Chapter 3 - The Confession
The Castellane estate did not look like a mob boss's lair. It looked like a museum built by someone who wanted the world to stay outside its iron gates.
High grey stone walls wrapped around fifty acres of pine and birch trees. Armed men in dark wool coats stood near the gatehouse, but they didn't hold their weapons out like Falcone's thugs; they kept their hands tucked inside their pockets, watching the Lincoln approach with the calm, terrifying focus of wolves who knew their territory was absolute.
Maeve sat in the back seat, the cake box resting on her knees. Her pulse thrummed behind her ears like a muffled war drum.
When the car stopped in the grand circular driveway, a butler opened her door. He didn't search her. He simply bowed his head with quiet deference. "Miss Doyle. Mr. Castellane is expecting you in the conservatory."
She walked through hallways lined with oil paintings and marble busts, her rubber-soled work shoes silent against thick Persian rugs. The air inside the house smelled of beeswax, aged oak, and expensive tobacco.
The conservatory was a massive glass dome filled with exotic ferns, orange trees, and late-blooming white orchids.
Sitting at a wrought-iron table near the glass wall, looking out over the misty valley below, was Julian Castellane.
He was thirty-six today. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled twice up his forearms, revealing dark skin and a thick silver watch. He didn't look like a killer. He had the sharp, aristocratic jawline of an old-money scholar, dark hair lightly silvered at the temples, and eyes the color of cold river stones.
"Miss Doyle," he said, rising from his chair. His voice was deep, smooth, and possessed an easy, terrifying weight. "Every year I look forward to this afternoon. Please, sit."
Maeve remained standing. The box in her hands felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"Mr. Castellane," she said. Her voice caught in her throat.
Julian paused, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly as he took in her pale face, her dark-circled eyes, and the faint smell of flour and rain clinging to her woolen coat.
"You look as though you've walked through a storm, Miss Doyle," Julian said softly. He stepped around the table, taking the box from her hands with exquisite care and setting it down on the marble top. "You didn't have to deliver it yourself. Usually your driver brings it."
"My driver couldn't come today," Maeve whispered.
Julian untied the red twine with long, elegant fingers. He opened the box, looking down at the almond torte. The smell of amaretto and roasted nuts filled the glass room.
"Magnificent," he murmured. He reached for a silver cake knife sitting beside a plate of polished china. "My mother used to buy a cake similar to this in Naples before we came to America. Yours is better."
He lifted the knife. He angled the blade directly over the center of the cake.
Maeve's chest seized. The room spun around her. She saw Callum's face beneath the gun barrel; she saw the clear, viscous liquid in the vial; she saw the dark, powerful man standing before her, about to take a bite of something that belonged to an executioner.
"Don't," she gasped.
Julian stopped. The silver blade hovered an inch above the almond rosette. He didn't look startled. He simply turned his head, his cold river-stone eyes fixing on her face.
"Don't?" he repeated softly.
Maeve reached into her coat pocket with trembling fingers. She pulled out the small glass vial and set it on the marble table right next to the silver cake knife.
"Nico Falcone broke my shop window last night," Maeve said, the words rushing out of her in a broken, desperate flood. "He dragged my brother into the kitchen. Callum owes four hundred thousand dollars in gambling debts. Falcone put a gun to his head and said... he said if I didn't put that into the amaretto cream, he would kill my brother and burn my bakery to the ground."
She sank onto the iron chair, covering her face with her flour-stained hands. Her shoulders shook, though no sound came out.
"I couldn't do it," she sobbed into her hands. "I couldn't poison you. The cake is clean, Mr. Castellane. I baked it pure. But if I go back to Federal Hill without your death, Falcone will kill Callum before the sun comes up."
The conservatory went completely silent. The only sound was the light patter of autumn rain against the glass roof above.
Maeve braced herself for the shouting, for the armed guards to burst through the doors, for the cold feel of steel against her neck. She had handed her life over to a mob boss, throwing herself on the mercy of a man who ruled New England through fear.
Instead, she heard the soft clink of glass against marble.
She opened her eyes through her tears.
Julian Castellane had picked up the vial. He held it up to the pale afternoon light, inspecting the clear liquid with the calm, detached interest of a scientist studying a bug under a glass. He didn't look angry. He didn't look surprised.
In fact, as he set the vial back down, a slow, dark smile spread across his sharp features.
"Falcone always lacked creativity," Julian said softly. He looked at Maeve, his gaze so intense it seemed to pin her to the back of her chair. "He thinks in terms of blunt instruments and cheap dramatics."
"You're... you're not going to kill me?" Maeve whispered, bewildered.
Julian chuckled—a low, resonant sound that vibrated in his chest. He set the knife down, walked over to her chair, and leaned down until his eyes were level with hers.
"Kill you, Miss Doyle?" Julian asked, his voice dripping with an intoxicating, dangerous warmth. "Why would I kill the only person on Federal Hill with enough integrity to choose her own soul over Nico Falcone’s threats?"
He leaned in closer, the scent of expensive sandalwood and dark coffee washing over her.
"I’ve been waiting for Falcone to make his move for four months," Julian revealed softly. "I knew about your brother’s debt three weeks ago. I knew Falcone bought those marker notes from the bookie in East Providence specifically to use Callum against you."
Maeve gasped, her breath hitching. "You... you knew?"
"Of course I knew," Julian said, his hand reaching out to gently touch the edge of her wrist, his fingers warm and steady against her racing pulse. "This is my city, Maeve. Nothing happens on Federal Hill without my knowledge."
He stood up to his full, commanding height, looking down at her with a look that made her heart stop in her chest.
"Which brings me to the only thing I don't know," Julian said, his hazel eyes burning into hers. "And it is the only question that matters today."
Maeve swallowed hard. "What question?"
May you like
Julian leaned back against the table, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"Did you come here today expecting to die to save your useless brother..." Julian asked softly, "...or did you come here because deep down, you knew I was the only man in New England strong enough to crush Nico Falcone into dust for you?"
