Chapter 3 - THE INVASION OF ROSIE
Rosie Beaumont did not walk into rooms; she arrived like a brightly colored weather event. Wearing mismatched Converse sneakers, overalls plastered with dinosaur patches, and carrying a backpack that looked heavier than she was, Rosie stepped into the grand foyer of the Rinaldi estate and whistled.
“Mom, this place is huge,” Rosie announced, her voice echoing off the marble floors. “Are we rich now?”
“No, baby. We’re just employed,” Claire corrected, adjusting her grip on their two duffel bags. It was everything they owned in the world.
At the top of the grand sweeping staircase, three dark figures appeared. The triplets stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking down at the small blonde girl intruding on their territory. Leo, Mateo, and Enzo operated like a wolf pack, and Rosie was entirely unaware she had just stepped into their den.
“Is that the kid?” Enzo whispered loudly.
“She looks fragile,” Mateo assessed.
Rosie dropped her backpack with a heavy thud, planted her hands on her hips, and glared up at the stairs. “I can hear you! And I know karate!”
She did not know karate. She had watched three episodes of a martial arts cartoon, but the sheer confidence in her voice made the triplets pause.
Claire sighed, walking up the steps. “Boys, this is Rosie. Rosie, these are the boys. Let’s establish some ground rules before the blood is drawn. No running on the marble, no weapons at the dinner table, and nobody goes into my room without knocking.”
Dinner that night was a masterclass in psychological warfare. Julian Rinaldi sat at the head of the massive mahogany table, flanked by men in suits who did not look like standard household staff. There were bulges under their jackets that Claire easily recognized as shoulder holsters. He’s not a CEO, Claire thought, cutting Rosie’s chicken. He’s a boss.
The triplets spent the entire meal trying to intimidate Rosie. They passed secret notes. They glared. Mateo deliberately knocked a silver spoon onto the floor near Rosie’s foot.
Rosie picked it up, wiped it on her napkin, and slammed it back onto the table. “You have terrible manners,” she told Mateo matter-of-factly. “My mom says boys who throw things grow up to be criminals.”
A deafening silence crashed over the dining room. Two of the armed guards actually froze in place. Julian Rinaldi lowered his wine glass, his dark eyes snapping toward the seven-year-old girl who had just inadvertently insulted a mafia syndicate.
Then, unexpectedly, Julian laughed. It was a rich, dark sound that seemed to startle the guards even more than the insult.
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“She’s right, Mateo,” Julian said, a lethal amusement dancing in his eyes. “Criminals do have terrible manners. Eat your vegetables.”
Claire caught Julian’s gaze across the table. For a fraction of a second, the cold, untouchable crime lord faded, and she saw a man who was deeply, desperately amused by the sudden injection of chaos into his highly controlled world.
