Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Status symbol,” his son Nolan says, a tall boy with dark hair and light eyes.
“Like you know a fucking thing about status,” Carson says, another Crowley son, this one broader with freckles and a loud laugh.
Nolan’s about to rip into his brother but Orin waves them off. “Enough, boys.” He glares at his children, all four of them. Finley, the youngest, sits back typing away on his phone, while Liam, the quiet one of the group, only stares at me with that disconcerting frown of his. He’d be creepy enough, but he also has a particular reputation for instability and violence. Vicious little monster.
The Crowley family, all together for this one meeting. I’d feel special if I didn’t also think they’re about as likely to cut my throat as they are to hire me.
Orin turned back, hands spread apologetically. “You’ll have to forgive my sons. They don’t take meetings like this often.”
“We’re more into the hands-on approach,” Nolan says, grinning broadly.
“So I hear,” I murmur, smiling in return. None of the Crowley boys have a good reputation—it’s all various shades of fucked-up. “Fortunately, that’s why I’m here. To make sure your hands-on approach doesn’t land you in prison.”
Nolan laughs, head thrown back. I can tell the others like that too.
These are the sort of young, violent men that enjoy a dangerous reputation, and they like it when other people are impressed by them.
Or at least willing to do their bidding.
Orin’s different. He’s an old-school Irish boss. His frown only deepens, thickening the age lines across his forehead and around his small eyes. Despite looking like an average Irish dockworker, and dressing like one too, Orin’s the head of the oldest, richest, most powerful organized crime family in all the northeast. The heart of their power is Boston, but they have affiliate families in all the major cities, from New York to Philadelphia to Baltimore.
They’re a serious group. The next level. And I want to be their lawyer.
“All right, Gareth, we heard your sales pitch.” Orin puffs his cigar while his sons watch. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. We’re in need of legal counsel right now for a variety of reasons, and you come highly recommended.”
I dip my head in acknowledgment. “I’ll make sure to thank Evander for putting my name in contention.” Good old Evander. Having the head of a strong Greek crime family as a best friend comes with certain perks.
“Here’s my problem with you.” Orin’s head tilts like a bird of prey, watching me carefully. “You’re too slick. No, don’t defend it, accept who you are, boy. Only it makes me worried. How many clients do you have like us?”
My eyebrows raise. “None quite like you.”
“There he goes, buttering you up, Da,” Carson says, chuckling. “Bastard’s slippery.”
“Slick’s a good word for it,” Finley agrees.
“I like him,” Liam says. First words he spoke the whole meeting. It honestly surprises me—I thought the guy was about to get up and shoot me in the face.
Orin studies his quiet son and shrugs. “That’s high praise, coming from him.”
“Coming from Psycho Liam, any word’s a surprise,” Nolan says though he stops short of laughter at the look his brother shoots his way.
Orin holds up his hands. I watch their family dynamic carefully, trying to figure out the hierarchy in their group. Nolan and Carson are clearly the dominant voices—I’d bet either one of them is first in line to succeed. Finley’s on the backburner, not as clever as his brothers, and Liam’s much too strange to take command of an organization like the Crowley Family, though his father obviously puts weight in what he says.
I’m constantly weighing, judging, trying to figure them out.
This is what I do. It started straight out of college with my two friends, Carmine and Evander. But slowly over the years, I’ve expanded my client list to include some of the most powerful, most violent criminal organizations in the country.
I am the shield standing between them and life in prison.
My morals are decidedly gray.
And in my line of work, the Crowley family is by far the best client imaginable. I only have this opportunity because their last counselor died of a heart attack three weeks ago.
He was only forty-two. It’s a bit mysterious.
But still, working for their organization would change my life.
The money, the notoriety.
They’re the last big mountain to climb.
Now I need to figure out a way to win them over.
Calculations buzz through my head along with a dozen other thoughts.
Like how tired I am after that flight. Like how my feet hurt from walking in new shoes.
Like how my hand brushed against my new legal assistant’s tits back in the car when she was slow to buckle up, and how much I fucking liked it.
And how she clearly liked it too. How her lips fell open. Her eyes widened. Her heartbeat doubled. And the way she looked at me, for one brief second—like she wanted me to rip open her blouse and wrap a mouth around one hard, pink nipple.