Page 38 of Ruthless Savior
Because nothing good can come of complicating this more than it already is.
—
The next fewdays settle into an odd sort of routine. Ronan works in his study, and I don’t see him for most of the day, though he usually shares at least one meal with me, typically dinner. At first, we only talk about the care for my mother, about how he’s heard she’s doing and her prognosis from her doctors, about the nurse who’s taking care of her. But that line of conversation runs out quickly, and before long, we start tentatively learning more about each other.
I learn that Ronan studied at Harvard, that he speaks three languages fluently, that he reads voraciously, and has strong opinions about everything from music to literature to politics. He's intelligent in a way that surprises me, thoughtfuland articulate when he's not being deliberately intimidating. I realize, a little ashamed of myself for it, that I assumed a mob boss would be brutish and a little stupid, but Ronan is neither. Capable of violence, yes, but there’s a sophistication and intelligence to him that surprises me. He’s a well-educated, well-read, well-traveled man, and I realize that I find him fascinating as well as attractive.
I tell him that I studied finance, that I had a job handling accounts before everything went sideways, that I love old movies and terrible reality TV equally, that I'm afraid of flying but dream of traveling anyway.
It feels almost normal, these conversations over dinner. Like we're just two people getting to know each other instead of a crime boss and his reluctant houseguest.
On Wednesday, Ronan's sister Annie comes for lunch.
I'm in the library when she arrives, curled up in one of the window seats with a mystery novel. Through the window, I watch a sleek black car pull up the circular drive and a woman get out. She's a little shorter than Ronan, with curly copper hair pulled back into a ponytail and the same gorgeous bone structure as her brother. Even from a distance, I can see the family resemblance.
"That's Annie," Ronan says from the doorway, and I startle. I hadn't heard him come in.
"Your sister?"
"My sister." There's warmth in his voice, a softness I haven't heard before. "She handles the financial side of our operations. She's been curious about you."
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting across the table from Annie O'Malley, Ronan at the head of it as usual, feeling completely out of my depth. She's beautiful in a carefree, effortless way, wearing what looks like a cashmere sweater and perfectly tailored pants. Everything about her screams wealth and sophistication, thoughsomething about her seems a little shyer than her brother, but her smile is genuine.
"So you're the accountant," she says, and I blink in surprise.
"Former accounts manager, actually. I was working at Brooks & Associates before..." I gesture vaguely, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“My brother told me a little of what happened,” Annie says quickly, clearly giving me an out to not have to explain. “What did you do there?” she asks, taking a sip of her wine.
"Risk assessment mostly. Portfolio management for high-net-worth clients." I glance at Ronan, who's watching this exchange with interest. "Though I imagine your financial work is quite different."
Annie laughs. "You could say that. Less compliance, more creative accounting."
"Annie," Ronan warns, though there's no real heat in it.
"What? She's in finance, she understands." Annie turns back to me. "It's actually refreshing to talk to someone who gets the numbers side of things. Everyone else just waves at me and tells me to ‘take care of it.’" She gives her brother an affectionate, teasing look.
Despite the circumstances, I find myself relaxing. There's something comforting about talking shop with another woman who clearly knows her way around a balance sheet. It’s familiar, and that’s something that’s terribly lacking in my life these days.
"It must be challenging," I say. "With the… irregular income streams." A staff member comes in with plates of sandwiches and salads, and we go silent for a moment before they disappear and the conversation begins again.
"Oh, you have no idea." Annie's eyes light up. "The offshore structuring alone is a nightmare. And don't get me started on foreign conversions. I’m glad I have a head for numbers, because no one else in this family does." She shoots her brother anotherteasing glare before pausing and studying me for a moment. "You know, if you ever get tired of the legitimate world, I could use someone with your background."
I nearly choke on my water. "Are you offering me a job?"
"Annie," Ronan says more sharply this time.
"I'm just saying, good financial minds are hard to find in our line of work." Annie shrugs, unrepentant. "And from what Ronan's told me, you're smart and adaptable."
The idea is so absurd—me, working for the Irish mob—that I almost laugh. But there's something appealing about the thought of using my skills for something more exciting than analyzing stock portfolios for rich retirees.
"I don't think I'm cut out for money laundering," I say finally.
"You'd be surprised what you're cut out for," Annie says, but she lets the subject drop.
We finish lunch, with Ronan chatting with his sister about more ordinary topics, and me mostly staying silent. Ronan excuses himself afterward, telling Annie he’ll meet her in the office in fifteen minutes, and Annie looks at me across the table as the dishes are cleared.
“Can I ask you something?” she says after a moment.
