Chapter 6 - WHY NO MAID LASTED FORTY-EIGHT HOURS
The story everyone told about Falcone Manor was that employees were weak.
Too nervous.
Too sensitive.
Unable to handle demanding employers.
The truth?
The brothers had made leaving the rational choice.
Declan threw things.
Gabriel invaded privacy.
Roman tested integrity with money.
They called it screening.
Their father had taught them never to trust staff after Eleanor’s supposed betrayal.
Salvatore encouraged it.
“Better they fear you early than betray you later.”
For fifteen years, they had obeyed.
Maeve—me—was simply too broke to run.
That was not courage.
It was desperation.
I told them exactly that.
We sat at the long kitchen island.
The same place where the potatoes had started everything.
“You didn't find a loyal maid.”
Declan looked at me.
“What?”
“You found a woman with an eviction notice.”
Nobody spoke.
“If I had five thousand dollars in savings, I would have left after the glass.”
Declan looked ashamed.
“If I had family who could cover Nora’s bill, I would've left after Gabriel mentioned my debt.”
Gabriel stared at the counter.
“And if I had another job lined up, Roman's drawer would've been the last thing I saw before walking out.”
Roman nodded once.
No defense.
Good.
Mrs. Hess entered carrying a stack of personnel files.
Forty-three employees in five years.
Housekeepers.
Servers.
Assistants.
Drivers.
Most left voluntarily.
Some within hours.
Exit notes:
Hostile environment.
Privacy concerns.
Unsafe behavior.
Unreasonable testing.
The brothers read every one.
Nobody enjoyed breakfast.
Then an older name appeared.
Eleanor Carter.
Employment status:
Terminated for misconduct.
Pension forfeited.
Accrued compensation withheld pending investigation.
I froze.
“What?”
Roman took the file.
My mother had worked for the Falcones nearly eleven years.
Employee retirement contribution.
Severance.
Unused compensation.
All frozen after Lucia’s death.
Salvatore had signed the forfeiture.
Rachel calculated later.
With interest and vested benefits:
$38,600.
My mother’s money.
Not Falcone generosity.
Not a gift.
Earned.
Stolen.
I sat in the kitchen and cried harder over that than the twenty-two-million-dollar ledger.
Because I remembered Mom counting coins for groceries.
Skipping dental care.
Working sick.
And somewhere, money she had earned sat frozen because a rich family found accusation easier than investigation.
Roman did not touch me.
Good instinct.
He only said:
“We return every dollar.”
I nodded.
“And her name.”
“Yes.”
“That matters more.”
May you like
“I know.”
Maybe he finally did.
