Forty-eight hours was supposedly the longest any maid had survived inside Falcone Manor,

By noon, the atmosphere inside Falcone Manor had shifted from an icy war zone to an uneasy armed truce.

I refused to take off the uniform. I took the heavy industrial vacuum cleaner up the grand mahogany staircase, determined to scour the Persian runners until not a single speck of Atlantic salt remained. But every time I turned a corner, one of them was there.

Declan leaned against the doorframe of the grand library, a freshly wrapped bandage over his knuckles, watching me dust the antique leather spines. He wasn’t mocking me anymore. His dark eyes followed every sweep of my cloth with an unsettling, predatory protectiveness.

“You’re holding that cloth wrong,” he growled suddenly, pushing off the wall.

“I’ve been cleaning houses since I was twelve, Mr. Falcone,” I replied without looking back. “I know how to wipe down calfskin.”

“Declan,” he corrected, stepping into my personal space until I could smell the leather of his jacket and the faint, crisp scent of cedarwood cologne. “Call me Declan. You call me ‘Mr. Falcone’ again and I’ll throw that duster out the window.”

“Then I’ll put another window on your bill.”

A slow grin spread across his battered face. “God, you’re stubborn. Clara used to hit me with a wooden spoon when I talked back. You look just like her when you flare your nostrils.”

“I do not flare my nostrils,” I snapped, moving around him to reach the upper shelf.

Before I could stretch on my tiptoes, Declan reached up with effortless ease, took the cloth from my hand, and wiped the top molding in one smooth stroke. His chest was nearly pressed against my shoulder, radiating an intense, raw heat that made my skin prickle with sudden awareness.

“I’m doing this,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “Not you.”

“I’m the maid.”

“Not anymore,” a voice sounded from the corridor.

Gabriel stepped into the library, holding an open tablet. The playful smirk was back on his face, but his eyes were completely devoid of warmth. “Roman wants her in the study. Now.”

The air instantly cooled. I stepped back from Declan, who immediately handed the cloth back to me, his jaw clenching as he looked at his brother. “What happened?”

“I ran a trace on the clinic holding her sister’s account,” Gabriel said, his casual tone belying the tension in his shoulders. “St. Jude Memorial isn’t a charity hospital. It’s a front.”

My blood ran cold. The vacuum cord slipped from my fingers and fell to the carpet. “What do you mean, a front? My sister has kidney dysplasia. Dr. Vance has been treating her for eighteen months!”

Gabriel didn’t answer. He simply gestured toward the hall. “Roman’s waiting, Maeve.”

We walked down the long, dimly lit eastern gallery toward the master study. When Gabriel opened the heavy double doors, Roman was standing behind a massive ebony desk, his jacket discarded, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms. A crystal glass of amber scotch sat untouched beside a mountain of black manila folders.

On the blotter in front of him sat my original employment contract from the domestic agency.

As soon as I crossed the threshold, Roman picked up a silver Dupont lighter, struck the flame, and touched it to the corner of the contract.

“What are you doing?” I gasped, lunging forward. “That’s my legal proof of employment! If you burn that, Mrs. Hess won’t release my final paycheck!”

Roman watched the paper curl into black ash, dropping it into a brass wastebasket without blinking. “Mrs. Hess works for me. The agency belongs to a shell company I purchased three years ago. You don’t have an employer, Maeve. Because you are no longer an employee.”

“You don’t own me!” I shouted, fury overriding whatever lingering fear I had left. “You think because you knew my mother twenty years ago, you get to dictate my life? I don’t care who you are in this city! My sister needs her medication, our rent is four days past due, and if I don’t bring home cash tonight, they will lock us out of our apartment!”

“Your apartment was cleared two hours ago,” Roman said calmly.

The room seemed to tilt beneath my boots. “You did what?”

“Declan’s team packed your belongings,” Roman continued, his voice perfectly even, though a dangerous, molten heat flickered beneath his calm mask. “Everything you own has been moved into the guest suite in the west wing of this manor. Your sister, Lily, is currently being transported in an armored medical transport under the care of three private specialists.”

Panic flared hot and sharp in my throat. “You took my sister? You kidnapped my sick sister?!”

“We saved her life,” Gabriel cut in, placing his tablet on the desk and turning the screen toward me.

On the display was a complex financial diagram linking St. Jude Memorial to a sprawling corporate web. At the very top of the pyramid was a single name written in bold red font: **Victor Moretti.**

I stared at the screen, uncomprehending. “I don’t know who that is.”

“He is the boss of the South Boston syndicate,” Roman said, stepping out from behind the desk until he was standing directly in front of me. He towered over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the study windows. “He was our father’s business partner. And he was the man who ordered the hit on our family fifteen years ago when our father died.”

Roman’s hand rose slowly. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to grab my arm, but his knuckles merely brushed the collar of my uniform, tucking a loose thread away with startling gentleness.

“Moretti knew Clara had two daughters,” Roman whispered, his eyes dark as midnight. “He couldn’t find her before she died, but he found you. He bought the clinic where your sister was admitted. He intentionally inflated her medical bills, fabricated phantom charges, and let the debt pile up to ensure you would remain trapped, desperate, and vulnerable.”

“Why?” My voice cracked, the reality crashing over me like a tidal wave. “Why would he care about two broke girls living in a basement?”

“Because of the Falcone blood debt,” Declan said from behind me, his voice vibrating with suppressed violence. “In our world, an unpaid debt of blood or honor doesn't disappear when a generation dies. Clara saved the heirs of the Falcone family. That makes her family sacred to us. And Moretti knew that the moment we discovered Clara had children, we would burn the entire city to the ground before we let a single hair on your heads be harmed.”

Roman leaned down, bringing his face inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, could feel the lethal, unyielding certainty radiating from his body.

“Moretti was baiting a trap,” Roman murmured. “He let you come to this house hoping we would kill you like the other maids, or throw you out into the street where his collectors could grab you to use as leverage against us. But he miscalculated.”

Roman’s fingers lightly cupped my chin, lifting my face. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, calloused and burning hot.

“He thought you were a pawn, Maeve,” Roman said softly. “He didn't realize you were the only thing in this world we would go to war to protect.”

Before I could answer, the red emergency phone on the desk began to chime with a shrill, rhythmic pulse.

Gabriel snatched the receiver, listened for three seconds, and slammed it down.

“They’re at the gate,” Gabriel said, pulling a custom Glock from beneath his jacket with terrifying efficiency. “Moretti’s collectors. Four black SUVs. They claim they have an outstanding court order to repossess collateral belonging to Clara Carter’s estate.”

Declan’s knuckles cracked with a sickening snap. A bloodthirsty grin split his lips. “Collateral? They’re calling Maeve collateral?”

Roman didn't take his eyes off me. He slowly withdrew his hand from my chin, turned toward the gun case built into the mahogany wall, and unlocked it with a fingerprint scanner.

“Declan,” Roman said calmly.

“Boss?”