The Vuković estate was the kind of place that made you feel underdressed before you even reached the door. A long, private drive cut through manicured grounds, past iron gates and a guard booth, until it opened onto a courtyard dominated by a mansion of pale stone and dark windows. The front doors were enormous, carved and polished, the sort of doors that announced wealth before anyone inside said a word.

You had barely lifted your hand toward the bell when the doors flew open.

A woman in her forties stormed out, dragging a wheeled suitcase that rattled violently over the stone steps. Her blouse was half-untucked, her face flushed with fury, and she was already shouting before she reached the bottom step.

She spun around, jabbing a finger back at the house as if it had personally offended her.

She didn't seem to notice you at first. She just yanked her suitcase down the last step, its wheels catching on the stone with a series of harsh clicks. Then her gaze landed on you, and for a split second, something almost like pity crossed her face.

And then she was off, storming across the courtyard with her suitcase bouncing behind her, muttering curses in a language you didn't need to understand.

Standing near the entrance, as if he had witnessed this exact exit twenty-four times before, was a tall, silver-haired man in a tailored dark suit. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression perfectly calm. He watched the nanny go with the resigned patience of a man who had long ago accepted that some days would begin like this.

After a beat, he turned to you.

His English was measured, touched with a Serbian accent. He descended a single step, not quite smiling, but not unfriendly either.

High above, in an upstairs window, a small figure stood watching. Seven-year-old Luka Vuković pressed one hand against the glass, dark eyes tracking the departing nanny with unmistakable satisfaction. A small, smug smile curved his mouth. Another one gone.