Chapter 9 - The Blood on the Threshold
Six months later, Falcone Manor no longer smelled of cold stone and fear.
It smelled of fresh cedar, sea salt, and dark roast espresso. The broken glass had been replaced by reinforced panoramic panes that opened out over a newly landscaped terrace where white hydrangeas grew along the cliff edge.
Maeve sat at the massive oak desk in the corner office of the third floor—the room that had once belonged to the old man. She was wearing an ivory silk blouse and tailored black trousers, her dark hair pinned up with a silver comb Declan had bought for her in Milan.
In front of her were three digital balance sheets, tracking the legitimate maritime assets of Falcone Logistics. Under her direction, eighty percent of the family’s liquid wealth had been extracted from the street rackets and funneled into municipal shipping bonds and commercial real estate.
Clara was living in a sunlit brownstone in Greenwich Village, her new kidney functioning perfectly, attending art school with a full security detail that stayed fifty yards back at all times.
The door opened without a knock.
Declan walked in, carrying a tray with two plates of fresh peach tarts and a porcelain pot of coffee. His chest had healed into a thick, jagged white scar that peeked out from the unbuttoned collar of his linen shirt.
"You're working too late," Declan said, setting the tray down right over her tax manifests. "Roman’s calling a meeting at five."
"Roman has been calling meetings at five since 1998," Maeve replied, smiling as she took a tart. "Tell him the port authority approved the new terminal in Newark. We don't have to bribe the commissioner anymore; we bought his bank."
Declan chuckled, a deep, warm rumble that vibrated through the room. He reached out, his thumb catching a crumb from the corner of her lip, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who had killed thirty people with his bare hands.
"You look good at that desk, Maeve," Declan murmured, his dark eyes lingering on hers.
Before Maeve could answer, Gabriel slipped through the door, sliding onto the corner of the desk with his usual effortless grace. He stole the other tart from the plate, winking at her as he took a bite.
"The Moretti trial started this morning," Gabriel announced, twirling a gold fountain pen. "The feds are asking for three consecutive life sentences for Vincenzo’s cousins. The northern district is officially clean."
"Clean for now," Roman’s voice came from the doorway.
Roman stepped into the study, wearing a dark gray bespoke suit, looking every inch the corporate emperor. But his eyes were fixed entirely on Maeve. He walked to the back of her chair, resting his hands on the high leather backrest, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear.
"We have a problem," Roman said quietly.
Maeve didn't flinch. She leaned back against his chest, looking up at him. "What kind of problem?"
Roman reached into his jacket and set a heavy, cream-colored envelope on top of her balance sheets.
The envelope was sealed with red wax, stamped with a crest Maeve had never seen before: a two-headed eagle clutching an anchor and a broken crown.
The mark of the Camorra syndicates from Naples.
"The Morettis weren't working for themselves," Roman said, his voice dropping into that cold, lethal cadence that always signaled war. "They were operating as regional proxies for the Donati family in southern Italy. And the Donatis just landed four cargo ships in Boston."
Maeve looked at the red wax seal.
"What do they want?" she asked.
Gabriel stopped smiling. Declan’s jaw tightened, his hand dropping instinctively toward the holster at his hip.
"They want the port back," Roman said softly, his fingers gently tightening over Maeve’s shoulder. "And they want the woman who broke their front line."
Maeve looked at the three brothers.
They were no longer testing her. They were no longer trying to break her. They stood around her like an iron wall, their eyes burning with the absolute, terrifying loyalty of men who would burn the continent to ash before letting anyone touch a hair on her head.
Maeve reached out, picked up the silver letter opener, and sliced through the red wax seal with a single, smooth stroke.
She opened the letter, read the three short sentences written in elegant Italian script, and looked up at Roman.
"Tell the dock managers to double the shifts," Maeve said, her voice completely steady, her green eyes cold as the Atlantic deep. "And tell the chef to make something heavy for tomorrow morning."
"Why?" Gabriel asked, a slow, predatory smirk returning to his lips.
May you like
Maeve stood up, smoothing her silk blouse, meeting the identical gazes of the three most dangerous men in the country.
"Because," Maeve said, "if the Donatis think they're having breakfast in my city... they're going to choke on it."
