Broken Vow (Brutal Birthright, #5)

by Sophie Lark

I won a whopping twenty dollars. “I didn’t think you even liked football,” he says with a condescending smile. “I don’t,” I say sweetly. “I just like winning your money.”

Even if we weren’t in competition for the partnership position, I’d still detest him. I’ve never liked the kind of person who pretends to be friendly while scavenging for information they can use to hurt you. I’d respect him more if he were an honest asshole instead of a fake nice guy.

After he leaves, his cologne lingers twenty minutes longer. Ugh.

He’d explain to me precedent and statutes and how important even the tiniest of details could be . . . how even a comma in the wrong place could invalidate an entire contract.

“Forgetting a debt doesn’t mean it’s paid.” Or “There’s no such thing as bad publicity, except your own obituary.”

“Some people are intellectually lazy.”

“What’s the right flowers to send a woman?” Oran grins. “I always send whiskey. You send a woman a bottle of Bunnahabhain 40 Year Single Malt . . . then she knows you’re serious.”

He’s intelligent, successful, handsome. Competent in bed (I would guess all surgeons are—they understand the human body and they’re in full control of their hands).

I should want to go to dinner tomorrow. I should be excited about it. But I’m just . . . indifferent. It’s nothing to do with Nick. It’s a problem I seem to have again and again. I get to know someone and I start picking away at all their flaws. I notice inconsistencies in their statements. Holes in logic in their arguments. I wish I could turn off that part of my brain, but I can’t. My father would say that I expect too much from people.

“No one’s perfect, Riona. Least of all yourself.” I know that. I notice my own fl...

I can be cold and unwelcoming. Obsessive. Quick to get angry and slow to forgive. Worst of all, I’m easily annoyed. L...

Most dinners with my family are working dinners, one way or another. Our business and our personal ties are so deeply intertwined that I would hardly know my father, mother, or siblings outside of “work.”

The fate of our business is the fate of our family. That’s how it works in the Irish mafia.

We’ve been one of the largest Irish mafia families in Chicago for two hundred years. But he doesn’t get it. Not really. He thinks of it like an interesting backstory, like people who say they’re descended from Henry the Eighth. He has no idea how current and ongoing organized crime is in Chicago.

It’s always a dilemma in my dating life. Do I want a boyfriend who’s ignorant of the dark underside of this city? Who could never really understand my entrenchment in my family? Or do I want one of the “made men” who work for my father, cracking heads and burying bodies, with blood under his fingernails and a gun perpetually concealed on his person? Neither, really.

I don’t believe in love. I’m not denying it exists—I’ve seen it happen for other people. I just don’t believe it will ever happen for me. My love for my family is like the roots of an oak tree. A part of the tree, necessary for life. It’s always been there and it always will be. But romantic love . . . I’ve never experienced it. Maybe I’m just too selfish. I can’t imagine loving somebody more than I love my own comfort and having my own way.

The idea of being controlled by someone else, doing things for their convenience instead of mine . . . no thanks. I barely tolerate that for my family. Why would I want to center my life around a man?

I usually braid it and put it under a swim cap so the chlorine doesn’t dry it out. Red hair is fragile.

There’s no air conditioning in places like this. They rely on brick or stone and airflow to keep the interiors relatively cool.

Sloppy. These men have no training. They’re ferocious enough against unarmed civilians, against women and children, but their sense of invincibility is unearned.

There’s nothing special or majestic about this man. He’s murdered thousands of people and terrorized many more. But right now he’s dying in a dull way, without any last words. Without even putting up much of a fight.

I only met Riona Griffin one time, but she made an impression on me. You don’t see a girl that gorgeous very often. The fact that she’s arrogant and uptight and hates my guts just adds a little spice to the mix.

I don’t have plants or pets—I don’t want anything living depending on me.

I curl my lip in distaste. I met Raylan Boone once before and I wasn’t impressed. His cocky country-boy schtick is the last thing I need right now.

“I don’t want somebody following me around,” I say coldly. “Especially not someone . . . chatty.”

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

I can’t help scowling. I don’t want anybody taking care of me.

“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.

I can tell Riona hates this even more—being talked about in the third person and being entrusted to me like a package.

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

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.

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.

Riona says the word “attractive” with a note of disbelief. Still, I can’t help grinning over the idea that she basically admitted I’m cute.

“My boyfriend,” she says primly. “Can’t wait to meet him.” She frowns. “You’re not coming.” “Sorry, darlin.’ I’m your bodyguard. That means anywhere you go, I go too.”

On the one hand, I think Riona hates not getting her way. On the other, I’m fixing her with a look that makes it plain that I’m planning to stick to her like honey on a bear paw. She’s not getting rid of me till this job is done.

“Just answer the questions. It’s easier than arguing.”

throwing her long, flame-colored ponytail back over her shoulder. Her hair is the most vivid I’ve ever seen—not orange or strawberry blonde. A true bright red.

There’s nothing delicate or girlish about Riona. She’s a woman through and through. She has a long, straight nose, wide mouth, strong cheekbones, and poker-straight posture. Tall, and not afraid to wear heels to make herself taller.

“Do you think I do anything because it’s easier?” she says. “Smart people don’t do things the hard way.”

I just chuckle and shake my head at her, which annoys her more than if I’d gotten angry.

Riona may look like a fox, but she’s got the temperament of a thoroughbred—haughty and high strung. I don’t think she’s bad tempered. She just doesn’t trust easily. I know how to handle thoroughbreds. I grew up on a horse ranch, after all.

It’s not my job to soothe his insecurities.

nobody is promoted to a leadership position when they’re too arrogant to follow instructions themselves. Because that’s how it works when the whole team’s life is on the line. Nobody’s gonna serve under some shithead they don’t even like, let alone respect.”

“He respected me. So often men act like you have to prove yourself to them.

Riona links her fingers gently on her lap. She has lovely hands—pale and slim with clear polish over the shell-pink nails.

“We’re alike in a lot of ways. Disciplined. Hard working. Unemotional. People respect that in a man. But with a woman, they say you’re cold or harsh.” “People say that about Deuce, too.” “They don’t hold it against him, though.” I think about that. How attributes are viewed in men versus women. How women are criticized for behaviors that might be seen as virtues in men. You see plenty of that in the military—guys getting complimented for their “leadership skills” and gals getting called “ball-busting bitches” when they give the same orders.

“For a smart guy, it was awfully easy to make him look dumb.”

“Everybody thinks they know what’s it like to be in the army ‘cause they watched Saving Private Ryan.” Riona nods slowly. “Right. And everyone’s a lawyer because they watched Suits.”

They don’t always do the redheads right on TV,

It’s funny eating and drinking like this. The two months before I hardly had a single good meal. Now I’m in the lap of luxury. I’ll have to be careful not to let it go to my head. Hunger gives you an edge.