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

By 2:00 a.m., the gale outside had escalated into a full-blown coastal storm. Waves smashed against the black cliffs below Falcone House, sending spray rattling against the third-floor servant quarters where Maeve lay awake.

The room was small, freezing, and contained little more than a narrow twin bed and a rusted radiator that clanked uselessly every twenty minutes. But it was dry, and for the first time in six months, Maeve wasn't listening for an eviction officer at the door.

She sat up on the edge of the mattress, pulling her woolen cardigan tight around her shoulders. Her stomach growled loudly. She hadn't eaten since a stale blueberry muffin at the bus station twelve hours ago.

Deciding that exploring the estate at night was better than lying awake in the cold, Maeve slipped on her shoes and crept down the rear service stairs, keeping her hand on the cold iron railing.

The house was vast and pitch-black, illuminated only by periodic flashes of lightning through the tall arched windows. She reached the main floor kitchen—a massive, stainless-steel expanse that looked more like a surgical theater than a place where meals were made.

She opened the industrial refrigerator, the pale light washing over rows of untouched imported water, raw steaks, and expensive cheeses.

“Looking for something to steal?” a voice growled from the corner shadow.

Maeve didn't scream, though her heart slammed violently against her ribs. She slowly pushed the refrigerator door slightly shut, casting light toward the breakfast nook.

Declan sat in the dark at a wooden butcher's block table. He was shirtless, a white towel wrapped around his left shoulder, stained with dark, fresh blood. On the table beside him sat an open bottle of bourbon, a pair of stainless-steel tweezers, a needle, and a spool of black surgical thread.

He smelled of ozone, rain, and copper.

Maeve took a steadying breath. “You’re bleeding on the floor I just waxed.”

Declan let out a harsh, rasping laugh that ended in a wince. “You really don't have a self-preservation instinct, do you, girl?”

“I have work to do tomorrow,” Maeve said, walking toward him. She took in the sight: a jagged, shallow graze along his shoulder blade, likely from a high-caliber bullet or a sharp metal fragment. He was trying to stitch it himself using a wall mirror, his fingers clumsy from pain and alcohol.

Without asking, Maeve grabbed a bottle of antiseptic from his kit, washed her hands thoroughly at the sink with antibacterial soap, and pulled a chair up behind him.

“What are you doing?” Declan snapped, his body tensing as she approached.

“You’re making a mess,” Maeve said simply. She grabbed the tweezers, picked up a sterile gauze pad, and drenched it in alcohol. “Hold still.”

“Don't touch me—”

Maeve pressed the pad firmly against the wound.

Declan hissed through his teeth, his hand slamming onto the table with enough force to rattle the bourbon bottle. His muscles knotted like steel cables beneath his skin, covered in dark, intricate tattoos of wolves and iron chains.

“You’re stubborn,” he growled, his breathing heavy.

“And you’re bad at sewing,” Maeve retorted. She expertly threaded the surgical needle with practiced ease. Taking care of Chloe through three surgeries meant Maeve was no stranger to wound care, bandages, and post-op stitches.

She leaned in, her hands remarkably steady despite the terrifying proximity of the man who managed the Falcone family's violence. She drove the needle cleanly through the skin, pulling the black thread taut.

Declan didn't flinch this time. He sat entirely still, his head turned slightly, watching her reflection in the dark windowpane.

“You don't ask where I got it,” Declan noted softly.

“I don't care where you got it,” Maeve replied, making a neat knot and starting the second stitch. “I care about getting back to sleep.”

“A man came into our perimeter tonight,” Declan said, his voice dropping into a dangerous silence. “A scout from the Moretti syndicate in Providence. I caught him by the boathouse.”

“Did he give you that?”

“Before I broke his neck, yes.”

Maeve paused for half a second, the needle hovering above his skin, before pressing through to complete the third stitch. She didn't gasp. She didn't pull away.

“If you kill people on the property,” Maeve said quietly, “make sure you don't track mud onto the carpets. The mud from the marsh is impossible to get out of wool.”

Declan stared at her reflection in the glass, a look of profound, bewildered amusement dawning across his rugged features.

“You're insane,” he muttered.

“I'm practical,” Maeve corrected, tying off the final knot and snipping the thread with surgical scissors. She wiped the clean stitches with antiseptic and taped a sterile pad securely over his shoulder. “Done.”

Declan stretched his arm slowly, testing the tension of the thread. It was clean, tight, and professional.

He looked at her as she packed away the medical supplies. “The last maid fainted when Gabriel cut his finger on a wine glass.”

“The last maid probably had options,” Maeve said. She found a loaf of sourdough bread on the counter, cut two thick slices, and poured a glass of milk. She sat down across from him at the butcher's block table.

Declan watched her eat her dry bread with absolute focus, her chin held high even as she chewed greedily.

Slowly, without saying a word, Declan reached over, grabbed a plate of cold sliced roast beef from the refrigerator, and slid it across the table to her.

Maeve looked at the meat, then at Declan.