Chapter 10 Leila #2
"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 another teasing 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.
I hesitate, but she seems genuine enough. I like her, despite the fact that she’s also clearly heavily involved in the mob. I hadn’t expected white-collar criminals to be so… personable.
“Sure,” I say finally.
"How are you handling all this? Really?" Her voice is gentle, concerned. "This world, this life—it's not easy for outsiders to adjust to. It’s not often that someone just gets thrown into it like this."
I pause, biting my lip. “It’s complicated. I need to be home, but I can’t be. I feel ungrateful because Ronan is being very kind. But I don’t want to be here.”
Annie nods like she understands, though I don’t see how she can. "My brother seems… different with you around."
That startles me. "Different how?"
"Calmer. Less angry." She pauses. "He's been carrying a lot of weight lately, a lot of responsibility. It's good to see him smile again."
I think about the conversations we’ve had over dinner, about the way he seems to have relaxed around me since that first morning when he came into my room. About the night he came home with blood on his hands, quite literally. "He's not what I expected."
"He's a good man, Leila. But he's also in charge of this family, and he's been through things that have left him… guarded." Annie's voice is careful, measured. "I just want you to be careful. He's not in a place for complications right now."
The implication in her words makes my cheeks flush. "We're not… I mean, it's not like that."
“Mm.” Annie looks at me for a long moment.
“It’s probably best that it stays that way, then.
Something to keep in mind.” Her voice isn’t unkind, but it is firm.
She smiles at me and pushes her chair back.
“I’m sure Ronan will deal with Rocco sooner rather than later, and you can go home. This will all just be a bad dream.”
I sit there for a long moment after Annie leaves, turning what she said over in my head.
I have no intention of there being anything more between Ronan and me.
I don’t need the complications any more than she seems to think he does, and I’m a little annoyed by her assumptions.
But she’s his sister, I tell myself, and if I had a sibling, I’d probably be just as protective.
It’s sweet, actually, that she looks out for her brother. It’s clear their family is closer-knit than I would have thought, too—although I suppose a family of criminals would need to have each other’s backs.
That evening, Ronan lets me use the landline in his office to call my mother again. I know she will have settled in for the evening by now, probably watching television in her bedroom or reading a book. I can picture it, and it makes my chest ache with missing her.
She picks up on the third ring, and my heart leaps. "Hi, Mom."
"Leila! I was just thinking about you." Her voice sounds stronger than it has in weeks, and relief floods through me.
"The nurse you arranged, Sarah, she's wonderful. She made me the most amazing soup today. It had ginger in it—it really helped with the nausea. She’s very sweet and capable, I feel so spoiled. "
"Good, I'm so glad." I drop into the chair by Ronan’s desk as I clutch the phone to my ear, looking out of the window at the snow beginning to fall. "How are you feeling?"
"Better, actually. The new medication I’ve been prescribed is helping with the chemo symptoms, and Sarah makes sure I'm eating regularly. It warmed up yesterday, so we went for a short walk. There’s another nurse, too—Jen? She’s wonderful as well.”
Tears prick at my eyes. The fact that she went out on a walk feels like a good sign. Her energy was already dropping severely at Thanksgiving, despite the doctors suggesting that slow exercise would still be good for her. "That's wonderful, Mom."
"I don't know how you arranged all this, sweetheart, but it's been a godsend. I actually feel hopeful for the first time in months."
The guilt hits me like a physical blow. This wasn’t by my design; I somehow lucked out.
Ronan has done all of this. I just made it all worse with the shady loan and could have ended up lost forever, my mom abandoned and wondering what happened to me, while I died a slow death in another country.
The fact that Ronan was there that night, that he rescued me, that he was willing to do all of this without, apparently, asking for anything other than for me to not try to run off in return, is an incredible stroke of luck that I can’t really take credit for.
But she doesn't know that, and she can't know that.
"I'm just glad you're getting the care you need," I manage.
"When are you coming home, though? I miss you terribly."
"I miss you too." More than she could possibly know. "But I need to stay where I am a little longer. Just until everything is completely sorted out."
"This person who's helping you… they're treating you well?" Her voice is nervous, uncertain. “I really don’t like this, Leila. I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but none of this seems right.”
I bite my lip, thinking about everything Ronan has done to take care of me. About the blood under his fingernails and the visit with his sister. "Yes, Mom. They're treating me very well."
After I hang up, Ronan looks at me from across the room, sipping his whiskey.
Despite our conversations, he’s been very careful to put physical distance between us since that night when I confronted him in his study.
He never gets too close to me, our proximity at the dinner table is the only time he’s within touching distance.
I think of what Annie said, and I wonder if she noticed something about him.
If there’s a reason he’s purposefully keeping me at arm’s length.
“It sounds like she’s doing well,” he says finally, and I nod.
“She is. Thanks to you.”
“And to you.”
I blink at him. “I haven’t done anything other than screw everything up.”
“It takes nerve to stay here. To trust that someone else can handle what you feel responsible for.” He takes another sip of his whiskey.
“I’m no stranger to screwing things up, Leila.
It’s what you do after that matters, I hope.
And you’ve stayed here instead of rushing out and making it all worse again, no matter how much you want to go home. I think that’s admirable.”
Something warm grows in my chest at that, and I feel that prickle over my skin, that awareness of being alone with him.
He looks unfairly handsome, leaning against the sideboard in the low light of the office, framed by the window and the falling snow.
Like a dark gothic hero out of a novel. That warmth spreads through me, my stomach tightening, and I wonder what would happen if I got up and crossed the room to him.
He’s made that very clear, I tell myself. He’d push me away, and I’d have to feel the sting of rejection all over again. Don’t I have enough to deal with, without continuing to fantasize about this being something it’s not?
Still, the way he looks at me feels like it’s something. The way he clears his throat after a moment and tells me good night, dismissing me like the last time, feels like something, too.
Like he can’t be alone with me for too long.