Chapter 1 Sweet Little Nanny

• C
• THOMASINA
• I had lied to get here.
• Faked ID, forged references and a spotlessly clean backstory that gleamed. I had practiced every sentence, every smile and every lie. It had to be freaking perfect. Because I would end up like my sister—forgotten, buried and gone—if I made even one mistake here.
• The Balotelli estate towered like a stronghold, its gates behind me, closing with a thud just like a prison door.
• But still I smiled, polite and sweet . A perfect little nanny. The floors inside were as shiny as ice and the air had an upscale scent of power, leather and cigars.
• I was feeling nervous as the guard pointed somewhere for me to stand as we walked into the largest sitting room ever.
• “Gracias.” I said and I lifted my head to behold him. He walked in quietly and dangerously. Juan Miguel Balotelli or should I say El Fuego like he was popularly called.
• He was six feet something and silently dangerous, wearing a black shirt and slacks. His forearms were coiled with tattoos and his sleeves were rolled up. And his brown eyes, they were icy sharp, nothing escaping them at all.
• This man prowled instead of walking. He came to a halt before me.
• “You’re ahead of schedule.”
• His voice was deep. Filled with command and fire.
• “I like to be prepared.”I replied softly with a slight chin tilt that conveyed confidence rather than defiance
• He didn't even blink.
• “ Lucia has fallen asleep.” He said “Sometimes she screams when she wakes up. Can you manage that?”
• “Yes.” I blurted out.
• “She is scared of strangers. If you frighten her you're out.”
• My head bobbed in a nod
• He dropped an octave in his voice and added .
• “And one more thing. Don't ever ask questions. EVER.”
• A warning. I smiled the way women smile at men who pose a threat. Soft and safe but I was screaming inside though.
• If only he knew why I was here. Sent by the highest crime investigation team to bring him down and secondly for making me a widow two years ago and leaving me without a family.
• I trailed after him through expansive marble corridors. No private photos. No warmth. Only darkness and the murmur of invisible safety. It pricked my skin. This place was a cage disguised as a palace and I knew it without my training.
• “ Her room is the third on the right.” Juan Miguel said without turning around
• “You’ll occupy the room across from hers. No visitors. Don't leave without my consent.”
• Just when I was hoping he would vanish forever, he stopped and turned slowly.
• I fought to maintain a steady breathing pattern. I knew what he was doing, he was studying me like a book. His eyes narrowed as though he detected an unpleasant odor.
• I recognized that expression, on murderers, agents and predators just before they attacked I had witnessed it before.
• “You look familiar.” He said.
• My heart skipped a beat.
• “I have one of those faces .” I shrugged, forcing a smile.
• A pause. Too lengthy. Then he turned.
• “Dinner would be served by eight. Until then remain invisible.”
• He vanished like smoke.
• I let out a breath, shuddering a little. A tiny bit. He did not frighten me. He was someone I hated with everything in me. I lost everything because of this man. That night, twelve years ago, I'd only caught a glimpse of the masked face through blood and firelight and I never saw his eyes again. But I did remember the tattoo. A dagger with a snake coiled around it and the head of the serpent was on fire.
• It was similar to the one that Juan Miguel Balotelli had inked on his arm. I walked slowly up the stairs taking it all in, corners with cameras. doors reinforced with steel. Guards with guns in staff uniforms.
• This place was a battlefield not a residence.
• I opened Lucia's room and I slipped in and softly shut the door. The young child was curled up beneath pale pink sheets with her thumb in her mouth.
• Her round cheeks were framed by brown curls, peaceful, not as dangerous as her father.
• I felt my throat tightened and I wished this was Little B, my dear sister's daughter whom I had only seen in a picture.
• I was fifteen when my sister left Mexico. After sending some letters and pictures she stopped communicating, vanished into thin air. Three months ago I received a blurry picture of a three month old baby in a crib with the name Little B scrawled on the back.
• The picture showed my sister's eyes looking up at the camera. I shut my eyes and exhaled.
• Lucia whimpered and stirred.
• “Shhh,” I muttered as I knelt next to the bed. Her eyes slowly opened large and terrified. Her mouth quivered. “My name is Thomasina.” I whispered. “I'm your new nanny.”
• She flicked her eyes. Then she suddenly reached out and grabbed my neck.
• I felt a blow to my chest. With a quick heartbeat her, tiny fingers coiled themselves into my sweater.
• God. How could something this tiny survive in a house made of blood? I held her until she fell asleep once more.
• I ignored the pain in my back when I stood up. I went over to the corner of the room where books and toys were kept on a little shelf.
• A page in one old book was folded. I flipped it open. There was a ripped photograph inside. I shut the book immediately and brought another one then I paused. Not now, I shouldn't be going through stuffs now.
• I heard light footsteps outside the door .
• I closed the book with a snap and got up as the door opened.
• Juan Miguel.
• He gave me a look, examined Lucia, then back at me.
• “Normally she doesn't like new people,” he stated.
• I forced a smile.
• “ Kids are sensitive to kindness.”
• Or lies.
• A pause.
• “Thank you Mr Balotelli and have a good night's rest.”
• He gave me a cold look before turning away like he had been staring at a ghost.
• The pain and tears came flooding back.
• I rolled up my sleeves where I had inked something on my forearm. Very tiny and difficult to read except by me: El karma no olvida.
• (Karma doesn’t forget)