Chapter 2 - The Name That Shook the Empire
“Clara,” I said softly, the spatula still hovering in my hand. “Her name was Clara Carter.”
The air was instantly sucked out of the room. Declan took an involuntary step backward, his shoulder hitting the doorframe, while Gabriel closed his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath through his teeth.
Roman didn't move. His gaze bore into mine with an intensity so ferocious I felt as if he were trying to read the very marrow of my bones. “Clara Vance Carter. Originally from Chicago. Born with a crescent-shaped scar beneath her left collarbone.”
My breath caught in my throat. A cold shock rippled down my spine. “How do you know that? She died eight years ago in a hit-and-run. Who are you people?”
“We are the men who spent the last fifteen years believing she was murdered because of us,” Declan snarled, stepping forward, the raw violence returning to his eyes, though it was now mixed with an agonizing grief. “You’re her daughter? You?”
“Declan, stand down,” Roman commanded, his voice returning to its iron authority, though a crack remained beneath the surface. He stepped into the kitchen, the aroma of butter and rosemary swirling around him. He didn't look at the food; he walked straight up to me until he was mere inches away. Up close, I could see flecks of amber in his dark eyes—and the profound exhaustion etched around them.
“Your mother didn’t die in a random accident, Maeve,” Roman said quietly, pronouncing my name as if it were a fragile artifact. “And you didn't end up at our gates by accident either.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, gripping the edge of the marble island behind me to steady my shaking legs. “The cleaning agency sent me here because your previous maids kept quitting! I needed the money to pay for Lily's treatments!”
“Lily,” Gabriel whispered, stepping up beside Roman. His face was pale, his eyes wide. “You have a sister.”
“Yes, she’s fourteen, she has dilated cardiomyopathy, and her next round of specialized medication costs four thousand dollars that I don't have!” I snapped, my defensive walls rising against their bizarre interrogation. “Now, either fire me and let me collect my forty-eight-hour bonus, or tell me why my dead mother’s recipe makes three mafia lords look like they’ve seen the devil!”
Gabriel let out a dry, humorless laugh, running a hand through his dark hair. “Not the devil, sweetheart. An angel. The only angel that ever lived in this house.”
Roman silenced Gabriel with a single flick of his wrist. “Mrs. Hess didn’t choose you from an agency roster, Maeve. I did. When your application crossed my desk, the surname Carter caught my attention. But Carter is common. Thousands of Carters live on the eastern seaboard. I thought it was a coincidence—until you baked Clara’s rosemary skillet potatoes. The exact recipe our mother used to make for us before she was killed, taught to her by her younger half-sister.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath my boots.
“Half-sister?” I stammered. “My mother was an only child. She grew up in foster care.”
“She was hidden in foster care,” Roman corrected, his voice dropping into a low, grave timber. “To protect her from the Moretti syndicate. Our mother, Isabella Falcone, was the matriarch of the North Atlantic families. Clara was her secret sister, hidden away under false identities so the bloodline couldn't be entirely wiped out. When our parents were ambushed and assassinated fifteen years ago, Clara took you and vanished into thin air to keep you safe from the crossfire.”
I shook my head violently, refusing to accept the impossible reality crumbling around me. “No. No, this is insane. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment above a dry cleaner. My mother worked three jobs. We ate instant ramen half the week. We weren’t part of some crime dynasty!”
Declan walked over to the island, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the warm biscuits. Without asking, he reached out with his scarred hand, broke off a piece of a golden biscuit, and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second.
When he opened them, the viciousness was entirely gone. In its place was an unbearable, heartbreaking sorrow.
“It’s her,” Declan said roughly to his brothers. “It’s Clara’s buttermilk blend. She didn’t use sugar; she used a drop of wild clover honey.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was right. Nobody knew that. It was my mother’s private quirk.
Roman took a deep breath, straightening his posture as the mask of the Falcone Don settled firmly back over his features. “Maeve, you are our cousin. By blood, by legacy, and by the sworn oath we took over our mother’s grave.”
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“I’m your maid,” I whispered, overwhelmed.
“Not anymore,” Roman said, reaching out to gently take the wooden spatula from my frozen fingers and laying it on the counter. “As of this second, you are a Falcone. And anyone who ever threatened you or your sister will answer to us.”
