Chapter 2 - The Morning After
Daylight pierced the heavy velvet drapes of the Falcone estate with an unforgiving clarity.
Mattie had slept for less than two hours. Her uniform was fresh—a dark navy dress with a crisp white apron—and she had scrubbed her hands until the skin was pink and raw, desperate to erase the phantom scent of iron and antiseptic.
When she entered the kitchen at six in the morning, Greta was already rolling dough. The older woman glanced at Mattie over her spectacles, her sharp eyes taking in the dark smudges under Mattie’s eyes.
"You look like you wrestled a demon, child," Greta said, pushing a steaming mug of black coffee across the wooden island.
"Just bad dreams," Mattie lied smoothly, wrapping her fingers around the mug. The warmth seeped into her bones, steadying her racing heart. "The house makes a lot of noises."
"This house is full of dead things that don't know they're dead yet," Greta grunted. "Don't go looking for them."
At eight o’clock, Frank appeared in the kitchen doorway. His usually immaculate silver hair was slightly disheveled, and his posture was rigid with tension.
"Mattie," Frank said crisply. "The master requests breakfast in his private quarters. You will take the tray."
Greta’s hands paused in the flour. She looked at Frank, then at Mattie, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Mr. Falcone never takes breakfast in bed. Never."
"He does today," Frank said, his voice brooking no argument. "Take the silver tray, Mattie. Do not linger."
Mattie’s pulse jumped into her throat, but she nodded calmly. She loaded the silver service: black coffee, toasted rye, poached eggs, and fresh fruit. As she carried the heavy tray up the grand staircase, she could feel the eyes of the armed guards standing at the perimeter doors. The atmosphere in the mansion had shifted overnight; guards were checking sidearms, whispers echoed in corners, and the easy silence of wealth was replaced by the coiled tension of war.
She reached the heavy mahogany doors of Salem’s private bedroom on the third floor. She knocked twice.
"Enter."
The voice was cold, controlled, and unmistakable.
Mattie turned the brass knob and pushed the door open.
Salem Falcone was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, already dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit. Only someone who knew what lay beneath the tailored vest would have noticed the slight stiffness in his left shoulder or the deliberate, measured way he drew breath.
He turned as the door clicked shut behind her.
In the bright morning light, Salem was a lethal picture of authority. High cheekbones, a sharp, aristocratic nose broken once and set cleanly, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. His dark hair was slicked back, damp from the shower.
"Set it on the table," he commanded.
Mattie walked across the thick wool carpet and set the tray down. Her eyes instinctively swept over his frame, assessing his posture, his gait, the subtle tells of internal bleeding.
"You shouldn't be standing," she said quietly, keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry through the heavy doors. "You’ll rip the deep sutures."
Salem took two slow steps toward her. The air between them instantly tightened, charged with a strange, magnetic friction. He towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking the morning light, but Mattie held her ground. She refused to cower.
"I don't have the luxury of resting," Salem said, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr. "The Moretti syndicate hit my convoy last night on Route 4. They think I was in the lead car. They think I'm dead, or at least dying in a private clinic."
"You *were* dying," Mattie countered, crossing her arms over her apron. "You're only upright because I know how to tie a surgeon's knot."
A faint, wicked smirk touched the corner of Salem’s mouth. "Are you looking for a thank you, Miss Brennan?"
"I'm looking for you not to tear open my handiwork so I don't have to clean your blood off the carpet again."
Salem stared at her. Women in his circle were either porcelain trophies terrified of his shadow or conniving socialites looking for an angle. None of them had ever looked at him with the stubborn, practical defiance of this woman. Her soft curves, the curve of her waist, the defiant tilt of her chin—she looked completely out of place in this mausoleum of murder, yet she was the only real thing in it.
Before Salem could answer, the double doors burst open.
Dante Moretti—or rather, Victor Vance, Salem’s ruthless underboss—strode into the room, flanked by two armed soldiers. Victor’s eyes were wild, smelling blood in the water.
"Salem," Victor said, his eyes darting hungrily across the room, landing first on Salem, then lingering insolently on Mattie. "Word on the street is the convoy took heavy fire. Some of our men are saying you took a slug to the gut. I came to see if we needed to call an emergency council."
Salem didn't flinch. He casually slipped his left hand into his trouser pocket, concealing any strain, and looked at his underboss with cold contempt.
"Do I look like a man who took a slug, Victor?" Salem asked softly. The silence in the room became lethal.
Victor’s gaze flickered. He looked at Salem’s immaculate suit, the steady posture, the absolute lack of fear. "No, boss. You look... whole."
"Then get out of my quarters before I decide your concern sounds too much like an audition," Salem said evenly.
Victor swallowed hard, nodded, and retreated, his eyes darting one last time toward Mattie.
When the doors shut, Salem’s hand left his pocket. He braced himself against the back of an armchair, his knuckles white, a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple.
Mattie stepped forward instantly, catching his arm before he could stumble.
"Told you so," she whispered.
May you like
Salem looked down at her small, warm hand supporting his massive forearm. For the first time in ten years, he did not pull away from another human being's touch.
***
