Foster snorts softly. “Bones reads more than anyone I know. Before Sunny, he didn’t even own a television. Said it was noise. He’d sit in silence and tear through history books like they owed him money.”
“Patch likes books, too,” Spike mutters.
Skip laughs as we step through the massive double doors of Maverick’s New York estate.
“I love that man,” he says dramatically. “I’m writing a book for his future lover. If he ever leaves his cave long enough to find one.”
The foyer alone is larger than most houses I’ve set foot in.
Marble floors…not polished white, but warm cream veined with gold. A sweeping staircase curves upward, iron railing hand-forged with old-world detail. Oil paintings line the walls. Real ones. Not prints.
And the smell…Garlic. Fresh basil. Olive oil warming in a pan. Slow-roasted meat. Bread baking.
It hits like a memory you didn’t know you had.
A man in a crisp black suit steps forward, posture perfect.
“Don, welcome home,” he says smoothly. “The kitchen is preparing dinner. Which wine would you prefer this evening? The Barolo from Piedmont? Or the Brunello?”
Maverick doesn’t hesitate.
“Barolo,” he says. “Let it breathe.”
“Of course.”
“And have them prepare antipasti for the table. We’ll speak first.”
“Yes,Don.”
“This is ridiculous,” Skip mutters. “Our clubhouse smells like motor oil and beer.”
Maverick glances back over his shoulder.
“Food is sacred,” he says calmly. “Wine is history. Even during war, we eat well.”
Foster’s mouth twitches slightly. “I could get used to this.”
“You should try the osso buco,” Stefano mutters. “Smells like it’s been cooking for twelve hours.”
“Fourteen,” comes a quiet correction from a passing chef, who nods respectfully to Maverick before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Skip looks around in awe.
“So this is what generational wealth smells like.”
Maverick adjusts his cufflinks.
“This,” he says evenly, “is what happens when you build something meant to last.”
And beneath the warm lighting, the rich food, the expensive wine… You can still feel it.
“This place is beautiful,” I say, glancing around at the carved archways and oil paintings that probably cost more than our entire compound, “but it doesn’t feel as comforting as your estate back home.”
Maverick doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks… satisfied.
“No matter how beautiful everything appears,” he says evenly, “this building was never meant to be a home. It was designed to send a message. It was built for intimidation. For negotiations. For war.”
“Our guest awaits,” Stefano says. “Foster, Bones, Skip…if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the viewing room. You’ll have full audio.”
