Chapter 2 - The Currency of Gratitude
The private wing of Northport Regional Hospital was silent in a way that cost thousands of dollars a day. Floor-to-ceiling glass paneling looked out over a courtyard garden, and the floors were carpeted in soft, sound-dampening teal wool.
When Marco ushered Maeve through the double glass doors of Suite 402, Rafaele Conti was standing by the window.
He had taken off his charcoal suit jacket. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark hair and the shadow of a broad tattoo running up his left wrist beneath his watch. On the bed, little Lia was fast asleep, hooked up to a quiet heart monitor that beeped in a steady, reassuring rhythm. Her yellow daisy swimsuit had been replaced by a pair of hospital pajamas printed with small blue bears.
Rafaele turned as the door closed.
His face was drawn, dark circles lingering beneath his sharp brown eyes, but the terrifying emptiness that had filled his expression at the pool was gone. In its place was a quiet, dangerous intensity.
"How is she?" Maeve asked softly, keeping her distance near the door.
"The doctors said the water was removed before severe pulmonary edema set in," Rafaele said. His voice was low, gravelly, as if he hadn't used it in hours. "They are keeping her overnight for observation. She will be fine."
He walked over to a small table near the window, picked up a glass of water, and took a slow sip before setting it down again. He looked at Maeve—really looked at her, taking in her worn sweatshirt, her damp hair, and the quiet, defensive way she held herself.
"Mrs. Greer informed my staff that you were dismissed for violating safety regulations," Rafaele said.
Maeve gave a small, bitter smile. "That’s standard procedure. I was hired to carry food, not interfere with the scenery."
"You saved her," Rafaele said simply. "While my security was distracted, while her mother’s social circle watched, and while I was thirty feet away talking about a political endorsement on the phone."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, thin silver object. He held it out on his palm.
It was a small, ornate silver whistle shaped like a dolphin, attached to a delicate chain.
"This was inside her pocket when they changed her into the hospital gown," Rafaele said, his eyes fixed on Maeve’s face. "Lia told the nurse that Sylvana gave it to her. She told her that if she threw it into the deep end, it would sink to the bottom and light up like a magic toy."
Maeve felt a cold spike of shock run down her spine. "Sylvana gave it to her?"
"Sylvana knew Lia cannot swim without her floatation vest," Rafaele said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made the hair on Maeve’s arms stand up. "She also knew that if Lia had an accident while under my care, my ex-wife’s legal team would file an emergency petition for sole custody tomorrow morning."
Maeve looked from the silver whistle to the sleeping child on the bed. The pieces fell together with a sickening clarity. The fundraiser wasn't just a party; it was a theater of status, and Lia had been used as a pawn in a custody battle disguised as a tragic accident.
"Why are you telling me this?" Maeve asked quietly.
"Because you saw it," Rafaele said. "Marco reviewed the garden security footage from the west terrace fifteen minutes ago. The angle is bad—it doesn't catch Sylvana dropping the whistle—but it catches you looking at them. It catches the exact second you realized what was happening and dropped your tray."
He stepped closer to her, stopping a foot away. The scent of cedar and expensive cologne clung to him, mixed with the faint, sterile smell of the hospital room.
"Mrs. Greer fired you to protect the club's reputation," Rafaele said. "I am offering you a position to protect my daughter."
Maeve blinked. "What?"
"I need someone near Lia who actually sees her," Rafaele said, his eyes unwavering. "Not a bodyguard in a suit who can be distracted by guests. Not a nanny recommended by my ex-wife’s family who reports back to their lawyers. I need a personal assistant and caretaker who lives in the house, watches her when I am working, and answers only to me."
"Mr. Conti, I'm a server," Maeve said, shaking her head slowly. "I don't have a degree in child development. I was trying to finish my nursing degree before—"
"I know about your mother," Rafaele interrupted smoothly. "Saint Jude’s Senior Living. $2,400 a month. Her medical care has exhausted your savings over the last eighteen months."
Maeve’s eyes narrowed, a sharp prickle of anger touching her chest. "You looked into my private life?"
"I look into the life of anyone who enters my home," Rafaele replied without apology. "I am offering you a salary of eighty thousand dollars a year, private quarters at my estate in Oyster Bay, full medical benefits, and direct payment of your mother's care facility fees for as long as you are employed by me."
Maeve caught her breath. The number was life-changing. It meant her mother wouldn't be transferred to a state-run facility. It meant she could breathe for the first time in two years.
"And what is the catch?" Maeve asked, her voice steady despite the pounding in her heart.
"The catch," Rafaele said, leaning in slightly, "is that Sylvana and my ex-wife, Victoria, will not stop. They want Lia as leverage for the Conti family trust. You will be entering a house that is currently under siege from the outside, and everyone in my social circle will consider you an intruder."
Maeve looked past him at little Lia, who shifted under the blanket, hugging her small blue bear tight against her chest.
"When do I start?" Maeve asked.
May you like
Rafaele’s face softened by a fraction of a millimeter—the first genuine human expression she had seen from him since he had dropped to his knees on the wet pool stone.
"Right now," Rafaele said. "Marco will drive you to your apartment to pack your things."
