Page 3 of Texting My Mafia Boss

“I have some questions to gauge your character. I’m afraid time is of the essence. So, please answer quickly and directly.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She frowns for a moment. I keep my smile fixed on my face, thinking of the money, the mortgage, property taxes. My neighbor’sfence.

“Have you ever cared for a child who is slow to trust?”

I miss a beat. She glares at me. “Children, in general, aren’t slow to trust unless they’ve been given a reason to be.”

“Direct answers, please.”

“I’ve worked with shy children, yes. And I was able to bring them out of their shells. As much as they were comfortable with.”

She writes nothing down, but I can see her taking mental notes.

“Sylvana does not respond well to raised voices. Would that be difficult for you?”

“Of course not,” I say.

“If she ignored you for the first week, what would you do?”

“Give her space,” I reply. “While maintaining my duties. I’d try to coax her, find a common interest, or just be in the room with her. But she seems very social.”

“She does?”

Why does she seem so surprised? The girl is lovely. “Yes, she does.”

“Hmm.” She nods. “If she tells you something private, what do you do with it?”

“That depends. If it’s something harmless and didn’t violate any safeguarding rules, I’d let her have her secret. If I thought she was in danger or that you or Mr. Bellandi needed to know, you’d know immediately.”

More mental ticking-off. “This household values privacy. Can you respect that without needing every rule explained?”

“Yes, of course.”

Why the need for privacy? I don’t even know what Mr. Bellandi does. The ad just saidhigh-value client.

“If you witnessed or perceived something strange, how would you react?”

“Uh…”

Before I can answer, she snaps, “Do you scare easily, Miss Keene?”

“No,” I say fiercely, annoyed at being caught off-guard.

Why would I need to be scared?

“You have no family listed as an emergency contact,” she says. “Is that correct?”

My ears burn. I don’t want to get into the whole story about my parents and foster care and my weirdo aunt who waited until she was dead to let me know she existed.

“I believe I have a friend listed. She’s very reliable.”

Livia nods, tapping a pristinely maintained fingernail against the arm of her chair. “What did you need most from adults when you were seven?”

This hits me hard. Livia looks at me with a flicker of patience, a crack in her armor, but I can’t assume it will last long.

“To be seen,” I say.