Chapter 8 - The Dinner of Blood and Bread
By eight o'clock that evening, the storm outside had escalated into a full Atlantic blizzard.
Wet snow battered against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the manor, sealing the estate inside an impenetrable fortress of white.
The tension from the morning's confrontation with Moretti still hung heavy in the air.
Declan had spent two hours pacing the perimeter with a thermal scope, his knuckles bleeding again where the scabs had torn.
Gabriel was locked in the media room, monitoring tapped communications from the South Boston precinct.
Roman had not left his study since the shooting.
Maeve refused to let the house sink back into its cold, predatory silence.
She returned to the kitchen.
Survival in her childhood had taught her that after violence, men became wild animals unless they were tethered to the earth by food.
She found a large Dutch oven in the copper pantry.
She pulled four pounds of beef chuck from the walk-in refrigerator, heavily marbling the meat with sea salt and cracked peppercorns.
She seared the beef in hot beef tallow until the crust was deep mahogany brown.
She deglazed the pot with half a bottle of bold red wine, scraping up the caramelized juices from the bottom of the iron.
She tossed in whole carrots, chopped celery, crushed garlic cloves, and fresh rosemary sprigs from the herb garden greenhouse.
She lowered the flame, locked the heavy cast-iron lid in place, and let the stew simmer for three hours until the meat collapsed into tender ribbons.
While the stew cooked, she baked a fresh loaf of sourdough bread, kneading the dough until her forearms burned.
When she pulled the bread from the oven, the crust crackled like breaking wood in the quiet room.
At nine o'clock, she walked into Roman's study without knocking.
Roman was hunched over a spread of satellite photographs, a half-empty glass of Scotch at his elbow.
He looked up, his brow furrowed in irritation at the intrusion.
Maeve set a deep ceramic bowl of steaming beef stew and two thick slices of hot bread directly onto the edge of his battle map.
"Eat," she said.
Roman leaned back, staring at the bowl.
"I don't have an appetite, Maeve."
"The Moretti family is mobilizing their docks."
"Two of my supply shipments were intercepted at the state line."
"I don't care about your shipping containers, Mr.
Falcone," Maeve said, leaning over the desk with her hands on her hips.
"You haven't slept in thirty hours."
"Your hands are shaking when you hold that pen."
"If you want to fight a turf war, you don't do it on an empty stomach."
Roman stared at her for five seconds, his gaze drifting from her stern hazel eyes to her flour-dusted collar.
Slowly, he picked up the spoon.
He tasted the broth.
The rich, savory depth of braised beef, red wine, and garlic hit his palate like an anchor dropping into stormy water.
He closed his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.
"You're infuriating," Roman murmured, taking a second bite.
"I am paid ten thousand dollars a week to keep this house alive," Maeve replied cleanly.
"That includes keeping the boss from starving to death over a piece of paper."
She turned and left the study, heading down the hallway to find the other two.
She found Gabriel in the library, staring blankly at the roaring fire with an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
She handed him a bowl without a word.
Gabriel looked at the steaming stew, his usual sarcastic smirk failing to appear.
"Did you put poison in this, little maid?" he asked softly.
"Only if you consider garlic poisonous," she said.
Gabriel took a piece of the crusty bread, dipped it into the thick gravy, and brought it to his mouth.
He swallowed, his throat moving heavily.
"My mother used to make bread like this," Gabriel whispered, staring into the flames.
"Before she started locking herself in the bedroom with the silver vials."
"Before the house became a tomb."
Maeve stopped in the doorway.
She had never seen the cruel, mocking Gabriel look so human, so stripped of armor.
"Food isn't a weapon, Gabriel," Maeve said gently.
"It's just bread."
"Eat it while it's hot."
She found Declan in the garage workshop, methodically stripping the firing pin of a shotgun under a harsh fluorescent tube.
The room was freezing, smelling of engine oil and kerosene.
Maeve set the bowl down on his steel workbench next to the gun parts.
Declan looked at the food, then at her.
His face was smeared with carbon, his eyes heavy with dark exhaustion.
"You don't belong here, Maeve," Declan said rough, his voice cracking.
"This house destroys everything it touches."
"The women who came before you...
they ran because they smelled the graves under the floorboards."
Maeve picked up an oily rag and wiped a smudge of black grease from his broad cheek.
Declan went completely rigid at her touch.
His breath caught in his throat.
"I didn't run from the storm, Declan," Maeve said quietly, her hand lingering for a heartbeat against his rough jaw.
"And I'm not running from you."
"Eat your dinner before the grease hardens."
Declan looked down at the bowl of stew, his jaw trembling by a fraction of an inch.
He picked up the spoon with his bruised, battered hand and began to eat.
May you like
That night, for the first time in ten years, every light in Falcone Manor was turned off before midnight.
And for the first time in ten years, all three brothers slept through the night.
