Part 2: Four housekeepers fled our mansion in fourteen months, but the fifth walked in, looked at a feared 17-year-old mafia heir, and refused to break.

"Go back to bed, Toby," I said quickly, trying to pull my ruined shirt over the fresh stitches.

Toby didn't move. He ran forward and threw his small arms around my waist, burying his face in my uninjured side. He was trembling. In our house, blood wasn't an accident; it was a prelude to funerals.

Eleanor knelt instantly, bringing herself down to Toby’s eye level. She pried his trembling fingers loose with infinite gentleness.

"Your brother took a fall on the bleachers during basketball practice," Eleanor lied smoothly, her voice a calm river that immediately washed over the boy's panic. "He was clumsy, but he's patched up. Look at him—ugly as ever, but fully alive."

A tiny, wet laugh escaped Toby’s throat. He looked at me. "Really?"

"Yeah, squirt. Just being stupid," I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Eleanor’s going to make pancakes in three hours. Get some sleep."

Once Toby's bedroom door clicked shut upstairs, the temporary peace shattered.

At 7:00 AM, the heavy oak double doors of the foyer slammed open. Heavy boots marched across the marble.

Eleanor and I stood in the kitchen. She was flipping batter on the griddle; I was sitting upright, forcing myself not to show the agony in my ribcage.

Marcus Vane entered the kitchen. He was forty-five, tailored in a three-thousand-dollar charcoal suit, his silver-flecked beard trimmed to razor perfection. Behind him stood two of his personal enforcers.

"Leo," Marcus’s voice boomed with synthetic warmth. His eyes immediately darted to the dark purple bruising on my neck and cheek. A flicker of cold shock crossed his face—he hadn't expected me to be alive, let alone sitting at the breakfast counter. "My God, kid. What happened to your face?"

He stepped forward, reaching out a gloved hand to touch my shoulder.

*Clang.*

Eleanor slammed a heavy cast-iron skillet onto the range with a deafening crack. Marcus froze, his hand hovering inches from my collarbone.

"The young master had an incident with some neighborhood trash," Eleanor said, not turning around, her voice razor-sharp. "He’s eating his breakfast. You are tracking mud onto my freshly scrubbed floor, Mr. Vane."

Marcus's eyes darkened. The friendly facade vanished for a split second, replaced by the predator underneath. "You're the new maid. Hargrove, right? You should watch your tone. You work for the Cavanaugh family. I *run* the Cavanaugh family when Arthur is away."

Eleanor turned around slowly, wiping her hands on a clean dish towel. She stepped directly into Marcus’s personal space. She didn't look down at his tailored suit, nor at the subtle bulge of the Glock 19 tucked beneath his armpit.

"I work for Arthur Cavanaugh's sons," Eleanor whispered, every syllable dropping like a lead weight. "And until Arthur tells me otherwise, no one interrupts their meals. Step outside, Marcus. Before I find a reason to call Arthur on his private encrypted satellite phone."

Marcus's jaw muscles clenched. He knew Arthur gave only one person in the house that private number in case of emergencies: the head of domestic staff.