“Nice to see you again,” I say, holding out my hand to shake.
Riona looks me up and down like I’m a Bible salesman standing on her doorstep. Her green eyes look cool and frosty, like sea glass. “Is that what you’re planning to wear?” she says.
That surprises me, because I actually showered and put on clean clothes before I caught a flight across the Atlantic. I’m wearing boots, jeans, and a button-up flannel, which seems to me to be about the most normal outfit a guy could wear.
“What’s wrong with this?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Riona sniffs. “If I need somebody to chop wood for me.”
“Do you?” I ask her. “ ‘Cause I’m pretty handy with an ax. Gimme three hours and I’ll buck, split, and stack a cord for you.”
Riona shakes her head at me. “I hope to god I never find out what any of that means,” she says.
She turns around and marches away from me. I assume I’m supposed to follow, so I wave farewell to Dante and stroll along after her.
The law firm of Griffin, Briar, Weiss takes up several floors of the building. I’ve already been briefed by Dante that they handle all legal matters for the Griffin empire, and some of the work for the Gallos as well, as the two families’ interests have become entwined.
We’ve only gone about a dozen steps when we’re intercepted by a tall, trim man with iron-gray hair, a long, lean face, and a tweed suit. The suit, combined with his tortoiseshell glasses, makes him look like he’d be more at home in a Dublin pub than in a Chicago law firm.
Sure enough, when he speaks, he has a hint of an Irish accent—just a flavor, enough to know that he hasn’t spent all his life in America.
“Riona!” he says, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Fergus told me what happened. You didn’t have to come in today.”
Riona colors. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed by the mention of the attack, or because she’s being hugged in the workplace. Possibly both.
“I’m fine, Uncle Oran,” she says.
“I assume you’re Raylan.” Oran releases Riona and holds out his hand to shake. He has slim, dry fingers and a firm grip.
“Raylan Boone,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m glad you’re here to keep an eye on my niece,” he says. “She’s very valuable to us—to the firm, and to the family.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
I can tell Riona hates this even more—being talked about in the third person and being entrusted to me like a package. She must care about her uncle, because only that could keep her from firing off a sharp retort.
“Raylan can stay in my office,” she says to Oran. “Out of the way.”
“Oh, no need! Make yourself comfortable,” Oran tells me. “We’ve got a pretty good espresso machine. Of course I’m biased—I picked it out myself. Or there’s a cafe on the ground floor.”
He smiles, showing crowded teeth that definitely never had the benefit of American orthodontic care.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll drink any kinda coffee as long as it’s brown.”
Oran laughs. “A true soldier!” he says. “I was the same way when I served in the IRA.”
He claps me on the shoulder in turn, then continues off down the hallway.
“Your uncle was in the IRA?” I ask Riona.
Riona shrugs. “That’s what he says. But Uncle Oran never lets facts get in the way of a good story.”
“He’s your father’s brother?”
“Half-brother. Different mothers. Actually, there’s a half-sister in Cork who’s even older. I guess my grandfather wasn’t too careful on his visits home. Or too concerned with Grandma’s feelings.”
I don’t think she particularly likes telling me this bit of messy family history, but Riona has a kind of brutal honesty. An interesting characteristic for a lawyer. I always thought of attorneys as silver-tongued devils who would try to convince you that black is white and wrong is right.
Riona is the opposite—she seems determined to state things exactly as they are, and damn the consequences. Or other people’s feelings.
“This is my office,” she says, pointing to a room that looks more like an art gallery. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk to anyone. Just . . . be quiet so I can work, please.”
Two bright spots of color burn on her pale cheeks. I think she’s embarrassed for anyone else to see me.
“It’s okay,” I say, grinning at her. “You can tell ‘em I’m your cousin if you like.”
“No thank you,” Riona says coolly. “I know how you treat your cousins where you come from.”
I can’t help giving a little snort. I’ve heard plenty of cousin-fucking jokes before, but the way Riona says it, with her particular edge of disdain, tickles me all the same.
She’s a tough nut to crack.
And I’ve always liked a challenge.
Honestly, if she liked me right off the bat, I’d think she had terrible taste.
I settle down in a cushy armchair in the corner of her office, and I watch her work.
I’m not watching her all the time, of course—I’m also checking the ingress and egress points of the building, making a mental map of the office, looking over the rest of the staff, and watching their interactions. Checking to see who’s friendly with who, who’s got a rivalry going on, and who looks particularly interested in Ms. Riona.
I notice one guy eyeing the pair of us every time he walks down the hall. He’s got sandy blond hair styled up in a quiff, and a skin-tight blue suit with a bright yellow pocket square. Kinda dandy for my tastes, but he seems pretty proud of himself about the whole ensemble.
“Who’s that?” I ask Riona.
She takes those pale green eyes off her work for just a moment, so she can glance up and check who I’m talking about.
“Oh,” she says flatly. “That’s Josh Hale. He’s a sneaky little fucker who’s vying for the same job as me. That’s why he keeps trying to spy on us.”
“How much does he want that job?” I ask her.
“A lot,” Riona says.
“Enough to want you out of the way?”
“Maybe. But I don’t know if he’d have the balls to make that happen. He’s not from a mafia family. He’s just your average cutthroat promotion-chaser. The toughest thing about him is the fact that he was on the fencing team at Notre Dame. Which he’ll be sure to tell you within ten minutes of meeting you.”
Once Josh is done staring at us, I see him head into a messy office at the end of the hall. He pops out again only a minute later, looking red-faced and irritated.
Meanwhile, a pretty girl in an orange dress has scooted her chair several feet the left so she can peer through our window, too.
“What about her?” I ask.
“That’s my paralegal, Lucy. I would guess she’s looking in here because she thinks you’re attractive. She’s been single a while.”
Riona says the word “attractive” with a note of disbelief. Still, I can’t help grinning that she basically admitted I’m cute.
“What’re you working on?” I ask her.