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“No worries,” Finn says with a smile. “Happy to help. Like Dad says, you’re family now. Come on, let’s head up.”
The office is in an upscale building. Gleaming marble floors, security at the front desk. We take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor and get off in a reception area. A pretty brunette greets us, straight-backed, looking like she was bought from a catalogue.
“Evening, Maggie,” Finn says as we brush past her. “You’re looking gorgeous as always.”
“Fuck off, Finn,” she says sweetly.
“God, I love the mouth on that girl,” he says, grinning at me.
I smile back, but look around. “This place looks like a law firm,” I say, shaking my head. “Where the hell are we?”
“The heart of the family,” Finn says, gesturing at the offices. People in business-casual clothes hurry past, greeting each other, some of them saying hello to Finn. He’s in a suit and doesn’t stand out at all. I feel strangely at home here, but why would a mob family have an office like this? And all these people?
“What, exactly, do you do here?”
“We’re a big organization,” Finn says, leading me down a hall lined with oil paintings of old white Irish-looking guys. Probably former heads of the family, stretching back a couple hundred years, based on the hairstyles and clothing. “While there are a lot of, ah, illicit ventures, there are an equal number of above-board operations. These people manage the legal side of things.”
“And the less than legal side?” I ask, unable to help it.
“We do the managing at street level for all that,” Finn says, smirking at me. We reach a big wooden door etched with Celtic imagery from knots to crosses. A woman sits at a desk outside of it, older, gray hair, heavy-set. She’s got thick blue eyeshadow and a scowl that would scare the hair off a cat.
“Finley,” she says, nodding to him. “And I assume this is Mr. Kane?”
“Hello, Clodagh,” Finn says, leaning against her desk. “Is my dear old father ready to see us?”
“You’re late.” She presses a button on her phone. “Your son and Mr. Kane are here.”
A moment later, the phone beeps. “Send them in,” Orin’s voice says, tinny through the speaker.
“Lovely to see you as always, Clodagh,” Finn says, winking at the old woman.
She scowls at him.
Finn leads me into the office. High ceiling, thick carpet. A surprising number of books on wooden, expertly carved shelves, oiled and gleaming. It smells like mahogany, cigar, and whiskey. Orin stands, nearly swallowed by an enormous wooden desk, the thing looking like it could carry a whole boat’s worth of sailors across the ocean.
“Good to see you, Gareth,” he says.
I walk over and shake his hand. “You as well,” I say.
Orin looks tired. Bags hang under his eyes. His jacket’s on the back of his chair, his tie is loosened, and his sleeves are rolled to the elbows, showing off old, faded tattoos. His face is pinched in a scowl, his hair is rumpled, and I swear it’s almost an entirely different man.
This isn’t the mob boss I met at the beach. This is more like what I had expected from the start, not the relaxed and happy father and husband I saw in that lovely house.
“Apologies for the state of things. Been a busy day.” He comes around the desk and offers me a drink. I accept only after he pours one for himself. Finn remains standing by the door, watching placidly. “How’s the trip so far?”
“It’s going well,” I say. “Boston’s a great city. I’m sure I’ll be comfortable here.”
“And Mrs. Kane?” he asks.
I hesitate, trying to decide when to break the news. Sooner rather than later. “There’s been a slight change in plans. Fiona’s staying behind for a few months. She got hired by a company called Appalachian Peaks to do some marketing work, and they want her local until she’s up to speed. Once she’s trained, she’ll join me out in Boston.”
Orin’s quiet. The silence is oppressive. His eyes narrow, studying me. “That wasn’t what we discussed.”
“I know, I apologize. The job fell into our laps, and she couldn’t deny it. She’s somewhat obsessed with the company, if I’m honest.”
“They make good stuff,” Finn says, smiling now. “Lots of my friends are into them. Really popular. She’s lucky.”
Orin grunts, glancing at his son, but fucking hell am I grateful for Finley Crowley right about now. If he hadn’t spoken up to lend Appalachian Peaks some legitimacy, I’m not sure what would’ve happened.
