“It was a package. Delivered to the gate. They… they did not check it before bringing it inside.”
Maverick’s face contorts like the words physically hit him.
“A package,” he repeats, dead calm.
Too calm.
Everyone in the room leans back a little.
Then his voice drops to a deadly whisper.
“I want the guards at the front gate in custody. NOW.”
Luca nods instantly. “Yes, Boss.”
“Take them to the warehouse,” Maverick continues, his accent so heavy now that it’s hard to understand him. “Keep them there until I’m fucking ready.”
Luca signals one of the other Italians, who leaves immediately.
Maverick inhales shakily, rubs his hands over his face, then lifts his head toward Spike.
And what strikes me most isn’t the anger.
It’s the grief.
The kind that guts a man from the inside out.
He lets out a sharp breath, raises both hands like he’s surrendering to the moment, and for the first time since we’ve known him…he looks anything but calm and unbothered.
He’s in agony…so much fucking agony.
“Spike…” Maverick says, voice raw. “Looks like we have some things to talk about.”
Spike just nods, steady and solemn.
“Yeah, brother,” he says quietly. “I think we do.”
And Maverick… fierce, terrifying, American-as-hell (or so we thought) Maverick…
lets the last of his mask slip for the first time since we’ve met him.
“You’re Don Moretti?” Spike asks quietly.
Not accusing. Not yelling. Just… confirming what he already knows.
Maverick doesn’t dodge it. Doesn’t smirk or charm or deflect.
He just nods once, slow and heavy, then sits down in the empty chair on Eli’s other side like the weight of the entire fucking world suddenly doubled.
What’s strange? I don’t feel the urge to swing at him.
I don’t feel the need to drag Eli behind me to protect him from the Italian Mafia’s Boss.
Because, despite the betrayal I feel, my gut tells me that Maverick would never actually betray us.
Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed as all hell.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell us?” I snap. “Damnit, Maverick. We wouldn’t have treated you any differently.”
