Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

QUINN

In the week I've been living here, I've fallen into a routine. Taking care of Fiona is a breeze, but that might be because she is the most even-tempered and happiest kid on the planet. A stark difference to her father . He's been an unbearable grump, so I haven't paid much mind to the fact that he has been avoiding me or that the majority of communication between us the past couple of days has been occurring entirely via text messages.

Which I'll take because it's the only time he is actually pleasant to me.

DECLAN

Be home in thirty minutes. Bringing pizza.

Still only like cheese?

A tiny gasp falls over my lips when I read his message. It's been years… Decades, even. And he still remembers how I like my pizza.

Yes. Plain cheese.

Thank you.

Thank *you*.

???

For being so good with Fiona.

Have you been watching me on the cameras?

I wait a minute for a response but don't get one.

Well?

Another unanswered text.

We need to talk about a few things tonight.

No wonder this man can't keep a nanny.

"Hey, kiddo," I interrupt Fiona, who is quietly reading in her little corner of the living room. "Your dad is going to be home with dinner soon. Why don't you put your book away, and we can set the table."

Fiona closes her book and shoves it haphazardly back onto the shelf before following me to the kitchen. I open a few cabinets before remembering which holds the plates and glasses I need and put three of each on the counter. "Can you handle the plates?"

"Uh-huh." Fiona nods and reaches for the small stack.

"How about one at a time there, kiddo?" I stop her, worried that she'll drop them.

As Fiona carries the final plate to the table, the door opens, and Declan walks in with two large pizza boxes. "That's a lot of pizza for three people."

After placing the boxes on the table, Declan flips them both open, displaying the cheese pizza and some monstrosity covered in various meats and vegetables, as he teases, "Some of us have developed palettes beyond those of adorable little three-year-olds." He slides a small cheese slice onto her plate and winks at Fiona.

The three of us eat dinner, and Fiona gives Declan the play-by-play of everything we've done today. It is beyond me how she still has this much energy because I am absolutely exhausted. When we all finish, Declan insists on taking care of bathtime and putting Fiona to bed. While it's not exactly my job, I take it upon myself to put away the leftovers and wash the dirty dishes. I aimlessly wander the apartment and pick up stray toys, having finished with my chores before Declan returns—I need to stay busy while I wait for him.

I'm dropping the last of the stuffed animals into a basket when I hear the soles of his shoes echoing down the hallway. When I walk back into the kitchen, I find him pouring a whiskey neat. He turns with a full glass, and his face quickly tells me he is genuinely surprised to find me waiting on the other side of the island. He cocks a brow and imparts, "You might want to get to bed early. She's going to be waking you before sunrise for those muffins again."

Taking a seat on the barstool beside me, I cross my arms and rest them on the cream marble. "You might want to pour a second because we are finally going to talk about your rules."

"I've got shit to do, Quinn," he husks, ignoring my request and turning to leave the room.

"Yeah, shit like talking to the woman taking care of your kid. And about your kid," I retort, trying to quell my anger over being so quickly dismissed. "I'm not letting this go, Dec."

"Fine," he huffs, sliding the glass across the island and pouring himself a new glass. "Hurry up and complain—so I can tell you no and get to the things I need to do."

"You need to have this conversation," I huff.

"Fine. Then have it."

"Jesus," I exclaim. "I needto know. Do you use up your daily allowance of niceness you are granted each day on Fiona? Or do you just enjoy being a boorish asshole to everyone else in your life?"

"You aren't the first nanny that wants me to change the rules, Quinn. I've had this conversation more times than I can count, so just get it over with."

My fingers dust around the rim of my glass as I try to maintain my nerve. "If everyone is saying the same thing to you, maybe you should listen."

"She is my kid. I will raise her as I see fit," he snarls.

"Then open your fucking eyes, Declan."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You can't keep her locked in this apartment. Holed up like a prisoner. Hiding the dozens of men you have watching her isn't enough for her to grow up normally. She needs a life with pre-school, friends, the park…"—I throw my hands in the air—"For Christ's sake, let the kid go outside to run and play."

His eyes roam over me with a mix of anger and guilt. "You, more than anyone, know it's not safe. I already can't… I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to her."

"Then use that big-ass terrace," I demand. "Give her what she's asking for."

Declan's gaze focuses on the terrace for a moment before turning back toward me and shaking his head.

"They're the Bratva, Declan, not special forces or trained mercenaries. They aren't putting fucking snipers across the way to take out your family."

"Are you done?" he asks, clearly annoyed andnot interested in continuing this conversation.

"No." I shake my head. Taking a large swig of the warm whiskey before me, I pause for a minute as the amber liquid heats my throat. "I might be your employee. I might need to follow your rules, no matter how much I think they're actually hurting her instead of protecting her, but I will not ever be okay with you spying on me."

I stand from my barstool and place the glass in the sink before heading down the hall toward my room, calling, "Now I'm done."