Chapter 4 - Dinner at Midnight
By the third night, the atmosphere in Falcone House had shifted from aggressive hostility to a tense, bewildered truce. The triplets had tried ignoring her, intimidating her, and testing her breaking point—and Maeve had simply treated them like three overgrown, misbehaving toddlers who had never been taught the word no.
It was 11:45 P.M.
Maeve was down in the massive, professional-grade stainless steel kitchen, quietly heating up a simple bowl of vegetable soup and cutting a piece of dense rye bread. Since the chef had fled, the kitchen had been locked up tight, leaving the massive house devoid of any warmth or cooked meals for days.
Suddenly, the heavy swinging kitchen doors pushed open.
Roman walked in, loosening his silk tie, looking exhausted. The shadows under his slate-grey eyes revealed a man who hadn’t slept properly in a week. Behind him came Declan and Gabriel, both looking equally worn down by a brutal day of cartel business negotiations and corporate fallout.
They stopped when they saw Maeve sitting at the small stainless-steel prep table in the corner, quietly eating her soup under a single overhead light.
Declan crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “What are you still doing here? Your shift ended hours ago.”
“The bus doesn’t run past midnight in this godforsaken neighborhood,” Maeve said evenly, not looking up from her bowl. “I’m waiting out the freeze until the morning route.”
Roman walked slowly toward the island, his gaze fixing on the pot of leftover soup simmering gently on the stove. His stomach let out a very quiet, involuntary rumble. None of them had eaten a proper meal in thirty-six hours.
Maeve heard it. She looked up, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and gestured toward the stove with her spoon.
“There’s enough in the pot for three bowls. There's bread in the breadbox. Cut it yourselves; I’m not your personal short-order cook past my contracted hours.”
Declan scoffed, looking at Roman as if she had lost her mind. “Does she know who we are? Does she actually think she can talk to us like—?”
“Shut up, Declan,” Roman interrupted quietly.
To Declan’s utter astonishment, Roman walked over to the cabinet, pulled down three ceramic bowls, and ladled the hot vegetable soup out himself. Gabriel followed suit, grabbing the loaf of bread and slicing it with surprising precision. Even Declan, grumbling under his breath, sat down at the steel table directly across from Maeve.
For ten minutes, the only sound in the cavernous kitchen was the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic bowls.
It was the first time in over a decade that the Falcone brothers had sat down at a table together to eat a meal that wasn't interrupted by phone calls about gunrunning, corporate takeovers, or rival syndicate threats. There were no bodyguards standing in the corners. No nervous associates sweating through their suits. Just three terrifying apex predators and a broke twenty-four-year-old maid who refused to be impressed by their mafia posturing.
“Why aren't you afraid of us, Maeve?” Roman asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His grey eyes pierced into hers with intense, analytical curiosity. “Every person who walks through those front gates trembles within five minutes. You looked at Declan like he was an inconvenience.”
Maeve set her spoon down and wiped her hands clean.
“Fear is a luxury, Mr. Falcone,” Maeve said quietly, her voice carrying a heavy, sorrowful weight that made all three men pause. “When you have a little sister who needs insulin to stay alive, and a landlord who is about to throw your mattress out onto the snowy sidewalk, you don't have the emotional bandwidth left over to be scared of men in expensive suits holding guns.”
She stood up, picked up her bowl, and walked over to the industrial sink, washing it clean with cold water.
“You think you control this house because you can ruin people with a single phone call,” Maeve continued over the sound of running water. “But out there in the real world, real people are fighting battles every single day that make your little cartel wars look like playground games. You aren't monsters, Mr. Falcone. You’re just deeply, profoundly tired children who never learned how to sit down and break bread without a weapon in your hand.”
She turned off the faucet, dried her hands on a towel, and looked each of them in the eye.
“My forty-eight hours ended two hours ago. I’m staying because I need the paycheck for my sister’s medical bills. But if any of you ever leave mud on my freshly mopped floors again, I don't care how many men you’ve killed—I will make you scrub the entire estate with a toothbrush.”
She walked out of the kitchen, leaving the three most feared men in Rhode Island sitting in absolute, stunned silence.
May you like
Gabriel stared at the empty doorway, then looked at Roman. “Well. I’ll double my twenty dollars. She’s definitely not crying.”
Roman didn't smile. But for the first time in years, a strange, unfamiliar warmth settled deep in his chest.
