“Your Highness,” he declares in a booming, overly proper accent, bending until his nose nearly kisses the marble floor, “we, thy most humble and dirt-caked subjects, have journeyed far across perilous lands in answer to thy noble summons.”
Bones pinches the bridge of his nose.
Skip continues, undeterred.
“Pray tell, mighty sovereign of silk suits and shadowed dealings, how may we lay waste to thine enemies this eve? Shall we sharpen our blades? Storm the battlements? Or merely glare menacingly from the courtyard until morale improves?”
Spike sighs. “Get up.”
But Skip straightens with theatrical reverence.
“Fear not, my liege,” he says solemnly. “The Shadows stand ready. Our steeds are fueled, our steel is polished, and our loyalty eternal.”
Maverick doesn’t even blink.
But the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Rise, Sir Skip,” he replies smoothly. “Before I have you escorted to the dungeon.”
Skip gasps dramatically. “Alas! Betrayed by mine own monarch.”
Then he raises his chin high.
“I shall die as I lived… handsome and misunderstood.”
Bones mutters, “I’m changing clubs.”
“This chair will do nicely, Luca,” Maverick says, running a slow hand along the carved armrest like he’s inspecting a crown jewel. “Order eighteen more for the table. Same cut. Same finish. And ensure they come from Florence, not Milan. I prefer Florentine craftsmanship.”
Of course he does.
“And, please,” he adds smoothly, “see to it that the children are given extra time outside this evening.”
“Extra recess?” Skip says, eyes widening dramatically. “Let’s go, Luca. I can’t wait to show these little savages how to play dodgeball Shadow style.”
“I do not know howil Dontolerates that man,” Luca mutters in accented irritation as he turns to carry out the orders.
“Careful with the insults,” Maverick smirks. “Many of our young boys are training to be soldiers for their Don. I know an eleven-year-old who could shoot you between the eyes while holding his gelato.”
Skip pauses. “Respectfully… that’s terrifying.”
“So,” Spike cuts in. “The war?”
“Ah, yes.” Maverick rises and gestures for us to follow. “We’ll speak in my office.”
We move through a corridor that looks less like a house and more like a museum wing.
“This entire section was destroyed when Los Fantasmas attacked last year,” Maverick continues calmly. “The dining room took the brunt of it. We’ve been using the common hall each evening while reconstruction was underway.”
“It took a year?” I ask.
“Italian stone is not rushed,” he replies.
He gestures to the walls as we walk.
“Travertine from Tivoli lines the floors,” Maverick adds casually. “Polished to a muted sheen. The baseboards are carved from Carrara marble. The chandeliers overhead? Hand-blown Murano glass shipped directly from Venice. The wood paneling is walnut from Tuscany. Cut and milled there. Shipped whole so the grain would match across the walls.”
Because of course it would.
