Page 13 of Of Grief And Gratitude

“Hello,” she said sweetly, with an Italian accent. They sure dressed their help in the latest fashion, if the khaki slacks and white blouse were any indication. “I am Antonella Neretti. Who might you be?”

Not the help. The Don’s wife. I knew of Antonella, but like the rest of the family, I’d never had a reason to meet her. She was striking with dark hair and wide blue eyes, and her figure was thin but curvy. I cleared my throat quietly and stepped forward, holding out my hand. “Riona O’Neill. The O’Connors brought me in for PR.”

“I see.” Her handshake was firm, and her expression contemplative. She looked down, and her brows furrowed. “Oh, my. What happened to your shirt?”

“Romeo,” I answered without thinking. “He spilled his coffee.”

“Well, I may not be able to work miracles, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Antonella opened the pantry, found a bottle of white vinegar, then pulled a cloth from a drawer, running it under the tap before pouring a little vinegar over the corner of the folded fabric. She held it out to me. “Just dab it over the stains. It smells bad, but works well.”

“Thank you.” I did as she instructed, pulling my shirt free from my pants and holding a hand behind the fabric while pressing the cloth to the stains on the front. After a few seconds, the stains lightened, then seemed to lift away completely. “Well, I’ll remember this technique.”

“Good as new.” Antonella smiled and took the cloth, rinsing it thoroughly and laying it across the faucet to dry. “Are you hungry? Dinner is nearly ready.”

Before I could answer, I heard footsteps on the tile floors, and Dante stepped into the kitchen. “How’s everything going in here?”

“Perfectly,” his mother answered, affectionately patting him on the cheek. “Is your meeting finished?”

“Yes.” Dante tipped his head toward me. “Your group is waiting for you.”

“I’ll head out, then.” I smiled at his mother. "It was nice to meet you."

Dante left, but Antonella placed a hand on my arm as I followed.

“Riona.” Her soft voice stopped me. “My youngest has always been a free spirit. I do not want to see that spirit crushed by his obligations. I know he can be headstrong, but there is so much more to him beneath the surface. Please, have patience with him.”

Any second thoughts I’d had about working with the man in question dropped away as I looked into his mother’s troubled eyes. There was love there, but also genuine concern for her youngest boy. It appeared my conscience had developed loyalty to the woman standing in front of me.

I tried to think of a way to reassure her. “I won’t give up on him. You have my word.”

“Thank you.” She patted my arm and turned back to the stove to stir whatever was in the big pot.

Considering myself dismissed, I made my way back to the foyer of the house, telling myself I hadn’t lied. I wouldn’t give up on Romeo Neretti, but I wouldn’t stop him from quitting.

The familiar sound of O’Connor’s pub washed over me as Shane held the door. He’d taken one look at me after the meeting and declared we were going for drinks, and I wasn’t about to object. It was still early, so the crowd was more regulars than late-night tipsy pub crawlers.

Sloane stood next to Sean at the bar, and whatever he was saying, she smacked him on the back of his head, which only made him laugh harder. He noticed us first and pointed. “Drinks on me! I heard it was a day.”

“Oh, good, you’re here!” Sloane rushed over and grabbed my arm, pulling me to sit next to her at the bar when a couple of men vacated their spots for us. She caught the attention of the blonde man working behind the bar. “Whiskey, neat.”

“Comin’ right up,” he answered with a hint of an Irish lilt. I didn’t know him by sight, so he must have started working when I was in New York. He set two glasses on the counter and poured the whiskey generously before sliding them over to us. I downed the drink in two quick gulps.

Sloane’s brows raised, and she motioned to the bartender for another. “That bad, huh?”

“He’s an asshole,” I declared, not caring who heard. “Even his mother practically begged me to fix him. Do you have any idea how long he’s been a problem?”

“Forever?” She shrugged, making her black leather jacket creak. All black was almost her uniform—a baggy black t-shirt with a deep neckline twisted and tucked into tight black jeans that ended with black combat boots. “The Neretti boys have always had a reputation.”

“Your brothers have a reputation,” I pointed out. “But they didn’t make national news.”

“Fair enough.” Sloane held up her glass, and I mirrored her action. “To reforming the Italian rake.”

I snorted out a laugh and tapped my glass to hers before finishing it in one swallow. “I think I’ve earned the right to get shitfaced tonight.”

“What’ll the wager be for our game of pool?” Sloane asked as she sipped on her whiskey. “More dishes?”

Sean leaned over and crowded his younger sister. “I want in on that wager.”

“Awfully ambitious of you,” she teased. “We’ll grind your nose into the felt by the end of the night.”

---