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“I’ll make sure neither your reputation nor your bank account suffer, Ms. O’Malley.”
“Mr. Mancinelli has already put me on retainer. That’s not what concerns me.”
Sinead. Why the fuck does she have to be Irish? And not like just Irish on St. Patty’s Day. With a name like that, it’s recent. Her family hasn’t been here more than two or three generations.
“Is it your ties to the O’Rourkes that should concern me?”
I’m not pussyfooting through the daisies. I know Uncle Salvatore and Uncle Massimo have vetted her. I’m certain now that Carmine already knows about this, even though I haven’t had time to tell him. He’ll have done her background check. But I want to know for myself. I want to see her when I ask these questions.
“I’m an O’Malley, not an O’Rourke. I’m not connected to the mob. Do you believe I wish to die? If I were part of a mob family and sold out to help a Mafia family, I would die. If I betray you by taking anything back to the mob, I will die. I’m not interested in either. I have a vacation in the Caribbean coming up. I intend to enjoy it. Breathing is a requirement for that.”
She stands as though she might leave if I get within one more inch of insulting her. Her blue eyes shoot shards of ice. The only people who have the same color eyes are the Kutsenkos. That gives me pause. Is she Russian bratva? Definitely not. If she were, she wouldn’t be within a mile of this office. There’s no way they would let any of their women near us alone, even for a business meeting. She’s pulled her black hair back into a bun at her nape, and it accentuates her face. Modest. Practical. Asking for me to take it down, fist my hand in it, and devour her.
“What are your qualifications?”
I have a right to know.
“Mount Holyoke College for undergrad, and Yale for law school.”
Impressive academic pedigree. A Seven Sisters and an Ivy League.
“How long have you been practicing?”
“A lot longer than you. Seven years.”
My brow furrows. Seven years?
“Were you in the same class as Laura Doyle?”
There’s half a breath’s hesitation. Why?
“I was in the same class as Laura Kutsenko.”
So, she knows Laura married the leader of the bratva. How close were they? How close are they?
“Believe it or not, Mr. Scotto, before this morning, I never imagined I would get involved with organized crime. Laura and I haven’t spoken to one another in nearly two years. Not since a fundraiser for the Bar Association, where I met her husband. She practices civil law. I practice criminal law. So far, our paths have yet to meet. As you know, since you went to Yale Law School too, there are nearly two hundred people in each class. She and I were not close. We didn’t run in the same group.”
“Why not?”
I watch every mannerism, every blink, every moment she refrains from snapping at me. If this wasn’t about keeping my ass off the list for execution, I’d call this flirting.
“Because I knew from the start that I wanted to practice criminal law, and she knew from the start that she wanted to specialize in corporate law. I don’t mean to offend you, Mr. Scotto or Mr. Mancinelli, but corporate law could put me in a coma. Those courses were the most boring they forced me to take.”
“Have you seen a dead body in person?”
She doesn’t even blink.
“Plenty. I’ve gone to the city coroner more often that I can count. I’ve been to crime scenes. And I’ve already seen the photos of what you allegedly did. Gruesome.”
She beat me to the punch. She’s seen the photos in the stack of papers I saw only minutes before my uncle introduced us. They are gruesome. It looks like something I could do. But it wasn’t my handiwork that time. Someone made it look like it was me, though.
“How many acquittals have you had?”
“I handle anywhere from fifty to a hundred-and-five cases a year, Mr. Scotto. I have a ninety-eight percent acquittal rate. Like I said, I’m not looking to damage my reputation.”
“So, you’re doing this for you. It’s about you, not your client.”
I cross my arms as I sit back in the chair. She’s still standing, and it makes me look like a smug asshole. Just what I want. My shirt strains over my arms and shoulders. I’d rolled the sleeves halfway up my forearm, and I know the muscles flex. I don’t see fear, arousal, disinterest, or arrogance. I see nothing but confidence. A bit disappointing about not seeing the arousal. The table is still shielding any of them from seeing my hard on.
