Chapter 8 - Cracks in the Armor
The following evening, after the dust of the war had settled, the estate was quiet.
Maeve found Roman sitting alone in the grand library, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the churning black ocean below. On the small table beside him sat an old, silver-framed photograph.
Maeve walked in quietly, carrying a tray with two mugs of hot tea. She placed a mug on the table beside him and looked down at the photo.
It showed a beautiful, dark-haired woman with a warm, radiant smile, sitting on the porch of Falcone House, holding three young, identical boys on her lap.
“Our mother,” Roman said softly, breaking the quiet. “Elena.”
“She was lovely,” Maeve remarked gently.
“She died ten years ago,” Roman continued, his gaze fixed on the waves. “Moretti’s predecessor planted a device in her car. Right outside these gates. We were fourteen years old.”
Maeve’s chest tightened. She looked at Roman’s rigid profile, suddenly understanding the cold, impenetrable walls of Falcone House.
“After she died,” Roman whispered, “this house became a graveyard. My father turned into a monster before he was killed two years later. We drove everyone away—every nanny, every maid, every person who tried to come in here and pretend they cared about us. They were all hired by agencies, paid to smile, paid to act like we weren't broken.”
He turned his head, looking at Maeve with a raw, vulnerable intensity.
“Then you walked through that door,” Roman said. “Soaked from the rain, cardboard in your shoes, with twelve dollars in your bank account. You didn't smile. You didn't pretend to like us. You just demanded a broom and told Declan to wipe the wall.”
Maeve offered a small, soft smile. “He really did ruin my clean wall.”
Roman let out a low, quiet laugh—a sound that filled the library with warmth. He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers on the table.
“You brought life back into this dead house, Maeve,” Roman said softly. “Not because you were paid to, but because it’s who you are. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
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Maeve didn't pull her hand away. She slid her fingers into his, feeling the strength and heat of his grip.
“I’m not going anywhere, Roman,” she promised softly. “Forty-eight hours or forty years. I’m staying.”
