Chapter 3 - The Blood on the Marble
By two o'clock that afternoon, the November weather had turned violent. A thick, grey fog rolled off the Atlantic, smothering Falcone Manor in a damp, freezing shroud.
Maeve had spent the morning reorganizing the pantry, throwing away thousands of dollars' worth of expired gourmet ingredients and replacing them with practical staples she had ordered through an emergency commercial delivery service.
She was dragging a heavy bag of flour toward the storage racks when the heavy iron security door at the rear of the kitchen burst open.
Declan stumbled inside, leaning heavily against the steel frame.
His leather jacket was shredded across the left shoulder, dark, sticky blood soaking through the leather and dripping steadily onto the pristine tile floor she had mopped four hours ago. He was breathing in ragged, shallow gasps, his skin pale beneath his tan.
Maeve dropped the flour bag.
"I told you," she said, her voice tight as she rushed across the room, "no bleeding on my floors."
Declan let out a strained, breathless rasp, sliding down the wall until he sat heavily on the ground, his back against the industrial refrigerator. "The... the Moretti boys... brought a couple of shotguns to the pier."
"Hold still," Maeve commanded.
She didn't run away. She didn't scream for help. Instead, she grabbed a roll of clean towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and the medical kit she had spotted in the utility closet earlier.
She knelt beside him, her knees pressing directly into the cold floor. Without asking permission, she took a pair of heavy shears from the kit and sliced Declan's leather jacket straight up the seam, exposing the raw, torn flesh of his upper arm.
Three heavy shotgun pellets were embedded deep in his muscle, surrounding a ragged six-inch tear.
Declan gritted his teeth, his split knuckles clenching so hard the skin turned white. "Where's... where's Roman?"
"He took Gabriel to the bank downtown an hour ago," Maeve said, unscrewing the alcohol bottle. "You're alone with me. Now shut up and bite on this."
She shoved a folded washcloth into his mouth.
Before he could react, she poured half the bottle of rubbing alcohol directly into the open wound.
Declan's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. His body locked up like a steel spring, a muffled scream tearing through his throat against the washcloth. Veins bulged along his neck, his right hand shooting out instinctively to grab Maeve by the throat.
Maeve didn't flinch. She leaned into his grip, her eyes blazing into his.
"If you squeeze my neck, Declan, I'll pour the rest of this down your pants. Let go."
Declan froze. His fingers trembled against her skin, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse of her neck. Slowly, his hand slipped away, falling limply onto his knee. He spat out the washcloth, panting heavily, sweat pouring down his face.
"You're... you're a psycho," he grunted, a twisted grin breaking through his pain.
"I took care of my sister through three major surgeries when the hospital refused to give us adequate pain medication," Maeve said coldly, pulling a pair of sterilized tweezers from the kit. "You're a walk in the park compared to a thirteen-year-old girl with an infection. Hold still."
With steady, unhurried hands, Maeve dug the tweezers into the wound.
Declan hissed through his teeth, his muscles twitching, but he didn't pull away. He watched her face. Her brow was furrowed in fierce concentration, a single stray lock of dark hair falling across her forehead. She didn't look at him with fear. She didn't look at him with the sickening, opportunistic awe that most people displayed around the Falcone family.
She treated his torn flesh like a problem to be solved, an annoying stain on her afternoon routine.
CLINK.
The first lead pellet hit the stainless-steel tray.
CLINK.
The second.
CLINK.
The third.
"Good," Maeve murmured, pouring iodine over the wound. She pulled a curved suture needle and thick black thread from the medical box. "This is going to hurt."
"Just do it," Declan growled.
As she drove the needle through his skin, pulling the flesh tightly together with neat, precise stitches, Declan leaned his head back against the refrigerator.
"Why didn't you take Roman's money yesterday?" Declan asked softly, the edge in his voice entirely gone. "The fifty grand in the desk. You could have walked. You could have paid off your sister's clinic and never looked back at this place."
Maeve pulled a knot tight and snipped the thread.
"Because men like your brother don't give away fifty thousand dollars," she said without looking up. "It was a test. If I took it, he would have spent the rest of my life owning me. I'd rather work twenty hours a day than owe a man who uses guns to solve his problems."
Declan looked down at his arm. The stitch line was straight, clean, and professional.
"My dad used to hit us," Declan said suddenly.
Maeve stopped wrapping the white gauze around his arm.
"He built this house," Declan continued, his eyes staring blankly at the far wall. "He built the syndicate. And every time he lost a shipment or felt disrespect from a rival, he brought us into the basement and used a heavy leather strap until we couldn't stand up. He told us that if we ever showed weakness, if we ever let anyone see us bleed, the world would eat us alive."
Maeve secured the end of the bandage with medical tape. She sat back on her heels, looking at the scarred, blood-stained man before her.
"Your dad was an idiot," Maeve said softly.
Declan blinked, turning his head to look at her.
"Bleeding isn't weakness," Maeve said, gathering the bloody towels. "Bleeding just means you're still alive. It's what you do after you bleed that matters."
May you like
She stood up, grabbed her mop bucket, and began scrubbing the dark bloodstains off the tile floor.
Declan sat against the refrigerator for a long time, watching her work, his hand resting gently over the clean bandage on his arm.
