No Nanny Lasted 48 Hours With the Mafia Triplets Until a Broke Maid Told Them to Sit Down and Eat

“Twelve thousand six hundred and seventeen dollars,” Gabriel repeated, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, his posture deceptively relaxed against the mahogany doorframe. He held up a thin, manila folder that Maeve recognized instantly.

It was her financial dossier. Her sister Chloe’s unpaid oncology bills, the itemized hospital notices from Rhode Island General, and the exact ledger of Maeve’s overdue rent.

Maeve didn't stop smoothing the fitted sheet over the mattress corner. She adjusted the crisp white cotton, pulled it taut, and snapped it into place with a sharp, rhythmic flick of her wrist.

“You’re off by forty-two cents,” Maeve said without looking at him. “They added a late fee on Tuesday.”

Gabriel’s light eyes narrowed slightly, the playful smirk dimming just a fraction. He wasn't used to people failing to react to exposure. Most people trembled when the Falcone brothers dug up their secrets.

“I can make that entire number vanish before dinner,” Gabriel said, stepping into the room. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather checkbook, and uncapped an expensive silver pen. “Twice that number, actually. Twenty-five thousand dollars. In cash, certified check, or wire transfer. The only condition is that you put your coat on, walk out those iron gates, and never come back.”

Maeve finally turned around. She wiped her hands on the clean white apron tied around her waist.

“Why?” she asked.

Gabriel smiled, leaning closer. “Because you’re annoying. You don’t flinch. You don’t cry. You make Declan look like an idiot, and you make Roman waste energy watching you on the security monitors.”

“Roman is watching me on the monitors?”

“He’s watched you since you walked past the gatehouse,” Gabriel murmured. “So take the check, Maeve. Go pay for Chloe’s medicine. Go buy boots that don’t require cardboard in the soles.”

Maeve looked down at the silver pen in his hand, then up into Gabriel’s eyes. He thought he was offering a mercy, but she knew better. A man like Gabriel didn't give away twenty-five thousand dollars out of irritation. He gave it away because her presence was an uncalculated variable in a house built entirely on total control.

“If I take your money,” Maeve said, her voice dropping into a steady, quiet register, “then I owe you. And from what I’ve seen in the two hours I’ve been here, owing a Falcone is much more expensive than twelve thousand dollars.”

Gabriel’s pen hovered over the paper.

“I work for forty-two dollars an hour,” Maeve continued, picking up her cleaning basket. “I earn every cent. I don't take charity, and I certainly don't take bribe money from men who think everyone has a price tag.”

She walked past him toward the hallway. As her shoulder brushed his, Gabriel reached out, catching her wrist in a grip that was surprisingly firm—not violent, but unyielding.

“Everyone has a price, Maeve,” Gabriel murmured, his charm slipping to reveal the cold iron underneath. “You just haven't figured out yours yet.”

“Let go of my wrist,” she said quietly.

Before Gabriel could answer, a shadow fell across the threshold.

Roman stood at the end of the hall, his dark eyes fixed on Gabriel’s hand. He held a leather-bound ledger under one arm, his expression as blank and cold as a winter tombstone.

“Gabriel,” Roman said softly.

Gabriel released her wrist instantly, raising his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. “Just offering the staff a generous severance package, brother.”

“She’s not severance material,” Roman said, his gaze shifting to Maeve. He evaluated her—the frayed hem of her sleeves, the stubborn set of her jaw, the quiet defiance in her eyes. “She hasn't reached her forty-eight hours yet. Go downstairs. The shipment from Boston was delayed.”

Gabriel sighed, slipping his pen back into his pocket. “You’re no fun, Roman.” He winked at Maeve as he walked past. “Offer stands until midnight, sweetheart.”

When Gabriel vanished down the stairs, Roman took three measured steps toward Maeve. The hall grew noticeably colder.

“He pulled your file,” Roman stated.

“He did.”

“And you refused twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“I don't like debt.”

Roman stared at her for a long, heavy silence. “Your sister is sick.”

“That’s my business.”

“In this house, everything is my business,” Roman corrected, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the quiet corridor. “If you break down, you become a liability. If you’re desperate, you become a security risk. A hungry person will sell a key to the highest bidder.”

Maeve took a step closer to him, stopping mere inches from his pristine charcoal suit. She smelled of lemon polish and rain; he smelled of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and authority.

“I am broke, Mr. Falcone,” Maeve said, looking him dead in the eye. “I am tired, my feet are soaked, and I am worried about my sister. But I am not a thief, and I am not a traitor. You want your house cleaned? Let me clean it. If you want me gone, fire me yourself. But don't question my honor just because you’ve forgotten what it looks like.”

Roman didn't blink. He didn't move. For five agonizing seconds, Maeve wondered if she had finally crossed the line that got people buried in the Rhode Island woods.

Then, Roman’s jaw tightened.