“I’m glad you’re here to keep an eye on my niece,” he says. “She’s very valuable to us—to the firm, and to the family.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say.

I can tell Riona hates this even more—being talked about in the third person and being entrusted to me like a package. She must care about her uncle, because only that could keep her from firing off a sharp retort.

“Raylan can stay in my office,” she says to Oran. “Out of the way.”

“Oh, no need! Make yourself comfortable,” Oran tells me. “We’ve got a pretty good espresso machine. Of course I’m biased—I picked it out myself. Or there’s a cafe on the ground floor.”

He smiles, showing crowded teeth that definitely never had the benefit of American orthodontic care.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll drink any kinda coffee as long as it’s brown.”

Oran laughs. “A true soldier!” he says. “I was the same way when I served in the IRA.”

He claps me on the shoulder in turn, then continues off down the hallway.

“Your uncle was in the IRA?” I ask Riona.

Riona shrugs. “That’s what he says. But Uncle Oran never lets facts get in the way of a good story.”

“He’s your father’s brother?”

“Half-brother. Different mothers. Actually, there’s a half-sister in Cork who’s even older. I guess my grandfather wasn’t too careful on his visits home. Or too concerned with Grandma’s feelings.”

I don’t think she particularly likes telling me this bit of messy family history, but Riona has a kind of brutal honesty. An interesting characteristic for a lawyer. I always thought of attorneys as silver-tongued devils who would try to convince you that black is white and wrong is right.

Riona is the opposite—she seems determined to state things exactly as they are, and damn the consequences. Or other people’s feelings.

“This is my office,” she says, pointing to a room that looks more like an art gallery. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk to anyone. Just . . . be quiet so I can work, please.”

Two bright spots of color burn on her pale cheeks. I think she’s embarrassed for anyone else to see me.

“It’s okay,” I say, grinning at her. “You can tell ‘em I’m your cousin if you like.”

“No thank you,” Riona says coolly. “I know how you treat your cousins where you come from.”

I can’t help giving a little snort. I’ve heard plenty of cousin-fucking jokes before, but the way Riona says it, with her particular edge of disdain, tickles me all the same.

She’s a tough nut to crack.

And I’ve always liked a challenge.

Honestly, if she liked me right off the bat, I’d think she had terrible taste.

I settle down in a cushy armchair in the corner of her office, and I watch her work.

I’m not watching her all the time, of course—I’m also checking the ingress and egress points of the building, making a mental map of the office, looking over the rest of the staff, and watching their interactions. Checking to see who’s friendly with who, who’s got a rivalry going on, and who looks particularly interested in Ms. Riona.