Chapter 2 - The Scent of Treason and Butter
The silence in Falcone Manor was never just quiet; it was an ambush waiting to happen. For years, the only smells that drifted down the cavernous corridors of the second floor were gun oil, Turkish tobacco, aged scotch, and the faint, copper tang of violence.
Gabriel was the first to stop pacing his bedroom. His hand paused mid-air as he buttoned a silk cuff. He turned his head toward the door, his nostrils flaring slightly. His first thought wasn't breakfast. His first thought was chemical warfare. A rival syndicate, perhaps the Morettis from the south docks, pumping some new neurotoxin through the vents to put them under before kicking down the iron gates.
He slipped a ceramic-bladed knife from beneath his pillow and slipped soundlessly into the gallery hallway.
Across the landing, Declan’s door slammed open. Declan didn't look like a prince of the underworld that morning; he looked like a wild animal that had spent the night trapped in a barbed-wire cage. His knuckles were raw, purple, and swollen. He wore only low-slung denim, a heavy silver crucifix resting against the scarred expanse of his chest. His right hand trailed a matte-black SIG Sauer held loosely at his side.
"You smell that?" Declan growled, his voice like gravel grinding under a boot heel. "What is that?"
"It’s not gas," Gabriel said, leaning his shoulder against the walnut balustrade, though his muscles remained coiled like steel springs. "Unless the Cartel has started using hickory smoke to execute hits."
A third door opened with absolute, chilling quiet.
Roman stepped out. He was already fully dressed: tailored trousers, crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled precisely twice over his forearms, no tie. His hair was combed back with terrifying precision. He looked at his two brothers with dark, calculating eyes that gave away nothing.
"She’s past hour forty-nine," Roman said flatly.
"She should be running down the cliff road in her socks," Gabriel murmured, a dangerous, mocking smirk touching his lips. "Unless she's setting fire to the west wing to cover her tracks."
"Nobody burns my house," Declan snarled.
He didn't wait for his brothers. He took the stairs three at a time, bare feet silent on the cold marble, leading with the nose of his gun. Gabriel followed with the lazy, predatory grace of a panther, while Roman descended behind them, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, though the subtle shift of his shoulders meant a shoulder holster rested under his arm.
When they hit the ground floor, the smell was overwhelming. It wasn't the sterile, delicate aroma of the poached eggs and watercress their French chef used to plate before he mysteriously vanished. It was aggressive. It was ancient.
Declan kicked the swinging door of the kitchen open with enough force to shatter the brass catch.
He raised his weapon.
Maeve did not scream. She didn't drop the iron spatula. She merely tilted her head to avoid a stray spatter of hot grease as she flipped six thick strips of bacon in a pan that looked old enough to have survived the Industrial Revolution.
The steam caught the morning light filtering through the high security windows, illuminating her exhausted, pale profile. She was still wearing the faded agency apron over her fraying gray sweater. Her dark hair was scraped back into a messy knot with a cheap plastic claw clip. Beneath her eyes were purple bruises of fatigue that rivaled Declan's battered knuckles.
"Gun off the stove," she said without turning around. Her voice was flat, raspy from dry air and lack of sleep. "I just wiped the stainless steel behind it. Gun powder residue is a pain to get out of grout."
Declan froze. The barrel of his SIG stayed leveled at the bridge of her small, straight nose. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"
"Eating," Maeve replied, pulling a heavy cast-iron skillet off the high flame. "And if you want some, you’ll sit down and shut up. If you don't, you can shoot me. But wait until I finish the biscuits. Leaving good dough in a hot oven is a sin my mother would crawl out of her grave to beat me for."
Gabriel leaned against the stainless-steel prep table, crossing his arms. A low, genuine chuckle rumbled in his throat. "Look at that, Roman. Our little rabbit has teeth."
Roman walked past both of his brothers. He didn't look at the gun. He didn't look at Gabriel's smirking mouth. He walked straight to the edge of the stove.
He looked down into the pans.
Crisp, blackened edges on thick russet potatoes, gleaming with bacon grease and coarse sea salt. Eggs with bright orange yolks, bubbling in rendered pork fat. And on the wooden butcher block sat a towering stack of golden, flaky buttermilk biscuits, steam visibly pouring from their cracked tops, a pat of melting butter pooling in the crevices.
It looked vulgar. It looked completely devoid of pedigree.
It looked like the kitchen in Queens where the three of them had grown up forty pounds lighter, thirty years angrier, before their father had killed his way into a penthouse and traded butter for cocaine and caviar.
Roman’s jaw ticked. A single, sharp muscle jumping under his pale skin.
"Who told you to cook?" Roman asked.
"My stomach," Maeve said, finally setting the spatula down with a sharp clack. She wiped her hands on her apron and met his gaze dead-on. Her green eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but completely hollow of the terror Roman spent eight hours a day cultivating in men three times her size. "The flyer said board was included. The fridge had groceries. I don't work twelve-hour shifts on an empty tank, Mr. Falcone. You want to fire me, fire me. But you owe me for forty-nine hours, plus travel time."
Declan lowered the gun, though his thumb stayed rested on the hammer. He stared at the biscuits like a starving wolf eyeing a flank of venison.
"Is there pepper on those potatoes?" Declan barked.
"Coarse ground," Maeve said, turning her back on them to pull four heavy ceramic plates from the open drying rack. "And I put hot sauce in the skillet before the crust formed."
Declan didn't wait for permission. He shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans, strode to the stove, grabbed a biscuit with his bare, bruised hand, and ripped it in half. Steam hit his face. He shoved the entire half into his mouth.
He stopped chewing.
Gabriel watched him, his lazy amusement slowly hardening into curiosity. "Declan?"
Declan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He looked at Maeve, then down at the biscuit in his hand. The manic, wild violence in his eyes dulled for a fraction of a second, replaced by a dark, disorienting shock.
"Sit down, Gabe," Declan muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he reached for a plate. "Shut up and sit down."
Gabriel hesitated, then slid onto one of the industrial stools at the prep island. Maeve didn't serve them like a waitress. She slammed the skillets onto heat-proof trivets in the center of the butcher block, dropped a jar of blackberry jam and a stick of salted butter between them, and slid a plate in front of each brother.
Finally, she took her own plate, heaped it with potatoes and two eggs, and carried it to the far corner of the kitchen, perching on a metal step stool beside the recycling bins.
Roman remained standing. He looked at the feast, then at the girl sitting on a metal stool ten feet away, eating her breakfast with the mechanical, frantic efficiency of someone who didn't know when her next meal would come.
"You're sitting at the wrong counter," Roman said coldly.
Maeve swallowed a mouthful of crispy potato. "Mrs. Hess said maids don't eat in front of the family."
"Mrs. Hess is currently on a flight to Zurich because she couldn't handle the sound of Declan cleaning his weapons," Roman said, stepping up to the island and pulling out the tall leather chair at the head. He sat down, deliberately unfolding a white linen napkin. "In this house, people who make the food sit at the table. Move. Before I make Declan carry your stool."
Maeve looked at Declan. Declan was already halfway through three strips of bacon, not even looking up. Gabriel was spreading butter on a biscuit with his ceramic blade, his eyes tracking her every breath.
Slowly, Maeve picked up her plate and walked over to the island. She took the stool furthest from Roman, perching on the very edge of the leather.
As she took a bite, Roman picked up his fork. He cut a small, neat corner from an egg and lifted it to his mouth.
He chewed. His eyes shuttered for a heartbeat.
Ten seconds of absolute silence stretched over the kitchen, broken only by the hum of the industrial refrigerator and the distant crash of the Atlantic waves against the rocks below the cliff.
"You said your phone bill was due Tuesday," Roman said, his voice quiet, almost pleasant.
Maeve stiffened. "Yes."
Roman reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek titanium money clip, and slid two crisp, pristine hundred-dollar bills across the marble. They stopped right beside her water glass.
"Pay it today," Roman ordered. "Because starting now, you don't answer calls from the agency. You work directly for me."
"And for me," Declan growled around a mouthful of biscuit. "She makes these every morning, Roman. I'm not eating that French grass ever again."
"And me," Gabriel whispered, leaning his chin on his palm, his smile razor-sharp. "Though I think our little Maeve has far more interesting secrets than a recipe for biscuits."
Maeve looked at the money. Then she looked at the three identical faces watching her with sudden, terrifying intensity.
May you like
She had survived forty-eight hours.
She just didn't realize that in Falcone Manor, survival wasn't a victory. It was an invitation to the slaughter.
