Cal and Dante don’t even try not to laugh.

“Only you would prefer potential assassination to someone trying to ‘chat’ with you,” Cal snorts.

“He’s the best man I know,” Dante tells me seriously. “He’ll take care of you, Riona.”

I know Dante means well, but I can’t help scowling.

I don’t want anybody taking care of me.

* * *

4

Raylan

Dante drives me over to Riona’s law firm on East Wacker. He warned me that the Irish princess wasn’t exactly keen on having me as her bodyguard, but I was hoping we could get off on a slightly better footing than last time.

“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.”