Chapter 8 - The Berkshire Run
The morning after the siege, Falcone Manor looked like a war zone, but the atmosphere inside had fundamentally shifted. Teams of private contractors and forensic cleaners were already repairing the grand staircase, replacing the stained glass, and removing every trace of the Moretti assault.
In the private hangar behind the estate, Gabriel was prepping a sleek, twin-engine helicopter.
“We leave in ten minutes,” Gabriel said, adjusting his aviator sunglasses despite the overcast sky. “Satellite reconnaissance shows the Berkshire property is clear. Moretti put all his chips on last night’s raid. His remaining lieutenants are in complete disarray.”
Roman walked up beside me, carrying a heavy tactical jacket. He draped it gently over my shoulders. “You don't have to do this yourself, Maeve. Declan and I can retrieve the box.”
“No,” I replied firmly, zipping the jacket up to my chin. “My mother buried it for me. I’m the one who needs to dig it up.”
Declan walked out of the armory, slinging a duffel bag of gear into the helicopter’s cargo bay. He looked at me with a rare expression of deep respect. “The girl shot Vincent Moretti in the shoulder and didn't even flinch. Roman, stop babying her. She’s got more Falcone blood in her than you do.”
Roman shook his head with a faint smirk, but his eyes softened as he looked at me. “Let’s bring Clara’s legacy home.”
The flight to the western hills of Massachusetts took less than an hour. Below us, the rolling mountains were covered in a blanket of early winter snow, the dense pine forests hiding the small, dilapidated cabin where my mother, Lily, and I had spent three quiet years before Clara passed away.
The helicopter landed in a snowy clearing a quarter-mile from the cabin.
The air was crisp and silent, smelling of pine needles and woodsmoke from distant chimneys. Walking up the overgrown path to the old wooden porch felt like stepping back into a dream. The cabin was weathered, its green paint peeling, its windows covered in grime, but the porch swing where my mother used to read us bedtime stories still hung from the rusted iron chains.
I stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath my boots.
Roman, Declan, and Gabriel stood guard at the doorway, giving me space as I walked across the dusty living room toward the hearth.
I knelt beside the stone fireplace, counted three floorboards from the left corner, and pulled out the small crowbar Declan had handed me. With a sharp pull, the aged pine board popped free.
Beneath it, resting in a pocket of dry insulation, was a heavy, waterproof steel case, secured with a digital biometric scanner on the lid.
My breath hitched.
I lifted the heavy box out of the floorboards and set it on the dusty coffee table. The digital screen flickered to life, glowing with a soft blue light: BIOMETRIC AUTHENTICATION REQUIRED.
I held my trembling thumb against the glass scanner. A tiny needle pricked my skin, taking a micro-sample of blood.
A chime echoed through the silent cabin.
May you like
DNA CONFIRMED. WELCOME, MAEVE.
The heavy hydraulic latches on the steel box hissed open, releasing the pressurized seal.
