Chapter 7 - The Council of Wolves
The return drive to Cape Blackwood took place under a darkening sky heavy with the promise of snow.
Declan drove at ninety miles an hour, his eyes constantly darting between the three rearview mirrors.
Twice, he took wide, sweeping detours through industrial park access roads to ensure they were not being tailed.
Maeve held the passenger grab handle with white knuckles, but her breathing remained calm.
She had lived through eviction threats and winter starvation; a high-speed chase barely registered against the backdrop of her sister’s survival.
When they pulled into the gates of Falcone Manor, the perimeter had changed dramatically.
Six black SUVs were parked in a semicircular defensive barricade across the gravel forecourt.
Men in heavy tactical jackets stood under the pine trees, assault rifles slung low across their chests.
The tranquil fortress above the Atlantic had transformed into an active military outpost.
Declan escorted Maeve through the heavy service door, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back.
The heat of his palm burned through her coat.
"Go straight to the main kitchen and lock the inner bolt," Declan ordered, his voice tense.
"Do not come out until Roman comes for you."
"Who is inside?" Maeve demanded, refusing to move until she had the facts.
Declan looked down at her, his eyes dark with ancient street violence.
"Don Moretti and his two capos."
"They control the South Boston trucking unions."
"They think because our father is dead, they can audit our personal estates."
"Stay in the kitchen, Maeve."
Maeve did not lock the inner bolt.
She had spent her entire childhood surviving in South Boston tenements; she knew the Moretti syndicate by reputation.
They were loan sharks who broke mechanics' elbows behind bowling alleys and charged twenty percent interest on funeral expenses.
She took off her coat, rolled up the sleeves of her white poplin shirt, and walked into the pantry.
Through the industrial service hatch that connected the kitchen to the formal dining hall, she could hear the rumble of raised voices.
The formal dining table was lit by a crystal chandelier that cast cold, sharp light over seven men.
At the head of the table sat Roman, immaculate in a three-piece navy pinstripe suit, his fingers steepled before him.
To his right stood Gabriel, leaning against a side sideboard with a silver letter opener balanced on his index finger.
Across the table sat Don Vincent Moretti, a heavyset man of sixty with dyed black hair, diamond rings on three fingers, and a face flushed red with bourbon and rage.
Two armed bodyguards stood behind Moretti, their hands hidden inside their tailored topcoats.
"You bought St.
Jude's research wing for four point two million dollars this morning, Roman," Moretti snarled, slamming an open ledger onto the polished mahogany.
"You bypassed the commission's shared investment protocol."
"We had an agreement on medical laundering."
"You don't drop four million in clean trust cash without giving the family our fifteen percent cut."
Roman did not blink.
"The Falcone family foundation operates under private maritime charter, Vincent."
"What we buy with our personal capital is not subject to street tax."
"The money wasn't for a warehouse or a dock strike," Gabriel added, his voice smooth as silk.
"It was a private philanthropic donation."
Moretti let out a wet, mocking laugh that shook his double chin.
"Philanthropy?"
"The Falcone triplets running a charity?"
"Don't insult my intelligence, boy."
"I have people inside the hospital administration."
"The recipient of that private trust fund isn't a hospital board."
"It's a seventeen-year-old girl named Clara Kelly."
"Daughter of a dead shipyard welder from South Boston."
Moretti leaned forward, his rings catching the light.
"You broke syndicate rules for a scrub woman’s dying sister."
"You're paying ten grand a week to an agency maid."
"The whole city is laughing at you, Roman."
"They say the Falcone brothers have gone soft because some Southie tramp opened her legs in the kitchen."
The temperature in the dining room dropped twenty degrees in a single heartbeat.
Declan stepped forward from the shadows, his hand vanishing behind his belt line where his Sig Sauer rested.
Gabriel’s letter opener stopped spinning, his eyes narrowing into cold slits of death.
Roman slowly flattened both palms against the table.
His hazel eyes turned the color of stagnant river ice.
Before anyone could draw steel, the swinging double doors to the service galley swung wide open.
Maeve Kelly walked into the room carrying a heavy silver tray.
On the tray sat a pot of steaming black espresso and four crystal demitasse cups.
Her posture was straight, her chin lifted, her eyes calm and unhurried.
The seven men in the room froze.
Don Moretti blinked in astonishment, his jaw hanging open as the woman he had just degraded walked directly toward his seat.
Maeve set the silver tray down on the center of the mahogany table with absolute composure.
She poured the dark, aromatic coffee into the first cup and set it before Vincent Moretti.
"Your blood pressure is clearly elevated, Mr.
Moretti," Maeve said, her voice carrying through the deadly silence like a clear bell.
"The salt in cheap delicatessen pastrami will do that to a man your age."
Moretti’s face turned from red to deep purple.
"Who the hell gave this servant permission to speak to me?"
"I gave her permission," Roman said, his voice quiet, low, and laced with absolute, terrifying authority.
Roman did not look at Moretti.
He looked at Maeve, his eyes tracking every movement of her steady hands.
"Miss Kelly runs Falcone Manor."
"She answers to me, to Declan, and to Gabriel."
"She does not answer to street extortionists who mistake loudness for leverage."
Moretti shoved the coffee cup away, spilling black liquid across the pristine white linen tablecloth.
"You're siding with a maid over the Five Families?" Moretti roared, standing up from his chair.
His two bodyguards reached inside their jackets.
In a blur of coordinated violence, the Falcone brothers moved.
Declan’s gun was out and pressed against the forehead of the first bodyguard before the man could clear leather.
Gabriel lunged across the sideboard, the silver letter opener buried three inches into the second guard’s forearm, pinning the man’s hand to the walnut wall panel.
The bodyguard screamed in agony as Gabriel twisted the blade with a polite, vacant smile.
Roman remained seated.
He drew a nickel-plated revolver from his waistband and laid it gently on the table, pointing the barrel straight at Moretti’s heart.
"You spilled coffee on my table, Vincent," Roman whispered.
"And you disrespected the lady who made it."
"Now, you are going to take your wounded dog, get in your car, and drive back to South Boston."
"If I ever hear Miss Kelly’s name cross your lips again..."
Roman cocked the hammer of the revolver with a heavy, deliberate click.
"...I will feed your remains to the crabs off Blackwood pier."
"Declan, escort our guests to the gate."
Declan struck the uninjured guard across the bridge of the nose with the butt of his pistol, sending the man crashing to the floor, before grabbing Moretti by his lapels.
He dragged the sixty-year-old mobster toward the foyer like a sack of damp laundry.
The room cleared in under forty seconds, leaving only the smell of spilled espresso and fresh blood on the wall.
Maeve looked down at the coffee stain on the white linen.
"I told you," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts.
"Black espresso stains if you don't treat it with cold seltzer within three minutes."
Roman stood up from his chair.
He crossed the room until he stood less than a foot from her.
He reached out, his long fingers gently touching her chin, lifting her face until her eyes met his.
His touch was surprisingly warm against her skin.
"Are you frightened, Maeve?" he asked softly.
Maeve looked into the dark, lethal eyes of the city's most feared predator.
"I told you before, Mr.
Falcone," she whispered.
"I have seen worse things than men with guns."
Roman stared at her lips, his thumb brushing against the corner of her jaw.
"You called this your home when you stood up to him."
"I called it my workplace," she corrected.
Roman’s mouth curved into the faintest, darkest hint of a genuine smile.
May you like
"Not for long, Miss Kelly."
"Not for long."
