Page 22 of Guilty as Sin

Connor’s texts are mostly complaints about several big thugs who are in his way, moving all of my packed boxes out. I tell him that as long as they aren’t threatening him, he needs to deal with it and quit whining. If I can tolerate a bunch of my husband’s henchmen manhandling my belongings, he can put up with a couple hours’ inconvenience.

* * *

I arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. My mother-in-law is already sitting at a circular table with two empty chairs, and I take my seat without saying hello.

“Will someone else be joining us?” I indicate the extra chair, hoping that someone isn’t her husband. I glance around the bustling restaurant.

It’s technically the hotel’s more casual eatery, but the waitstaff are in black vests, and each table features a white tablecloth and crystal vase of fresh dahlias. I’m underdressed, but oh well. Only thing to do now is to treat it like a power move.

“Depends,” Orla says, her tan sheath dress impeccably tailored. The way she watches me scan the restaurant makes me feel like I’ve done something tacky.

I straighten in my chair. I can tell that I’m expected to ask Depends on what? So I stay silent, raising my eyebrows instead.

Orla tilts her head at me, and her hair brushes her shoulder. Yesterday, her angled bob was styled severely, but it’s softer today, the gray-streaked russet brown looking windblown. She exhales in disappointment.

“You’ve been away from Aileen for ten years, is that correct?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say grimly. I have no desire to talk with this woman about my mother. Aileen and I haven’t spoken since I left Boston, but we were estranged long before that, in separate wings of the expansive prison she called our family home.

“And in that time, did you forget all of the manners she taught you?” Orla asks. “Phrases like, Hello, Good morning, Thank you for coordinating and hosting my wedding.”

“Hello,” I grit out, but can’t manage the rest. “It’s almost noon, so Good morning doesn’t feel appropriate. Neither does expressing false gratitude for an event that I didn’t want.”

“Oh?” Orla asks lightly, as if I haven’t offended her in the slightest. She signals to a server and holds up two fingers, then she and I stare at each other for what feels like a full minute. Her eyes are the same gray-green as Brady’s, but I will not be unsettled by them.

When a server stops by our table, it’s me who blinks first. Shit. I try to recover by focusing on the mimosas he’s setting in front of each of us.

“Thank you,” Orla enunciates to the waiter, as if to demonstrate for my sake.

She looks pointedly at the flute in front of me, the drink she ordered on my behalf. I have a choice to make. If I neglect my manners, if I intentionally snub Orla the way I snubbed Declan, I can make my own life a living hell by ensuring that I’m despised by my in-laws.

Maintaining my surliness around Brady is one thing. I can hold my own against my husband, but his family wields power. A lot of it. I can keep myself excluded from it, and forever be an outsider the way I was at my own wedding. Or I can choose to play their game, knowing that I’m good at it, with several of tricks of my own up my sleeve.

I choose power.

“Thank you for the mimosa,” I say. If Orla senses my insincerity, she doesn’t show it.

“It’s a bellini,” she corrects.

I don’t apologize for my gauche mistake. Instead, I give the tiniest nod in reply. I’ve already conceded enough as it is, forsaking the safety of being Samantha Greene for this alliance. I’m in no mood to be any more ingratiating to the woman across from me. I can rein in my hostility for power’s sake, but I’m not about to grovel.

We both sip without further comment. I hate to admit it, but the peach purée is heavenly. The cocktail itself could use a splash of liqueur, or even vodka, but that’s probably because I’d prefer something stronger to get me through this lunch with my mother-in-law.

“I’ve invited Brioni to join us.” She gestures to the empty chair at our table. “But whether I cancel our lunch before she gets here depends on you. I’ll not have her insulted by your rudeness. The choice is yours.” Her challenge makes me bristle defensively.

“Well, since you’re the one in charge of all the scheduling, I’d say the choice is yours.” It’s a sassy parry disguised as deference, the best I could come up with on the spot.

Orla purses her lips as I wrack my brain for who Brioni is. She’s not a member of the immediate family, or else I would’ve come across her name in my research. But I’m drawing a blank. Knowledge is power, and I’m coming up short.

Across the table, Orla appears to reach her decision, and doesn’t cancel our lunch. But I don’t count it as a win.

“Brioni is our neighbor,” Orla says. “She’s not involved in our undisclosed dealings, but she’s a dear friend to our family. She’s precious to us.” In a way you are not.

Her underhanded message rings clear as a bell. This lunch is meant to show me where I rank, which is even lower than a non-family member who’s uninvolved with their mafia life. I wonder if it’s too late for me to act out and have this thing called off. But I’m in it now. Might as well stay the course and show Orla her intimidation tactics don’t work on me.

I brace myself for combat against this formidable O’Sullivan ally.

Brioni breezes in at two minutes past noon. And she is stunning. She has dirty blonde hair in loose waves, a peachy boho dress that flows like she’s moving underwater, and espadrilles with zero heel. Not that she’d need the height, she’s nearly six feet tall.