Lethal Care (The Nanny Strategy).

POV: Julian Vane The penthouse didn't look like a home. It looked like a fortress made of glass, steel, and paranoia. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the forty-fifth floor, looking down at the grey sprawl of London. It was raining. It was always raining. The droplets lashed against the reinforced thermal glass, blurring the city lights into streaks of neon and misery. "Next," I said, not turning around. "Mr. Vane, this is the last one," my assistant, Sarah, whispered from the doorway. She sounded exhausted. Her heels clicked nervously on the marble floor. "We’ve gone through twelve candidates in three days. The agency says if this one doesn't work out, they’re blacklisting us. Apparently, our turnover rate is 'statistically alarming.'" I turned, taking a sip of my fourth espresso. The bitter liquid was the only thing keeping the migraine behind my eyes at bay. "Send him in," I commanded. I checked my watch—a platinum Patek Philippe that cost more than most people’s houses. 2:00 PM. I had a meeting with the Bratva in two hours to discuss a "laundering issue" that had left three people dead in a shipping container. I didn't have time to interview a babysitter. I didn't need a Mary Poppins. I didn't need someone to nurture my son's spirit. I needed a body. I needed someone to stand between Leo and the door. Someone expendable who wouldn't ask why the windows were bulletproof or why I carried a Sig Sauer P365 in a shoulder holster under my tailored suit. The heavy oak doors opened. "Mr. Ezra Cohen," Sarah announced, stepping aside. I braced myself for another stiff-lipped governess or a gym-bro looking for easy security cash. I didn't expect... a marshmallow. The man who walked in was a tragedy of pastel wool. He was wearing an oversized, chunky knit cardigan in a soft, offensive shade of buttercup yellow. Underneath was a crisp white collar, and his trousers were brown corduroy. He looked like a 1950s librarian who had gotten lost on the way to a bake sale. He clutched a canvas tote bag to his chest like a shield. His glasses were round and thick, sliding slightly down his nose, magnifying his grey eyes into wide, innocent saucers. He looked soft. He looked breakable. He was perfect. "Mr. Vane," Ezra Cohen said. His voice was soft, melodic, with a faint, unplaceable lilt. "Thank you for seeing me." "Sit," I commanded, gesturing to the uncomfortable steel chair opposite my desk. Ezra sat. He didn't cross his legs; he folded his hands in his lap. He looked around the office—at the sharp edges, the monochrome art, the heavy biometric lock on the door—with mild curiosity. "I've read your file," I lied. I hadn't. I just needed to know if he had a pulse and a lack of self-preservation. "You have no prior experience with high-profile families." "No, sir," Ezra smiled. It was a shy, crooked thing. "I was a librarian for a few years. Then a baker. But I’m... very good with chaos. I find it calming." "This isn't a bakery, Mr. Cohen," I said, leaning forward. I let my "Fixer" mask slip into place—the cold, dead-eyed stare that made CEOs and cartel lieutenants sweat. "My son, Leo, is six. He doesn't speak. He doesn't play. And my life is... complicated. I have enemies." I waited for him to flinch. To ask about the enemies. To ask about the panic button under the desk. Ezra didn't blink. He just adjusted his glasses. "I assumed as much," he said pleasantly. "Rich men always have enemies. Is there a dietary restriction I should know about? Allergies? Does he react poorly to gluten?" I stared at him. "You’re not worried about the safety risks?" "Mr. Vane," Ezra sighed, looking down at his hands. "I have student loans and a cat with expensive taste in tuna. Unless your enemies are going to dock my pay, I really don't care who they are." Desperate, I thought. Good. Desperate people are loyal. "The pay is one hundred thousand pounds a year," I said. "Live-in. You don't have guests. You don't leave the building with the boy unless I authorize it." I stood up and walked around the desk, stopping in front of him. I loomed over him, using my height to intimidate. "And if someone comes through that door who isn't me... your only job is to get Leo into the panic room. Do you understand?" "Get the boy to safety," Ezra repeated. "Understood." "And you?" I asked, testing him. "What happens to you?" Ezra looked up. Behind the thick lenses, his eyes were a strange, pale grey. For a second—just a fraction of a second—the shy baker vanished. The eyes that looked back at me were completely dead. "Oh, don't worry about me, sir," he said softly. "I’m very hard to break." A shadow moved in the hallway. I looked up. Leo stood in the doorway. My son was small for his age, clutching a stuffed raven I had bought him after his mother died. He was wearing dark pajamas, his hair messy. He stared at Ezra with dark, unreadable eyes. Leo hated nannies. He usually bit them. The last one lasted four hours before Leo locked her in the coat closet. "Leo," I said, my voice softening involuntarily. "Come say hello." Leo didn't move. He hugged the raven tighter. Ezra turned in his chair. He didn't do what the others did. He didn't pitch his voice up into that condescending 'baby talk' register. He didn't smile or wave or try to offer a sweet. He just looked at Leo, then looked at the floorboards. "You step heavy on your left foot," Ezra said to the six-year-old. Conversational. Matter-of-fact. "It makes the floor squeak. If you shift your weight to the ball of your right foot, you can move without making a sound." I frowned. "What are you telling him?" Leo’s eyes widened. He looked at his feet. He shifted his weight. He took a step. Silence. Leo took another step. Silence. The boy looked at Ezra with something close to awe. Ezra winked. "See? Ninja." I sat back against the edge of my desk. Leo hadn't engaged with anyone in six months, and this man in a yellow sweater just taught him how to stealth-walk in thirty seconds. "You're hired," I said abruptly. "You start now. Sarah will show you your room." Ezra stood up, hugging his tote bag. "Wonderful. I brought sourdough starter. The kitchen smelled a bit... sterile. Yeast will help with the humidity." He walked to the door. As he passed Leo, he didn't try to pat his head. He just nodded, like one soldier acknowledging another. I watched him go. He was soft. He was naive. He was going to get eaten alive by my world. But as long as he kept Leo safe for a few months before he cracked, he was worth the money. POV: Ezra I walked down the hallway, listening to the rhythm of my new boss’s breathing as it faded behind the heavy oak door. Julian Vane. High blood pressure. Resting heart rate of roughly 90 BPM. He carries a compact firearm—likely a Sig or a Glock 43—under his left arm. I saw the faint print against the Italian wool when he leaned forward. And he’s terrified. I adjusted my cardigan, scratching at the wool. I hated yellow. It made me look jaundiced. But the agency handler had insisted: “Bright colors disarm the target. Wear glasses. Look harmless.” It was working. Julian thought I was a lamb. I glanced at the layout of the penthouse as I followed the assistant, Sarah, toward the guest wing. North windows: Thermal laminate, but the seals are degrading. A sniper on the adjacent roof could punch through with a .50 cal. Ventilation: Interconnected system. Susceptible to aerosolized gas. Sarah: Walking with a slight limp on the left side. Hip injury? Useless in a firefight. It was a death trap. A very expensive, very shiny death trap. I looked down. The kid, Leo, was trailing me by three feet. He was mimicking my gait, rolling his feet heel-to-toe to stay silent on the hardwood. I stopped. He stopped. I crouched down so I was eye-level with him. Up close, I saw the shadows under his eyes. Hyper-vigilance. The kid wasn't sleeping because he was waiting for the monsters to come back. I knew the feeling. "Your dad thinks he hired a shield," I whispered to the kid, keeping my voice too low for Sarah to hear up ahead. Leo tilted his head, clutching his stuffed raven. "He didn't," I grinned, and I let the 'nice baker' mask slip just enough to show the teeth beneath. "He hired a claymore mine in a cardigan." I patted my tote bag, feeling the heavy, comforting weight of my favorite ceramic knives wrapped in a tea towel at the bottom. "Do you like cooking, Leo?" Leo hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. "Good," I said, pushing my glasses up my nose. "Come on. Let’s go see if this kitchen has a decent sharpening stone. I have a feeling we’re going to need it." I stood up and continued down the hall. Julian Vane wanted a nanny. He wanted someone to clean up the mess. Well, I was excellent at cleaning. I just used bleach and body bags instead of mops and buckets.