Chapter 1 — Dante
I pulled the pocket square from my perfectly fitted white Tom Ford suit jacket, wiped my knife clean, and stepped over the body at my feet.
Damn, man,” King said, my right hand.
“Take care of this,” I said to one of my men as King and I walked out of the warehouse.
“I don’t how you managed not to get any blood on your precious Tomy Ford, but it’s impressive.”
“It’s Tom Ford, I said, “And a lot of practice. Precision.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out—nanny interview in twenty minutes.
“Man, another one?” King said, looking over my shoulder. “What happened to the last nanny?”
“Daisy didn’t like her. Said—and I quote—her feet stink and she doesn’t do TikTok dances right.”
King stared at me.
“And?”
I shrugged, already pulling my phone back out.
“I fucked her against the kitchen counter,” I muttered. She got obsessive.”
He looked at me for a second, then burst out laughing.
“Of course you did,” he said, still laughing. “You gotta stop sticking your dick in the nannies, or you’re gonna be doing interviews every other week.”
He shook his head.
“At this point, just hire someone you’re not attracted to… or better yet, get Mrs. Doubtfire.”
“Ha ha,” I said. “I gotta go.”
I got into my black Range Rover with red interior and headed home.
When I got home, barely in the door, Daisy ran up to me, wrapping her arms around my leg.
“Daddy, you’re home,” She said. “Can I have ice cream?”
I picked her up, smooshing her cheek with a big, wet kiss.
She giggled.
I sat her down and ruffled her curly auburn hair. “Not before dinner.”
“Aww, man,” she said, already walking away.
Delores—my sixty-year- housekeeper and temporary nanny—came around the corner, hand on her hip.
“Hey, Delores. I’m gonna take a quick shower. If the nanny comes, have her wait in my office.”
It was a quarter past two. I had less than fifteen minutes to take a shower and be ready for the interview.
Hopefully she’s competent enough…and not attractive.
I got out the shower and threw on a black T-shirt and some gray sweatpants. Looked at the time and I’m late I’m never late I head down stairs with my towel on my head drying my damp hair
I hear laughter and noise so I follow the sound to the living room.
There’s a beautiful dark-skinned woman sitter on her knees across from my daughter, Daisy in front of her, sitting crisscross applesauce, laughing so hard she could barely breath.
The woman sings, hands moving with each word like she’s done this a hundred times.
“Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum these are my fingers. These are my thumbs
Fee-Fi-Fo-Filly
These are my fingers being silly!
Fee-Fi-Fo-Flack these are my fingers making a stack.
Fee-Fi-Fo-Flan these are my fingers being a fan…”
I stopped at the doorway, jaw tightening.
Her hair—blonde.
Not natural. Not even close.
The pale color sits in sharp contrast against her deep brown skin, pulled into a high ponytail with a pastel bow like she’s trying to package herself into something harmless.
I don’t like that.
I don’t like her.
“Thats enough.”
Daisy looked up at me, smiling.
The woman glanced up too, calm like I hadn’t just interrupted anything.
I didn’t like that.
“If you’re here for the interview,” I said, voice sharp, “follow me let’s get this over with.”
I turned, expecting her to be right behind me.
But she didn’t move right away.
Instead, she leaned toward Daisy smiling softly.
“Few-Fi-Fo-Fay,” she said, wiggling her fingers. “These are my fingers as I wave good day.”
Daisy giggled.
Then she stood, brushing off her knees, and walked past me like I hadn’t just rushed her out.
