The silence in the penthouse was a living thing, thick and heavy in the wake of Hanna's note. The words were a brand on Eva's soul, burning away any fragile truce the park attack might have forged.
Trust no one. Not even Alessandro.
They played on a loop in her head, syncing with the rhythm of his footsteps downstairs. Each step was an accusation. Each sound of him moving through his kitchen, pouring his whiskey, was a reminder that she was living in the lion's den, lulled by a false sense of security.
She stood in the living room, her body rigid, the note a hidden shard of ice against her skin. On the play mat, Sophia watched her with those unsettlingly calm eyes, as if she could see the storm raging inside her.
A knock at the door—sharp, efficient—shattered the silence.
Eva's hand went to her lower back, where a knife was sheathed beneath her shirt, before she forced it down. Paranoia. Or survival? She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
She opened the door to a woman who carried herself like she'd been here before. Mid-thirties. Dark hair twisted into a knot that would survive an earthquake. Her eyes scanned the room in one swift, assessing motion before landing on Eva.
"Camila Suarez," she said simply. The accent was faint, a ghost of Madrid, or perhaps nowhere at all.
"I read your file," Eva said, her voice colder than she intended. She didn't invite her in. "Clean background."
"That's good, no?" Camila smiled, a small, professional curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes.
"Too clean. Nobody's this neat unless they've scrubbed something out." Eva's own past was a tapestry of redacted lines and buried bodies. She knew the look of a sanitized history.
Camila tilted her head, unbothered by the hostility. "I am here for the baby, not for you."
On the play mat, Sophia cooed, rolling onto her stomach. Then, as if testing the new energy in the room, she reached a small hand toward the stranger.
Alessandro's voice echoed from the hallway, sharp and tense. "Eva." Footsteps, quick and purposeful.
Camila's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to Eva, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "I think we will understand each other, eventually," she said, her voice low.
Eva's gaze sharpened. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Before Camila could answer, Alessandro was there, phone in hand, his face a mask of controlled fury. "You need to see this." He didn't even acknowledge the nanny.
He thrust the screen toward her. A grainy, black-and-white still from a security feed. A narrow room. A row of small, sterile cots. On the far left, a tiny figure lay on her back, staring straight at the camera with wide, unblinking eyes.
Sophia. Months younger. In a place Eva had never seen.
Eva's stomach dropped. The air left her lungs. What else don't I know? What else did Hanna keep from me?
She looked from the chilling image to the woman standing calmly in her foyer. This stranger who knew about naps and loss.
"Miss Ivanova—thank you for this interview," Camila said at last, her voice breaking the silence like glass underfoot.
Alessandro's head turned sharply. He'd been so locked on the photo he'd almost forgotten there was another adult in the room. His gaze raked over her—her posture, her hands, her unwavering composure.
"You must be Camila," he said slowly, his tone dangerously neutral. "One of the nannies Eva interviewed."
"Correct," she replied, her tone flat.
He didn't offer his hand. Just kept watching her like she was an equation he was trying to solve. "Where were you working before this?"
"A family in Madrid. Two boys."
"Names?"
Her pause was small but deliberate. "That's confidential."
His mouth curved—not a smile, but something sharper, predatory. The same look he'd given a witness right before he dismantled their alibi. "You ever lose one?"
Camila met his eyes without flinching. "Never. I've also never had one taken from me."
He let that hang in the air, a challenge. "And if someone tried?"
"I wouldn't be giving interviews about it," she said evenly, her gaze unwavering.
For the first time, Alessandro's expression shifted—something like reluctant approval. He gave a single, curt nod and turned to Eva. "She stays."
Eva's eyes narrowed, the order snapping her out of her daze. "Excuse me?"
"You wanted someone to take care of Sophia's day-to-day. She can do that."
"I wanted someone vetted," Eva shot back, the heat in her voice a welcome change from the cold fear. "Not someone who shows up knowing my kid's nap schedule without being told. Not someone who looks at a room of expensive toys and sees only the child who's 'always searching for someone they won't find.'" She threw Camila's own words back at her like a knife.
Alessandro's tone stayed calm, too calm. It was the voice he used right before he went for the jugular. "She's not here to replace you. She's here so you can focus on the bigger picture. You want to spend the next month chasing ghosts and paperwork while Sophia lives on takeout and four hours' sleep? Is that what Hanna would have wanted?"
The mention of Hanna's name was a masterstroke, and he knew it. It was also a manipulation. A cold, calculated play on her grief and guilt.
And just like that, we're back here. The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow: Him, in a different hallway, using a different secret she'd told him in confidence to corner a business rival. "It's just business, Eva," he'd said later, when she'd confronted him with shaking hands. "You knew what I was."
She had. She'd just foolishly believed she was the exception.
Now, he was using Hanna to get his way. Again.
She stared at him for a long moment, jaw so tight it ached. She could argue. She could refuse. But the photo on his phone was a nightmare. The note in her pocket was a warning. She was outnumbered by secrets.
Finally, Eva turned to Camila, her voice dropping to a low, lethal promise. "You touch her without me in the house, I'll break your hands."
Camila's expression didn't change. "Understood."
Sophia blinked up at them from the play mat, her fox clutched tightly. Her gaze, too calm, too knowing, didn't leave Camila.
As Camila disappeared toward the kitchen with Sophia, the soft sound of the baby's babble trailing after her, Eva felt the walls closing in. She was surrounded by puzzles and potential enemies, and the one man who had the power to help her was the one person she couldn't trust.
Alessandro closed the door between them and the nanny, sealing them in the tense silence.
"You think I'm overreacting?" Eva asked, her arms folded like a shield over her chest.
"I think you're reacting," he said, leaning against the back of a chair, a study in controlled power. "There's a difference."
Her eyes narrowed. "She knew things she shouldn't know. She's too clean on paper. And Sophia—" she hesitated, the truth sounding insane even to her, "—looked at her like she'd seen her before."
Alessandro didn't dismiss it. He held her gaze. "I don't trust her, either."
That stopped her for a beat. "Then why the hell—"
"Because I need her where I can see her," he cut in, his voice low and intent. "If she's here, I can control the variables. I can watch her. If she's somewhere else, I can't. If she's a link to whoever is coming for Sophia, I'm not wasting it."
"Fine," Eva said finally, the word tasting like ash. "But she doesn't get alone time. Ever. Not even in the next room."
"Agreed."
He stepped closer, too close—not touching, but enough that she had to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze. "That's twice this week you've agreed with me. Should I be worried?"
"Worry about yourself," she shot back. But she didn't step away. The space between them crackled with a history of betrayal and a dangerous, unwelcome attraction.
A knock rattled through the intercom, sharp enough to shatter the moment.
Marco's voice crackled over the line. "Boss... we've got a visitor."
Alessandro's gaze didn't leave hers. "Who?"
"Child Protective Services. Says she needs to speak to the guardians of Sophia Ricci. Urgent matter."
Neither of them moved. Her pulse was hammering in her throat; his was in the smirk he almost—almost slip.
"This isn't over," he murmured.
He turned to the intercom. "Bring her in."
The game, it seemed, was changing its rules. Again.