Chapter 1 - I SURVIVED THE MAFIA TRIPLETS’ FORTY-EIGHT-HOUR MAID TEST—THEN ONE BITE OF MY MOTHER’S BREAKFAST MADE ALL THREE BROTHERS LOOK TERRIFIED
Forty-eight hours was supposedly the longest any maid had survived inside Falcone Manor, and several had fled so fast they left their luggage behind.
With twelve dollars and an eviction notice in my pocket, I wasn’t brave enough to challenge three ruthless mafia brothers.
I was simply too broke to leave.
My name was Maeve Carter, I was twenty-four, and my younger sister Lily’s medical debt had reduced my life to double shifts, instant noodles, and the kind of mathematics where you learned exactly how many days the electric company would wait after sending the red notice.
Twelve thousand dollars.
That was what remained.
It might not sound catastrophic to people who owned houses overlooking oceans.
To me, it might as well have been twelve million.
Lily had needed emergency surgery the previous winter. Insurance paid enough to make the hospital bill look almost survivable, which was somehow worse. A completely impossible number would have been abstract.
Twelve thousand was close enough to imagine paying.
So I tried.
Morning shift at a diner.
Evening cleaning offices.
Weekend catering.
I sold my car.
Canceled internet.
Stopped buying anything that couldn't be eaten, worn to work, or used to keep Lily alive.
Then our landlord raised the rent.
Three weeks later, an agency representative called.
“Live-in housekeeping position.”
“No.”
“You haven't heard the pay.”
“Live-in means rich people.”
“Yes.”
“Rich people have expectations.”
“Yes.”
“How rich?”
A pause.
“Falcone.”
I nearly hung up.
Everybody on the eastern seaboard knew the Falcones.
Falcone Maritime.
Falcone Construction.
Falcone Hotels.
Falcone restaurants.
And beneath the legitimate businesses, rumors.
Smuggling.
Protection.
Bookmaking.
Men disappearing.
Judges suddenly retiring.
People spoke about Roman Falcone the way sailors spoke about storms: respectfully, from a distance, and preferably indoors.
“How much?”
She told me.
Triple minimum wage.
Room and board.
Overtime.
Forty-eight-hour retention bonus.
“When do I start?”
“Maeve, I need to explain why there's a retention bonus.”
“Does the house contain asbestos?”
“No.”
“Ghosts?”
“Possibly.”
“Then I'll manage.”
I walked two miles through freezing November rain because I couldn't afford the rideshare to the estate.
Falcone Manor stood on a cliff above the Atlantic, all gray stone and black windows, like somebody had asked an architect to design a house specifically for intimidating tax auditors.
The gates opened.
I walked another quarter mile.
By the time Mrs. Hess answered the servants' entrance, my socks were wet.
She looked sixty.
She also looked one difficult breakfast away from abandoning civilization.
“You're Maeve Carter?”
“Yes.”
“You walked?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Cars require money.”
She stared at me.
Then laughed for the first time.
That was apparently enough to get me inside.
She gave me a room on the third floor, uniforms, keys, schedules, and one warning.
“If you last forty-eight hours, I'll personally send you the bonus.”
“What happens at forty-nine?”
“You become my favorite person.”
“High stakes.”
Her smile vanished.
“Stay out of their way.”
“The brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Are they violent?”
She hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
“With employees?”
“Not usually.”
“Comforting.”
“Miss Carter.”
“Maeve.”
“Maeve, they don't trust strangers.”
“Neither do I.”
“They test people.”
“How?”
“You'll find out.”
I did.
Roman entered first.
Immaculate charcoal suit.
Black tie.
Dark hair.
Gray-green eyes.
Then Declan.
Same face.
No tie.
Bloody knuckles.
Then Gabriel.
Same face again.
Open collar.
Lazy smile.
Three identical men.
Three completely different warnings.
I knew they were triplets.
Seeing them together was still unsettling.
Roman stopped.
“You're new.”
“Excellent observation.”
Mrs. Hess made a choking sound.
Gabriel smiled.
Declan looked interested.
“Name?” Roman asked.
“Maeve Carter.”
“How long?”
“Hopefully until my bank account becomes less offensive.”
Declan deliberately pressed his bleeding palm against the white wall.
A perfect red handprint.
“You missed a spot.”
I looked at it.
Then at him.
Then removed peroxide and a rag from my cart.
I handed both to him.
“Hold your hand over the sink when you use that. I just bleached the basins.”
Silence.
Declan looked at the rag.
Then me.
“You want me to clean it?”
“You made it.”
Gabriel laughed.
Roman didn't.
I pushed my cart away.
Mrs. Hess caught me in the laundry room.
“What are you doing?”
“My job.”
“You handed Declan Falcone a cleaning rag.”
“Yes.”
“He once threw a man through a restaurant window.”
“Was the window clean?”
She stared.
I sighed.
“Mrs. Hess, I'm not fearless.”
“I need this job.”
“Those are different things.”
That became my survival strategy.
I wasn't brave.
I was tired.
Fear required energy.
I had none left.
Declan threw a whiskey glass against the kitchen wall the next evening.
It shattered inches from my head.
I froze.
My heart tried to escape through my ribs.
He watched.
Waiting.
I slowly turned.
“You owe me ten extra minutes.”
“What?”
“Cleanup.”
I grabbed the broom.
“I'm putting it on my timesheet.”
Gabriel nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
Declan stared.
Then:
“Make it twenty.”
He handed me a hundred-dollar bill.
I didn't take it.
“Payroll.”
“You don't accept tips?”
“Not from men throwing glassware at me.”
Roman appeared in the doorway.
“Declan.”
One word.
Declan stopped smiling.
He never threw anything near me again.
Gabriel's test came later.
I was folding towels.
He leaned against the doorframe.
“Lily Carter.”
I stopped.
He smiled.
“Twenty-one.”
“St. Catherine's Medical Center.”
“Twelve thousand, four hundred and seventeen dollars outstanding.”
My hands tightened around the towel.
“How do you know my sister?”
“I don't.”
“Then why are you investigating her?”
“I investigate everyone who sleeps under this roof.”
“You could have asked.”
“Would you have told me?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
I folded another towel.
Inside, I was furious.
And scared.
Mostly scared.
He continued.
“You'll never pay it on this salary.”
“Then perhaps you should give me a raise.”
He laughed.
“Your phone bill is also overdue.”
“Since you're investigating my finances, you should know it's due Tuesday.”
His smile disappeared for half a second.
“You aren't embarrassed?”
“About being poor?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
That wasn't entirely true.
Poverty had embarrassed me many times.
At grocery stores.
Restaurants.
Hospitals.
When Lily apologized for needing medicine.
But I refused to let Gabriel use it as entertainment.
“I didn't choose the bill,” I said.
“I chose not to let my sister die.”
“If somebody finds that embarrassing, they're welcome to pay it.”
He stared.
Then left.
The next morning, I discovered an envelope on my cart.
Inside was enough cash to pay my phone bill.
No note.
I marched into the breakfast room.
All three brothers were there.
“Which one?”
Gabriel looked innocent.
Declan ate toast.
Roman read financial reports.
I placed the envelope down.
“Which one?”
Gabriel raised his hand.
“Take it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I work here.”
“So?”
“So pay me properly.”
Roman looked over the paper.
“You are paid properly.”
“Then I don't need mystery charity.”
Gabriel's eyes narrowed.
“Pride is expensive.”
“So are boundaries.”
Roman's gaze remained on me.
Interesting.
Gabriel took the envelope back.
No argument.
Roman's test came that afternoon.
His office was beautiful.
Dark wood.
Ocean view.
Books.
No photographs.
“Open the top drawer.”
I did.
Cash.
Stacks.
Approximately fifty thousand dollars.
“Take it.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Your sister's debt.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“Does it need to be?”
“Yes.”
He leaned back.
“Take twelve thousand.”
“Pay the clinic.”
“Go home.”
Every exhausted part of me wanted it.
I imagined Lily receiving a statement stamped PAID.
I imagined sleeping without calculating interest.
I imagined groceries.
Heat.
A life.
Then I looked at Roman.
He wasn't being generous.
He was watching.
Testing.
Would poverty make me steal if somebody renamed stealing permission?
Would gratitude make me indebted?
I closed the drawer.
“I prefer direct deposit, Mr. Falcone.”
His eyebrow moved.
“Cash is difficult to explain to the IRS.”
“Forty-six hours.”
“I'll be here tomorrow.”
And I was.
At five the next morning, hunger woke me.
The kitchen contained enough expensive food to feed a hotel.
Nobody had cooked.
I found potatoes.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Butter.
Flour.
Buttermilk.
My mother had taught me breakfast before she taught me long division.
“People forgive almost anything if potatoes are involved,” she'd said.
I grated onion into the skillet.
Bacon grease crackled.
Potatoes browned in butter.
Biscuits rose.
Eggs cooked slowly.
For the first time since arriving, Falcone Manor smelled less like a fortress and more like somebody's home.
Footsteps.
Three sets.
I turned.
Roman.
Declan.
Gabriel.
All staring.
Declan's eyes locked onto the biscuits.
Gabriel's smile vanished.
Roman stared at the skillet.
“Who taught you to make potatoes like that?”
“My mother.”
Roman went completely still.
Then he looked at his brothers.
All three looked afraid.
“What was your mother's name?”
“Eleanor Carter.”
Declan dropped his coffee cup.
It didn't break.
Gabriel whispered:
“No.”
I looked between them.
“What?”
Roman approached the stove.
“Did she put mustard powder in the biscuits?”
My skin prickled.
“Yes.”
“Black pepper in the potatoes before the onions?”
“Yes.”
“Two spoons of buttermilk into the eggs?”
I stared.
“How do you know that?”
Declan pulled out a chair.
Sat.
For the first time, he looked nothing like a violent man.
He looked like a boy.
“Our mother cooked breakfast exactly like this.”
I laughed nervously.
“Lots of people make potatoes.”
“Not like that,” Gabriel said.
Roman's voice was low.
“What was your mother's maiden name?”
“I don't know.”
“Maeve.”
“I said I don't know.”
“She never talked about her family?”
“She said they were dead.”
The brothers exchanged another look.
I became irritated.
“What is happening?”
Roman went to a cabinet.
Opened it.
Behind bottles sat an old metal recipe box.
He removed a yellow card.
Handed it to me.
The handwriting hit me first.
I knew it.
My mother's.
Potatoes for four impossible children.
My hands started shaking.
“Where did you get this?”
Roman answered.
“Our mother.”
“Your mother knew mine?”
“No.”
His eyes met mine.
“Our mother was your mother's sister.”
Silence.
I laughed.
Because sometimes the truth is so absurd your body rejects it.
“No.”
“Eleanor's real name was Eleanor Moretti.”
“Stop.”
“She was our aunt.”
“No.”
“She disappeared eighteen years ago.”
“Stop.”
I stepped backward.
“My mother died six years ago.”
Roman's expression changed.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
“Where?”
“Pennsylvania.”
Gabriel had already pulled out his phone.
I hated him for it.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
Roman said:
“Eleanor Moretti disappeared with her husband and two daughters after our mother was murdered.”
My mouth went dry.
“What?”
“Our mother didn't die in an accident.”
Declan's voice was rough.
“She was killed.”
I looked at the recipe card.
Four impossible children.
“Four?”
Roman nodded.
“Our mother had four children.”
“Three sons…”
“And a daughter.”
Gabriel turned his phone around.
A photograph.
Three little boys.
Identical.
Beside them, a little girl.
Maybe six.
Dark red hair.
Freckles.
My mother's eyes.
My eyes.
“That isn't my mother.”
“No,” Roman said.
“That's our sister.”
“Her name was Nora.”
“She disappeared the same night Eleanor did.”
I stared.
My heart pounded.
“How old would Nora be now?”
“Twenty-four.”
My age.
Nobody moved.
I finally whispered:
“You think I'm your sister?”
“No.”
Roman's answer surprised me.
“We don't know.”
“Then what do you know?”
He pointed to the recipe card.
“Your mother was Eleanor.”
“She was our aunt.”
“She disappeared protecting Nora.”
“You're twenty-four.”
“You have Nora's eyes.”
“And you're standing in our kitchen cooking the breakfast Eleanor used to make after our mother died.”
Declan whispered:
“We thought Nora was dead.”
I backed toward the door.
Roman didn't follow.
Good.
“Maeve.”
“What?”
“Your mother's accident.”
“Yes?”
“Who identified her body?”
I opened my mouth.
Stopped.
A police officer had called.
Closed casket.
Severe burns.
Identification through documents and dental records.
I had been eighteen.
Lily fifteen.
We had been too destroyed to question anything.
“Maeve.”
Roman's voice softened.
“Did you see her?”
“No.”
Gabriel was typing now.
I didn't stop him.
His face changed.
“What?”
Roman asked.
Gabriel looked at me.
“Eleanor Carter has no birth certificate before age eighteen.”
My knees weakened.
Then he said:
“And the dental records used to identify her body were submitted by a clinic owned by Victor Moretti.”
Roman stood.
Declan swore.
I knew that name.
Everyone did.
Victor Moretti.
Falcone rival.
Old mafia family.
Roman's expression became terrifying.
“Maeve.”
“What?”
“If Victor Moretti faked Eleanor's death…”
May you like
He looked at his brothers.
“…then your mother may still be alive.”
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