I drive over to Riona’s law firm to drop off the documents she needs for our new business credit line. Riona is the eldest daughter of the Griffins. Her family and mine have partnered for the South Shore development. She’s handling the legal aspects of our new joint business entity.
It’s not the sort of law she usually does. In fact, she started as a defense attorney, keeping the Griffins’ soldiers out of trouble as they handled some of the less savory aspects of Irish mafia business.
She got me out of hot water when I was arrested on a bullshit murder charge.
It was pretty fucking ironic, sitting in Cook County Jail for a crime I actually didn’t commit. After all the things I’ve gotten away with over the years . . . I didn’t expect to be framed for shooting some two-bit nobody.
Anyway, Riona helped me out, and I haven’t forgotten it. I owe her a favor. A couple of favors, probably.
Her brother is married to my baby sister, so we were already in-laws. Now we’ve become friends. I meet her for lunch sometimes, when I’m close to her office. And every once in a while, when she’s really pissed off about something, we go for a run together. She needs it—generally speaking, Riona is wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.
Today is no different. She comes hustling out of her office with two bright spots of color on her cheeks in an otherwise pale face. She’s got her red hair pulled back in a sleek bun, and she’s wearing her typical ball-busting attorney outfit of a dark navy pantsuit and a cream silk blouse.
“Hey!” she says when she spots me. “I’m grabbing a coffee from the cafe downstairs—you want to come?”
“Sure,” I say. “I brought these.”
I hand her the documents.
“Oh, thanks,” Riona says, looking them over quickly to make sure I didn’t forget anything. That doesn’t offend me—I know it’s her way to check everything twice, because she doesn’t trust anyone to be as meticulous as she is. “I’ll drop these off at my office, first.”
I follow her down the hall to her private corner office. I’ve been in here a couple times before. It looks more like a fancy Manhattan living room than an office—pewter-colored walls, modern art prints, some weird sculpture that looks like a solar model. I mean, it’s super stylish, but it’s cold and intense, a bit like Riona herself.
She puts the documents down on her desk. I notice she lines the edge of the folder up with the corner of her desk, even though she’s gonna move it again as soon as she comes back.
“Did you get those lease agreements from Abigail Green?” she asks me.
“Yeah.”
Riona gives me a quick glance. “She’s very . . . persistent, isn’t she?”
“She’s good at her job,” I say shortly.
“I bet she’s good at a lot of things . . .” Riona says, turning her cool green eyes on me.
“I’m not fucking her,” I grunt.
“That’s too bad,” Riona says. “I probably could have gotten her to knock down her commission a point.”
“Nope. You’ll just have to use your usual lawyer tricks—a relentless onslaught of argument until you beat her into submission.”
Riona smiles. “You know me so well.”
“I guess so. ‘Cause I can tell you came out of that meeting pretty fuckin’ hot.”
“Oh, that,” Riona scowls. “It’s this case I’ve been working on—the other attorney filed a bunch of bullshit motions. He’s trying to annoy me into giving up.”
He defiantly doesn’t know Riona, then.
“Do you want me to murder him for you?” I say.
Riona snorts. “If he keeps irritating me, then maybe . . . and by the way, thank you for not putting that in a text message this time.”
“No paper trail. I’m learning,” I say, tapping my temple with my index finger. “I can just see you getting your phone records subpoenaed for some case. Then they pull you up on the stand and say, ‘Ms. Griffin, can you read for the court your conversation of September twenty-eighth with Mr. Gallo?’ ”
Riona laughs, playing along. “Well judge, he said, ‘Do you want me to murder him for you?’, and I said, ‘Yes please—slowly, with a pickaxe.’ But it was all in good fun, your honor. The fact that he slipped and fell on a pickaxe later that night was completely coincidental . . .”
We head down to the cafe on the ground floor of her building. It’s a clean, bright space, with pastries delivered fresh three times a day. They get the orders out in minutes—an absolute must for all the lawyers on the clock. Riona’s firm shares the building with several other law groups, so everybody in here looks busy, grumpy, and ready to file an injunction if they didn’t get the right amount of foam on their latte.
I order a sandwich, Riona a coffee and croissant. When I try to pay for both orders, she cuts across me with her credit card at the ready.
“I’ve got to treat you,” she says matter-of-factly, “because I’m trying to butter you up.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s nothing terrible . . .”
“I bet.”
I follow her over to the nearest open table. She sits across from me, folding her hands in front of her in the way I know means she’s about to make her pitch.
“My brother’s speaking at a rally,” Riona says. “It’s for the Freedom Foundation. I want you to handle security for the event. You’d be working with the mayor’s team.”
“Okay . . .” I say, wondering what the favor is, exactly. “I’m not some kind of security expert though . . .”
“I know,” Riona says. “I just want someone from our own family there. The team they hired is going to be focused on the mayor, primarily, and the speaker as well. I want somebody keeping an eye on Callum.”
Callum is her big brother, the one married to Aida. I’ve got almost as much motivation to keep him safe as Riona does. Which is why I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The barista comes over with Riona’s croissant and my sandwich. I take a big bite of my BLT. Riona leaves her food untouched, wanting to finish our conversation before she eats.
“It’s on Saturday,” she says. “You’d be overseeing the set-up and supervising the event. The mayor wants to make sure we’re careful, because the speaker has received several death threats over the last few months.”
“Who is it?” I ask bluntly.
Riona doesn’t beat around the bush. “Yafeu Solomon,” she says.
I set down my sandwich. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You don’t have to talk to him,” Riona says. “He probably won’t even see you.”
Riona is aware of my former interactions with the Solomon family. Other than my siblings, she’s one of the only people who knows.
I sit silent, thinking.
If it were anybody else asking me, I’d just tell them no. I have no interest in being around Yafeu Solomon, and especially not in protecting him. In fact, if I saw some assassin rushing him with a knife, I’d be tempted to simply step aside.
But I do owe Riona a favor.
That’s why she’s asking. A good lawyer never asks a question where they don’t already know the answer.
I sigh. “Who do I contact from the mayor’s office?”
Riona lets herself smile, just for a second, pleased that she successfully roped me in.
“His name’s John Peterson,” she says, texting me his number. “He’s already expecting your call.”
I almost want to laugh. “Of course he is.”
“You know I like to have my ducks lined up,” Riona says. She checks her watch. “I better get back upstairs.”
“You didn’t eat.”
“I’ll take it with me.”
She picks up the croissant in a napkin, keeping her fingers clean, then takes a quick sip of her coffee.
“Thank you, Dante,” she says.
“How many more favors do I owe you ‘till we’re square?”
She laughs. “I don’t know—what’s twenty-five years to life worth?”
“I guess at least one or two more.”
She gives me a little wave and heads back toward the elevators.
I stay put so I can finish my sandwich. No sense letting good food go to waste.
