THE MAFIA'S NANNY

The gate at 1845 Fifth Avenue opened by itself. Two men in black suits stared at my plastic slippers. My Goodwill dress. My two puffs. "Zara Okoro? Nanny interview?" I held up my phone. My hand was shaking. One pressed his earpiece. "She's here. The Nigerian." The mansion was not a house. It was a fortress. Cameras. Black SUVs. A lion fountain spitting water in November. I should have listened to Amaka. "Zara, $5,000 a week for nanny with no CV? They will harvest your kidney." But my rent was $1,800. My F-1 visa expires in 6 months. My mama in Ikorodu calls every day for school fees. I needed this money. The housekeeper opened the door and looked me up and down like I was dirt on her marble floor. "Wait in parlor. Don't touch anything. He will see you." I sat on the edge of a couch that cost more than my entire life. Then I heard him. Heavy footsteps. Slow. Like a man who owns the floor, the house, the street. He entered and I forgot how to breathe. 6'3. Black suit, white shirt open at the throat. Black hair slicked back. Grey eyes like winter. A scar from his lip to his chin. And a gold wedding ring still on his finger. Beautiful. Terrifying. He frowned at me. "You are not what I expected." "Sir?" My voice disappeared. "I expected Swiss CV. Nanny with Masters. You are..." "Black?" I said before I could stop myself. "Nigerian," he corrected. "NYU student, Queens, broke. I know everything about you, Zara." My blood ran cold. How? "I raised five brothers, sir. I can cook, clean, braid hair, teach-" "I don't need a maid," he cut me. "I need my daughter to speak." He pressed the intercom. "Bring her down." Tiny footsteps on marble. A little girl, 4 years old, came down holding the housekeeper's hand. Curly brown hair, dry. Big grey eyes like him. Pink designer dress too big for her. Empty eyes. "Sofia has not spoken in 14 months," the housekeeper whispered. "Since her mother died. Don't expect-" I knelt down. My knees cracked. "Hi, baby," I whispered in pidgin, the way my mama talks to us. "My name na Zara. You fine like doll. You wan make I pack your hair? Two shuku like my own?" She stared. I opened my bag and brought out the small pack of chin-chin I made for lunch. My only food. "Sweet small. I make am." She looked at the chin-chin. At me. Then her mouth opened. For the first time in 14 months, she spoke. "Mama." The housekeeper gasped. The man behind me froze. Sofia ran into my arms. She smelled like expensive perfume and loneliness. She buried her face in my puffs. "Mama! I want Mama Zara!" I held her, shocked. I started singing without thinking. "Omo mi, ma sun..." She cried against me. The man - Lorenzo - dropped to his knees with us on his $15,000 rug. His eyes were wet. His fist was so tight his gold ring cut his skin. "Sofia," his voice broke. "Say it again, principessa." Sofia wiped her snot on my dress and said clearly to her father: "I want her." Lorenzo closed his eyes. One tear fell. He wiped it angrily. Then he stood. Cold again. Dangerous again. "You are hired. $5,000 a week. Live-in. Starting now." "My bag is in Queens-" "Maria will buy you everything. You sign NDA. You don't talk to press. You don't leave without permission." He stepped closer. I could smell his cologne, tobacco, power. "Rules. One: Don't touch my daughter without asking." I was still holding her. "Two: Don't enter my wing after 9 PM." "Three..." His eyes dropped to my lips, my dress, my thighs. His jaw clenched. "Don't get pregnant with my child." My mouth dropped. "Sir! I came to watch your pikin, not to seduce you! I no dey like old man!" The housekeeper choked. He almost smiled. Almost. "I'm 34, Zara Okoro." "Old enough to be my sugar daddy." Sofia giggled. Actually giggled. Lorenzo stared at his daughter laughing in my arms like he had seen a miracle. "Zara Okoro," he said my name slowly. "Welcome to hell. You just became nanny to a mafia princess." Behind him, on the staircase, two men in suits shifted, and I saw guns under their jackets. Kidney harvest would have been easier.