Page 7 of Brutal Vows

Mindful of the armed guards, I say in Gaelic to Kieran, “I thought the lass’s mother died?”

Standing beside me, he follows my gaze and looks up at the blank window. “Aye. Why?”

“Who else lives here?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. From the size of the bloody place, probably a thousand people.”

She’s not a servant, that much I know. There wasn’t a hint of servitude in those flashing eyes. She looked more like a warlord about to lead an army of soldiers into battle.

Irritatingly, I’m intrigued. The last thing I want to deal with is a strong woman. I learned the hard way that the stronger a woman is, the more likely she is to break a man’s balls.

Or his heart.

“This way,” says the guard nearest to me. He nods toward an arched opening in the brick wall that leads from the circular driveway into an interior courtyard.

Dismissing the thought of the mystery woman, I button my suit jacket and follow behind the guard as he leads Kieran and me away from the car. The other guard walks behind us. We’re led through the lushly landscaped courtyard to a set of enormous carved oak doors, flanked on either side by towering marble columns.

The main house looms over us, three sprawling stories of beige limestone with elaborate balustrades and scrolled iron balconies, topped by a line of Roman centurion statues gazing down at us from a ledge on the red-tiled roof.

Inside the main foyer, the décor becomes even more ostentatious.

Naked cherubs frolic with hairy satyrs and woodland nymphs in colorful frescoes on the walls. Instead of one drop-crystal chandelier overhead, there are three. The floor is black marble, the carved mahogany furniture is edged in gilt, and my eyes are starting to water from the kaleidoscopic glare of stained-glass windows.

Under his breath, Kieran says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like Liberace hurled his lunch all over the bloody place.”

He’s right. It’s fucking awful.

I have to force myself not to turn around and walk out.

“Ah, Mr. Quinn!”

I turn to my right. A man approaches with his hands spread open in greeting.

He’s fit, of average height, and somewhere around forty. His dark hair is slicked back with pomade. Wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit I can tell is custom made, a powder-blue tie with a diamond tie pin, a chunky diamond watch, and a gold pinky ring on each hand, he oozes wealth, privilege, and power.

His cologne reaches me before he does.

His smile is blinding.

I hate him on sight.

“Mr. Caruso, I presume.”

He grabs one of my hands in both of his and pumps it up and down like he’s a political candidate campaigning for my vote. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

He hasn’t stopped grinning or shaking my hand.

Ten more seconds of this shite, and I’ll break those Chiclets teeth of his.

“This is my associate, Mr. Byrne.” I extract my hand from Caruso’s death grip and gesture to Kieran, who inclines his head respectfully.

“Sir.”

“Mr. Byrne, welcome. And please, both of you, call me Gianni. I prefer if we’re all on a first-name basis, don’t you?”

I’d rather blind myself with acid, you wanker.