The Billionaire's Nanny

Chapter One:The Nanny Contract Rain drizzled across the cracked windows of the Brooklyn daycare center, dulling the already gray afternoon. Ava Carter sat cross-legged on the floor with a sticky-fingered toddler in her lap and the scent of pureed peas staining her sweatshirt. The fluorescent lights above hummed as if echoing her tired heartbeat. She’d counted down the minutes since lunch, hoping her shift would end before the storm got worse but life rarely gave her easy exits. “You okay, sunshine?” Gianna Rossi leaned against the door frame of the playroom, twirling a red pen in her fingers. Her dark curls were pinned into a messy bun, and her name tag read Assistant Director, though she wielded it more like a crown than a title. Ava smiled, exhausted. “Living the dream. Pea-flavored, tantrum-laced and underpaid.” Gianna chuckled, her expression shifting to concern as she stepped inside. “Seriously though. You’re pale again. Did you eat?” “Nope,” Ava said. “But I found an unopened applesauce in the breakroom.” “That’s not food, Ava. That’s a punishment.” Ava smirked and stood up slowly, adjusting the hem of her threadbare cardigan. She didn’t have the luxury of good food or good clothes. Not when most of her paycheck disappeared into rent and debt. She didn’t want Gianna to worry she’d already done too much. Gianna crossed her arms. “Okay, now I’m really worried.” Ava turned her eyes to the window. “I got an offer.” Gianna raised a brow. “For another job?” Ava hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip. “Not here. Overseas. Italy.” Gianna blinked. “Italy? Ava what? You hate planes. You don’t even speak Italian.” “I got the message last night. It’s a nanny position for a three-year-old. Live-in. Full benefits. The salary was insane.” She pulled out her cracked phone and passed it to Gianna. Gianna scanned the email and her mouth fell open. “This is wow. A private estate? Discretion clause? Who the hell is V. Moretti?” “I googled him. There’s barely anything. Some corporate ghost. Owns half of Europe’s shipping industry. But everything’s behind shell companies. No interviews. No press.” Ava took the phone back and locked it. “I think he’s mafia. Like, the real kind.” Gianna laughed. “And you want to work for him?” “I want to breathe again, Gia.” Ava’s voice cracked. “I can’t keep doing this. I’m drowning here. That money could change my life. Pay off everything. Maybe even go back to school.” Gianna’s expression softened. She knew Ava’s story every bruise of it. The accident that killed her parents. The relatives who bailed. The foster system. The college dream that died under medical bills. “Have you talked to him?” “No. I got a call from someone named Lorenzo. He said the position was urgent and that they’d already vetted me. Background check and everything. Said they’d send a car to the airport.” “That doesn’t sound sketchy at all.” Ava sighed. “You know what’s more sketchy? Me, stuck in this job at thirty, still fighting to afford toothpaste.” Gianna frowned. “You’re twenty-five.” “Feels like thirty.” Gianna dropped onto the floor beside her. “So what are you going to do? Just pack up and go?” Ava looked down at the child now sleeping in the corner. A boy with dark curls and a stubborn scowl. She wondered if the Moretti child would be like him. Lonely. Angry. Quiet. Could she help another child? Could she help herself? “I leave tonight,” she said quietly. “Flight’s booked. Car’s picking me up at nine.” Gianna stared at her. “Holy shit.” Later that evening, Ava sat on the edge of her narrow bed in their shoebox apartment, a single suitcase at her feet. Gianna stood in the doorway holding a bottle of cheap prosecco and two plastic cups. “For the road,” she said, handing one over. “You make it sound like I’m being executed.” “I’m just trying to numb the part of my brain that’s screaming you’re flying to Italy to nanny for the actual mafia.” Ava laughed softly and took a sip. It fizzed down her throat like a dare. “Promise you’ll call me every week?” “Every day,” Gianna said. “And if anything feels weird, or shady, or murdery, you tell me. Immediately. I will call the embassy, the police, Liam Neeson whoever.” “I will,” Ava promised. They clinked plastic and drank the rest in silence. At precisely 9:00 p.m., a sleek black car pulled up outside. The driver stepped out, tall and imposing, with a chiseled jaw and a scar that cut across one brow. He didn’t speak. Just nodded and opened the door for her. Ava turned to Gianna one last time. “Still think I’m insane?” she whispered. Gianna hugged her tight. “Absolutely. But maybe you need a little insanity.” She got in the car. The drive to the airport was silent. Ava tried to start small talk once, but the driver Lorenzo, she guessed only responded with a glance. She stared out at the city fading into darkness and wondered what she was truly running toward. At the airport, no lines, no terminals. Just a black-clad man with her name on a clipboard, directing her to a private jet. Once inside, she was alone. Alone with plush leather seats, champagne she didn’t touch, and a sleek binder on the table bearing a gold-stamped crest and the words: The Moretti Estate – Employment Agreement She flipped it open. The language was formal, cold. Rules, clauses, penalties. One section was redacted. Another required biometric data. And at the end was a note, handwritten in thick black ink: > You will follow instructions. You will never enter restricted areas. You will never question me. > Do not mistake kindness for safety-V.Moretti Ava swallowed hard and closed the binder. The plane lifted off. By morning, Ava’s world had changed. The jet descended into northern Italy, mountains sprawling in the distance like silent sentinels. The villa came into view during the drive: a sprawling estate set against a sapphire lake, vines crawling over stone walls, wrought-iron gates guarded by silent men in black suits. As the car approached the front steps, Ava’s pulse thundered in her ears. This wasn’t a house. This was a fortress. And she had just signed herself inside it.