Chapter 5 - The Dinner at Falcone ManorBy 8:00 PM the following evening, the icy Atlantic rain hit the grand leaded windows of Falcone Manor like a shower of iron nails.
Inside the formal state dining room, three massive crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden light across a long mahogany table set with antique silver, fine crystal, and white linen.
Sitting at the head of the table was sixty-year-old Victor Vance. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his silver hair slicked back, his sharp features holding a cold, arrogant confidence as he cut into a dry-aged steak. Surrounding the perimeter of the room were six of his broad-shouldered private security guards.
Sitting across from him were Roman, Declan, and Gabriel Falcone.
"I must admit, Roman," Victor spoke smoothly, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin, "I was surprised when your office accepted my request for a private summit. I assumed the Falcone brothers were still clinging to those obsolete coastal boundaries."
"Boundaries change when new assets come to light, Victor," Roman answered calmly, taking a slow sip of red wine.
"Indeed," Victor sneered, leaning back in his leather chair. "Which brings me to my secondary reason for being here. My intelligence team informed me that a former maid—a girl named Maeve Carter—is currently residing on your premises. She possesses several personal documents that belong to the Vance family estate."
Declan let out a low, dangerous chuckle from his side of the table. "You mean the Cape May port deeds, Victor?"
Victor’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening over his fork. "The girl is a penniless waitress. She has no concept of commercial real estate. Hand her over to my team, along with the deeds, and I will concede ten percent of the northern docking fees to your family."
"The girl isn't a penniless waitress, Victor," Gabriel corrected smoothly, spinning a silver butter knife between his fingers. "And she's not handing anything over."
The heavy carved oak double doors at the rear of the dining room swung open cleanly.
Walking into the grand room, flanked by two armed Falcone operators, was me.
I didn't wear a maid’s apron or a scuffed sweater. I wore an exquisite, floor-length midnight-blue silk gown that draped gracefully over my figure, my dark hair swept back in an elegant knot, my hazel eyes holding Victor Vance with an absolute, unshakeable heat.
Victor dropped his fork. It hit the porcelain plate with a loud, echoing CLACK.
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"Maeve...?" Victor stammered, his face draining of color as he looked at my face—seeing the exact, undeniable reflection of his late sister, Clara.
"Good evening, Uncle Victor," I spoke. My voice carried an unyielding, velvet power that echoed off the high ceiling. "I believe you're sitting in my mother's chair."
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