Page 52 of Ruthless Claim

“…the portrait period especially. There’s something the light does—too warm, almost Mediterranean, no business being on Irish subjects and it always works.” I hear Valentina say to my aunt. “He was Irish?”

“He was,” Teresa confirms as she and Valentina look at a picture nearby. Instinctively, I look for my uncle.

Connor is in his chair with the old guard arranged around him—Hannigan, Walsh, Doyle, men who’ve proven their loyalty.

Connor has a glass of whiskey that is entirely for atmosphere because Connor doesn’t drink before nine.

I know everything about him, and I can’t always tell if that’s love or just the particular knowledge you develop about the thing that shaped you.

“Cillian,” he says when he sees me.

“Connor.” We shake hands and it’s firm and brief, the handshake he gives everyone in his employ.

He turns to Valentina, who materializes by my side. “Mrs. Brennan.”

“Mr. Brennan.” Her voice is even and her face is composed, but there’s no warmth in her. She looks at Connor the way she looks at things she has assessed and found uninteresting. It lasts about two seconds, then she turns away and that’s all he gets.

Connor notices.

He’s not a man who misses things. His jaw shifts slightly and he goes back to whatever he was saying to Hannigan, but I know my uncle.

He’s pissed at Valentina’s greeting.

He won’t do anything about it tonight, though. No, he’ll mull over it before deciding when to strike.

I drag Valentina away and spot Brigid in a corner, looking bored, a book in her hands.

As viperish as my aunt is, she’s a far better improvement than Connor.

Brigid is Connor’s older sister and she looks like him, with the same pale eyes and sharp jaw.

But where Connor’s face has gone heavier with age, Brigid has gone sharper. She is thin and upright and she dresses severely. One time told her that she’s the Brennan Princess Anne and she nearly beat the shit out of me for daring to compare her to the English.

But Brigid’s bark is worse than her bite.

I didn’t understand it when I was a child because all she would do is tell me that I’m holding my fork wrong and that my mother would have been disappointed in my grades.

But that’s how Brigid shows she cares, because she doesn’t waste her cruelty on people she’s indifferent to.

She looks at Valentina when I bring her over but doesn’t look at me. “So you’re the Italian.” She puts a lot of emphasis on the “I” making it sound more like “eye.”

“And you’re the aunt,” Valentina responds coolly.

Brigid’s blue eyes move to me. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose.” Back to Valentina, dismissive. “The Santoros always did have a talent for wrapping things nicely. Shame about what’s usually inside.”

I stop breathing.

Valentina looks at Brigid with an expression of perfect, polite interest, the way you look at something mildly curious you’ve found on the bottom of your shoe.

“And the Brennans,” she says, “have a talent for saying what everyone else is too well-bred to say out loud.” She tilts her head, studying my aunt. “You must be very proud of that. It takes real courage to be rude when you’re too old for anyone to correct you.”

The fireplace crackles. Nobody in the surrounding area appears to be breathing. Or that might just be me.

Brigid looks at her for a long moment. It’s very clear my aunt did not expect to encounter this version of Valentina Santoro Brennan and she’s reassessing my wife.

She looks at me. “She’ll do,” she says suddenly.

Something in my chest unknots so fast I nearly exhale audibly.