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As we walk toward Fergus Griffin, his eyes are fixed on me and me alone. He’s looking me up and down, like he’s evaluating every aspect of my appearance and demeanor on some kind of chart inside of his head. He doesn’t look very impressed.
That’s fine, because to me he looks just as cold and arrogant and phony-genteel as his son. I refuse to drop his gaze, stubbornly staring straight back at him without a hint of remorse.
“So this is the little arsonist,” Fergus says.
I could tell him it was an accident, but that’s not strictly true. And I’m not apologizing to these bastards.
Instead I say, “Where’s Callum? Did he drown?”
“Luckily for you, he did not,” Fergus replies.
Papa, Dante, and Nero close rank around me. They might be angry as hell that I got us into this mess, but they’re not going to stand for anyone threatening me.
“Don’t talk to her,” Dante says roughly.
With a little more tact, Papa says, “You wanted a meeting. Let’s go inside and have one.”
Fergus nods. His two men enter the restaurant first, making sure it really is empty inside. This place belongs to Ellis Foster, a restaurateur and broker who has connections to both the Irish and our family. That’s why it’s neutral ground.
Once we’re all inside, Fergus says to my father, “I think it’s best if we speak alone.”
Papa slowly nods.
“Wait here,” he says to my brothers.
Papa and Fergus disappear into one of the private dining rooms, closed off by double glass doors. I can see their outlines as they sit down together, but I can’t make out any details of their expressions. And I can’t hear a word they’re saying.
Dante and Nero pull a couple of chairs out from the nearest table. Fergus’s men do the same at a table ten feet away. My brothers and I sit along the same side, so we can glare across at Fergus’s goons while we wait.
That keeps us occupied for about ten minutes. But looking at their ugly mugs is pretty boring. Waiting in general is boring. I’d like to get a drink from the bar, or maybe even poke into the kitchen for a snack.
The second I start to rise up from my seat, Dante says, “Don’t even think about it,” without looking at me.
“I’m hungry,” I tell him.
Nero has his knife out and he’s playing with it. He can do all sorts of tricks. The blade is so sharp that if he made a mistake, he’d lop off a finger. But he hasn’t made one yet.
It might look like he’s trying to intimidate Griffin’s men, but it’s not for their benefit. He does this all the time.
“I don’t understand how you’re the one that eats the most out of any of us,” Nero says, without looking up from his knife.
“I don’t!”
“How many times have you eaten today already? Tell the truth.”
“Four,” I lie.
“Bullshit,” Nero scoffs.
“I’m not as worried about my figure as you are,” I tease him.
Nero is vain about his appearance. With good reason—all my brothers are handsome, but Nero has that male-model prettiness that seems to make girls’ panties spontaneously combust. I don’t know a single girl who hasn’t slept with him, or tried to.
It’s a weird thing to know about your own brother, but we’re all pretty open with each other. That’s what comes of living in the same house for so long, with no mom around to keep them from treating me like just another little brother.
And that’s how I like it. I’m not anti-woman—I’ve got no problem with girls who want to be pretty or feminine or sexy or whatever the hell. I just don’t want to be “treated like a girl,” if that makes sense. I want to be treated as myself, for better or worse. Nothing more or nothing less. Just Aida.
Aida who is bored out of her mind.
