Page 8 of Iron Blade

I ran my hand over my wooden desk, to the catalog of art we could order to sell. He owned the lot. His name was emblazoned on the masthead.

He was richer than Croesus! So, what was he doing here?

“Money laundering, obviously.”

My head popped up at the sound of his distinct, Irish voice. Speak of the Devil…

Hell, I hadn't even said his name. I’d just thought it and he materialized!

“That’s why I’m here, painting,” he said, as if I had said something out loud. “I’m money laundering, obviously.”

I guess we’re both here for the same reason then, I thought ironically.

He smirked as he stepped into my office without invitation, waltzing in like he owned the place… which, he actually did. But I wouldn’t let that stop me from judging him.

“What?” I turned to him, annoyed at his intrusion.

“You were wondering what a handsome, talented, master painter was doing, throwing his art into this gallery when I could be dominating the Met.” He placed his hands in his pockets, smirking at me with eyes so absolutely dark, they looked like true black. “I’m laundering money, Miss Kekoa.”

“You’re… so full of it.” I tried to laugh it off as a joke. I couldn’t let on that I knew how much money Green Fields Enterprises washed through this gallery. I couldn’t let them know that I had looked at the books - both sets of them - and sent it back to my handlers.

“I only speak the truth, Miss Kekoa,” Eoghan said, his voice like a caress over my skin. “Whether or not you believe it is up to you.”

I stiffened. I knew this to be true. Why was he confessing it to me? Did he know who I was? Had I been made, somehow? No… if I had, surely, I’d be dead by now. Plus, I was careful. So, what was his aim?

A lump caught in my throat. Of course, I had heard the rumors. Vicious rumors about his lack of compassion. They said his black eyes were a perfect reflection of his blackened soul.

Nothing could be corroborated. It was all single-source and deemed unreliable. That’s what most intelligence was, after all. Just rumors and conjectures, written down, and taken to be fact. But nothing could be proven against the Greens.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Miss Kekoa, is absolutely true. I am, in fact, the Irish Thomas Shelby of the Upper West Side.” He leaned a hip against my desk, entering my personal space.

His suit was something from a movie. Green pinstripes added texture to his black wool suit. The pattern was so subtle, most people wouldn’t even see it. Not unless they had a keen eye like I did.

“Who?” I asked, as he stepped towards me.

The scent of coffee and something sharper enveloped my senses. Bergamot. He smelled like my morning tea.

His head tilted like a dog that heard a whistle. “You’ve never seen Peaky Blinders?”

“No, I can't say that I watch television.” The idea of committing hours upon hours staring at other people on a screen didn’t really interest me. It was all cheap, addictive thrills, designed to give us an endorphin rush so we stayed hooked.

Not like staring at a still life for hours. I could do that in quiet contemplation, my mind slowing down to observe every change in color.

He placed his hand over his heart as if he was stopping it from breaking.

“You don’t watch television… at all?”

I shook my head, as he stepped towards me. The heat in my small office shot up, despite the cold that seeped in through the old window behind me. Old Manhattan buildings did a poor job of keeping winter out. I’m pretty sure they charged extra for the draft.

His eyes sparkled with humor as he tilted his head towards me, a dimple gracing one cheek. “You must stop saying such charming things, or I’m liable to fall in love!”

My shoulders deflated as I rolled my eyes. Disappointment swept through me.

It was too much to ask that with great talent came great intellect and depth. He was just a joker.

“You’re obviously a comedian.” I rolled my eyes.

He was standing so close I could almost feel the warmth of his skin.

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