Chapter 4 - The 48-Hour Mark
At 8:00 a.m. on Friday morning, the employment agency’s official forty-eight-hour clock expired.
Mrs. Evelyn Hess arrived at Falcone House precisely at 8:05 a.m., carrying a spare set of house keys and an expression of grim expectation. She opened the side door, expecting to find an empty foyer, a resignation note, or Maeve’s abandoned belongings on the porch.
Instead, she smelled coffee.
Real, freshly ground Colombian coffee, mingled with the scent of baked butter, garlic, and seared rosemary.
Mrs. Hess stepped into the grand kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks.
The stainless-steel counters were spotless, gleaming like silver. The copper pots hanging above the island had been polished until they reflected the pale morning light. And sitting at the long, dark oak dining table in the adjoining room—a table that had not been used for dining since the matriarch of the Falcone family died ten years prior—sat the three Falcone brothers.
They were not shouting. They were not throwing glassware.
They were eating.
Maeve stood at the stove, wearing a clean navy apron, flipping golden-brown omelets in a heavy cast-iron skillet.
Roman sat at the head of the table, an open laptop beside his plate, methodically eating spinach and goat cheese omelet while reading financial reports.
Declan sat to his right, his wounded shoulder neatly bandaged under a dark t-shirt, shoveling scrambled eggs and thick bacon into his mouth with terrifying efficiency.
Gabriel sat to the left, sipping fresh orange juice, looking thoroughly entertained as he picked through a bowl of fresh berries.
Mrs. Hess’s mouth opened. No sound came out.
Maeve turned around holding a fresh plate of toasted sourdough, caught sight of the house manager, and nodded politely.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hess. You’re early.”
Mrs. Hess blinked rapidly, clutching her leather handbag to her chest like a shield. “You’re… still here.”
“I have a two-week probation period,” Maeve said, placing the toast in the center of the table. “And the kitchen was filthy.”
Declan swallowed a massive bite of bacon and pointed a fork at Mrs. Hess. “The old chef made food that tasted like wet cardboard. Fire him permanently.”
“He quit three days ago, Declan,” Gabriel pointed out smoothly. “Although Maeve’s cooking is admittedly a significant upgrade from his French nonsense.”
Roman raised his eyes from his laptop, settling his cool, commanding gaze on Mrs. Hess.
“Evelyn,” Roman said.
“Yes, Mr. Falcone?” Mrs. Hess squeaked.
“Cancel the listing with the employment agency.”
Mrs. Hess froze. “Sir?”
“We don't need additional staff,” Roman stated, taking a quiet sip of black coffee. “Maeve will manage the house.”
“All of it?” Mrs. Hess gasped. “The cleaning, the laundry, the meals? For three men? That’s a five-person operation!”
“I’ll do it,” Maeve interrupted calmly, clearing Declan’s empty plate. “On three conditions.”
The room went dead silent.
Declan stopped chewing. Gabriel paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. Roman slowly closed his laptop lid with a soft click.
Nobody set conditions for Roman Falcone. Nobody.
“Name them,” Roman said, his voice dangerously level.
“First, my salary is doubled. Eighty-four dollars an hour, guaranteed forty hours a week, paid directly into my checking account every Friday morning at eight.”
Gabriel smirked. “Bold.”
“Second,” Maeve continued, unfazed, “my sister’s medical care at Rhode Island General is transferred to a private room with a dedicated specialist. You have political and medical influence in Providence. Use it.”
Roman’s eyes flickered with a faint, almost imperceptible spark of interest. “And the third?”
“Stop leaving your shoes in the hallway,” Maeve said, looking directly at Declan. “If I trip over another nine-hundred-dollar pair of leather boots, I’m throwing them into the ocean.”
Declan let out a sudden, roaring laugh that shook his broad shoulders. He slammed his hand against the table, grinning wildly. “I like her. Keep her.”
Gabriel shook his head, chuckling softly into his juice glass. “She’s going to murder us in our sleep, Roman.”
Roman didn't laugh. He continued to study Maeve, analyzing the calm, unshakeable composure in her stance. He saw a woman who was standing in the den of wolves, demanding territory, not because she was foolish, but because she knew her own worth.
“Done,” Roman said softly.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a gold fountain pen, and drafted a brief, handwritten addendum on a fresh sheet of stationery. He signed it with a sharp, elegant flourish and pushed it across the table toward her.
“Your sister will be moved to the private wing at St. Jude’s by noon today,” Roman said. “Dr. Harrison will handle her case personally. Your salary will be deposited in an hour.”
Maeve picked up the paper, read the concise, binding terms, and felt a massive, suffocating boulder lift off her chest. For the first time in three years, Chloe would be safe. They wouldn't be evicted.
May you like
“Thank you, Mr. Falcone,” Maeve said quietly.
“Don't thank me yet, Maeve,” Roman murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying weight. “Now you belong to this house. And Falcone House protects what is its own—whether you like it or not.”
