Chapter 1 - THE EIGHTEENTH NANNY
The bronze horse hit Valeria Gómez so hard in the ribs that she heard the air leave her lungs.
She dropped to one knee.
The bucket in her hand crashed onto the marble floor, sending gray water across the entrance hall of the Ríos mansion.
“Mateo!”
Alejandro Ríos’s voice thundered from the staircase.
Four-year-old Mateo didn’t even look at his father.
He charged at Valeria.
His tiny fists slammed against her shoulder.
Then his shoe struck her shin.
Once.
Twice.
“Get him away from her!” a guard shouted.
“No.”
Valeria’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.
Everybody froze.
Valeria pressed one hand against her aching ribs and slowly lowered herself until she was kneeling directly in front of the boy.
Mateo raised his fist again.
She looked into his eyes.
Not angry eyes.
Terrified eyes.
“That hurt,” Valeria said.
Mateo stopped.
“The statue hurt. The kicking hurt too.”
His chest rose and fell quickly.
His small hands stayed clenched.
Behind him stood six armed security men, the head housekeeper, two servants, and Alejandro Ríos—the man half of northern Mexico seemed afraid to look at for too long.
Nobody spoke.
Valeria touched her chest.
“You must have something really heavy in here to be this angry.”
Mateo stared at her.
Alejandro stepped forward.
“Miss Gómez, move away from him.”
“No, sir.”
Every head turned toward her.
Nobody told Alejandro Ríos no.
Valeria didn’t take her eyes off Mateo.
“I’m not going to hit you,” she said softly.
Mateo’s fist trembled.
“I’m not going to yell.”
His lip moved.
“And I’m not going to run.”
Something changed.
His fist slowly dropped.
Then his face twisted.
Mateo stumbled forward and threw both arms around Valeria’s neck.
A broken sound came from his throat.
He began to cry.
Not scream.
Cry.
Deep, shaking sobs.
Valeria wrapped her arms around him.
Alejandro’s whiskey glass slipped from his hand.
It shattered.
For two years, Mateo had rejected everyone who tried to touch him.
Doctors.
Therapists.
Nannies.
His own father.
Yet now he was buried against the chest of a maid who had been inside the mansion for less than four hours.
Alejandro stared.
“What did you do?”
Valeria looked over Mateo’s shoulder.
“Nothing.”
“That is not nothing.”
“I stopped treating him like he was dangerous.”
Alejandro’s face hardened.
“My son sent three people to the hospital.”
“He’s four years old.”
“You don’t know what he’s been through.”
Valeria looked down at the trembling child.
“No. But I know what fear looks like.”
Mateo suddenly stiffened.
His crying stopped.
He slowly turned his head toward the staircase.
The north wing was upstairs.
Valeria remembered Doña Socorro’s warning.
Never go near the north wing.
Mateo lifted one shaking finger.
He pointed upstairs.
Alejandro followed his gaze.
“What is it?”
Mateo gripped Valeria’s uniform.
Then, for the first time in nearly two years, a sound came from his mouth that was almost a word.
“Door.”
Alejandro stopped breathing.
Doña Socorro covered her mouth.
Valeria stared at Mateo.
“What door?”
The little boy began trembling violently.
He pointed again.
Toward the dark hallway upstairs.
Then he whispered one more word.
May you like
“Mommy.”
And somewhere inside the forbidden north wing, something slammed against a locked door.
