Chapter 1 - The Kitchen
None of them had slept.
Roman was sitting in his study staring at a shipping ledger that suddenly made no sense.
Declan was punching a heavy bag in the basement gym until his knuckles bled through the wraps.
Gabriel was lying on his back on the velvet sofa in the billiards room staring at the ceiling.
Then the smell hit them.
It was not the delicate aroma of the truffle omelets their usual chef prepared.
It was heavy, aggressive, and undeniably real.
Bacon grease.
Crispy potatoes.
Warm biscuits.
It was a scent that had no business being in a fortress designed for war.
Gabriel sat up first.
He followed the smell down the massive marble staircase, moving silently in his socks.
He reached the kitchen doors just as Declan arrived from the basement, sweating and shirtless.
Roman appeared a moment later, still wearing yesterday’s wrinkled dress shirt.
The three brothers stood in the doorway staring at the tiny, exhausted maid standing at the stove.
Maeve did not notice them immediately.
She was focused on flipping the fried eggs in the spitting bacon grease.
Her hair was falling out of its messy bun, and a smudge of flour crossed her cheek.
She slid the eggs onto a massive platter alongside a mountain of crispy, golden potatoes and perfectly charred bacon.
She pulled the cast-iron skillet of biscuits from the oven.
The heat radiated across the massive room.
Maeve turned around to grab plates and stopped dead.
The three most dangerous men in the city were staring at her as if she were a ghost.
“The chef didn’t show up,” Maeve said flatly, refusing to apologize.
She pointed to the platter with a wooden spatula.
“Eat it before the eggs get rubbery.”
Gabriel was the first to move.
He walked to the island, picked up a piece of bacon with his bare hands, and took a bite.
He closed his eyes.
Declan grabbed a plate, piled it high with potatoes and eggs, and sat down at the stool without a single word.
Roman walked over slowly, his calculating eyes fixed entirely on Maeve.
He took a plate, served himself quietly, and sat between his brothers.
For ten minutes, the only sound in the massive kitchen was the scrape of forks against porcelain.
They ate like starving wolves.
They ate like men who hadn't tasted anything real in a decade.
When the massive platter was completely empty, Roman pushed his plate away and looked at Maeve.
“You’re still here.”
“My shift doesn’t end until six,” Maeve replied, scrubbing a pot in the sink.
Roman pulled out a sleek, black checkbook from his pocket and a silver pen.
He wrote a number, tore the check out, and slid it across the marble island.
Maeve turned off the water, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked over.
She picked up the check.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Her heart stopped completely.
It was enough to pay off her sister's medical debt, fix the car, and pay rent for five years.
“What is this?” Maeve asked, her voice tight.
Roman leaned back in his chair.
“Severance.”
May you like
“Pack your things.”
“You are leaving Falcone Manor immediately.”
