Chapter 3 - The War of the Wet Boots
The first twenty-four hours inside Falcone House quickly devolved into a psychological warfare campaign that no one officially admitted they were playing.
Declan took the opening salvo. That evening, he deliberately left his filthy, mud-caked riding boots right in the exact center of the newly mopped grand staircase landing.
Maeve simply walked past them, picked them up, and set them neatly outside on the front porch steps in the freezing rain.
Two hours later, Declan found them, brought them back inside, and placed them directly in front of the kitchen pantry where Maeve was preparing a pot of tea.
Maeve didn't yell. She picked them up again, walked out to the gardens, and placed them neatly underneath the main roof gutter where thousands of gallons of icy rain poured down directly from the slate tiles.
It rained torrentially all night long.
When Declan walked out the front doors the next morning to check his prized sports car, he discovered his nine-hundred-dollar Italian leather boots filled to the brim with ice-cold rainwater, heavy as lead.
He stormed into the kitchen like a hurricane while Maeve was calmly wiping down the stainless-steel refrigerator.
“You ruined my boots!” Declan roared, slamming the soaked footwear onto the kitchen island, splashing water across the granite counters.
Maeve didn't even turn around right away. She finished wiping the handle, polished it with a dry cloth, and then slowly turned to face him.
“You left them where they didn't belong.”
“They cost nine hundred dollars!”
“My apartment security deposit in the city was nine hundred dollars,” Maeve replied coldly, her dark eyes locking onto his with absolute ice. “Somebody stole that from me, too. At least your boots survived the night.”
Declan opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of fury, but absolutely nothing came out. He stared at her, chest heaving beneath his leather jacket, realizing for the first time that yelling at this woman had the exact same emotional impact as screaming at a brick wall.
Maeve closed the refrigerator door with a soft click. “Next time, buy waterproof ones. Or put them in the closet like a civilized adult.”
Gabriel’s test of endurance came later that afternoon.
Maeve was upstairs changing the heavy guest sheets when Gabriel appeared soundlessly in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a stack of old financial portfolios in his hand.
“Twelve thousand six hundred and seventeen dollars,” Gabriel said casually.
Maeve continued tucking the tight hospital corners of the crisp white sheet beneath the mattress, her movements steady.
“What?” she asked without looking up.
“That’s the exact amount of damage bill your predecessor racked up before she threw her vacuum cleaner through a stained-glass window and ran out into traffic,” Gabriel smiled lazily, studying her profile. “Roman is taking bets in the study downstairs on whether you make it to forty-eight hours. Declan has twenty dollars on you crying in the laundry room by midnight.”
Maeve finally stood up straight, smoothing down the duvet cover with the flat of her palm. She walked slowly toward the doorway, stopping just inches from Gabriel. He was tall, intimidating, and dripping with dangerous charisma, but Maeve looked right through him as if he were made of glass.
“Tell Roman to keep his money,” Maeve said softly.
Gabriel’s amused smirk faltered slightly. “Oh? And why is that?”
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“Because I charge fifty dollars an hour for overtime mental evaluations,” Maeve replied, stepping past him into the hallway with her laundry basket. “And right now, you’re wasting my billable hours.”
Gabriel watched her walk down the corridor, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face for the first time in years.
