What had I gotten myself into?
Days turned into weeks, and gradually the Russo estate became home.
My routine centered around Marco: waking him for school, helping with homework, accompanying him to appointments and activities. The little boy with the dinosaur backpack had firmly wedged himself into my heart. His resilience and enthusiasm were infectious.
Dante remained an elusive presence. He kept irregular hours, sometimes absent for days on business trips, other times working from his home office late into the night. When he was present, he devoted his full attention to Marco, helping with homework, teaching him to play chess, and listening with genuine interest to his dinosaur facts.
Those glimpses of tender fatherhood contrasted sharply with the cold calculation I sometimes caught in his eyes when he received phone calls or when his associates visited.
I learned to navigate the complex ecosystem of the Russo household. Nicholas, I discovered, was more than Dante’s brother and right-hand man. He was Marco’s fiercely protective uncle, spoiling him with presents but enforcing discipline when needed. The security team maintained a constant, discreet presence, rotating shifts of serious men who nevertheless slipped Marco candies when they thought no one was looking. The household staff treated me with cautious respect, warming only after it became clear I was not putting on airs about my position.
And then there was Dante himself.
Our interactions were mostly brief, professional updates about Marco’s progress or needs. Yet occasionally, I would catch him watching me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. Sometimes he joined Marco and me for dinner when his schedule allowed. Those evenings revealed glimpses of the man behind the formidable facade: his dry humor, his extensive knowledge of literature and history, his passionate opinions about everything from politics to pasta.
One rainy Saturday, about a month after I had moved in, Marco was at a supervised playdate with the son of one of Dante’s associates. It was a rare social opportunity that had been thoroughly vetted by security. I was enjoying the quiet in my cottage, reading a novel, when a knock at my door startled me.
Dante stood on my doorstep, raindrops glistening in his dark hair. He rarely visited my cottage, preferring to summon me to the main house when needed.
“Is everything okay?” I asked immediately, my mind jumping to Marco.
“He’s fine,” Dante assured me, stepping inside when I moved back. “I just spoke with his security detail.”
I relaxed slightly.
“Oh. Good.”
He glanced around my living room, taking in the scattered books, the half-empty tea mug, the soft throw blanket rumpled on the couch.
“You’ve made it your own.”
