretches thin across the counters. A pot sits on the stove with steam lifting lazily frombeneath the lid, and a small bowl of grated parmesan cheese waits beside it.

Letty is already at the table, kneeling on her chair instead of sitting properly, one sock sliding halfway off her heel. She has a crayon in one hand and a piece of paper in front of her.

She looks up when I enter like she has been expecting me, a wide grin splitting her face. “You’re eating with us,” she announces.

“I’ve been told.”

“Elena made pasta. Daddy says pasta is messy, but I’m careful.”

Elena snorts softly behind me.

At the far side of the kitchen, Adriano stands by the counter. The jacket is gone. The tie has been loosened, though not removed, and the cuffs of his white shirt are folded neatly over his drool-worthy forearms. It shouldn’t change him as much as it does. It shouldn’t make him look less severe, because nothing about Adriano Mancini seems soft. But somehow, with the professional armor partly stripped back, he looks more real.

Not softer exactly, but more human, more real.

He looks up from the glass he’s filling with water, and whatever ease I thought I saw vanishes behind that precise, unreadable expression.

“Miss Campbell.”

“Mr. Mancini.”

Letty looks between us and frowns. “Her name is Casey.”

“I’m aware of that, Jellybean,” he says.

Jellybean. He calls her jellybean, and my heart does this weird skitter. Especially as he says it with such affection.

“Then say Casey, silly.”

Elena turns away from the stove a little too quickly, but not before I see her smile.

Adriano looks down at his daughter. “Casey,” he corrects, without looking at me.

It should not feel like anything, but it does.

I take the seat Elena gestures to across from Letty and one chair down from Adriano. Not beside him. Not too far away. A safe placement, probably chosen by a woman who has spent her life reading rooms.

“Right, I’ll leave you all to your dinner.” Elena lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. “Good luck and call me if you need anything.”

“You’re leaving?” Adriano frowns, looking put out by the thought.

“Yes. I have things to do, and you don’t need an old lady like me here when you have a very capable young woman to help you with whatever you need.”

I notice a hint of a pink stain on Adriano’s cheeks before he nods. “I’ll walk you out.”

He gets up and ushers Elena out, his hand behind her in a respectful, but caring way. She’s in his inner circle; she’s family to him, and I wonder what that must feel like.