He dismisses that with another wave. “We’ll expedite your visa.”
My pulse spikes. Money skips the queue. Just as easy as that.
“We’ll need to vet you, of course. Medical examinations, etc.”
“Vet me?” I try to keep my expression neutral. “Vetting… like a criminal record check?”
“Yes.” He scans my face. “Does that concern you?”
Fuck.
“Of course not.”
Whether he believes me or not, he moves on, tapping his finger against the notepad. “Write down your full name, email, and telephone number. Be ready to go to our headquarters tomorrow.”
I nod slowly, my brain ticking over, searching for danger. He’s not asking for my address. “Who’s the employer?”
His lips twitch for reasons unknown to me. “Killian Quinn.”
The dude who owns the hotels.
I take out my phone and do a search as Marcus watches me.
Killian Quinn is top of the results.
Oh.
The guy isn’t in his eighties. He must be in his thirties and, unless the photos are filtered, cream-your-pants gorgeous. Dark hair. Arctic-blue eyes. Perhaps I would allow him to suckle on my breast.
But Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was an attractive guy, too. And I can’t find a single picture of Killian Quinn smiling. It only takes one wrong decision to end up in an attic.
“Is it him, his wife, and his daughter?” I ask.
“No, he’s a single father. Teagan’s mom died when she was only two. She’s twelve now, going on thirteen.”
A new teenager. That makes things interesting. Teenagers are terrifying people.
No mother. That’s sad. I wonder whether it was always just her and her father.
“It’s an opportunity.” Marcus breaks my thoughts. “Take it or leave it, Clodagh.”
Take it or leave the country, more like.
But if they vet me, I’ll fail, so what do I have to lose?
Right now, it’s the only option I have.
Marcus knows it too, judging by the smirk on his face. He taps his fingers against the numbers on the pad.
This must be how people end up working for the Irish Mafia.
Clodagh
I can’t believe I paid forty dollars to go up the Empire State Building. Now I’m staring straight at it from the fiftieth floor of Quinn & Wolfe headquarters while they complete my vetting.
I remember looking over at this building from the viewing platform. With its two spiked towers like horns, it looked more evil than the other skyscrapers. I think I’m in the right horn.
After my weird encounter with fairy godfather Marcus, I spent all last night researching Killian Quinn online.
At thirty-six, he’s one of the wealthiest men in the United States. Self-made, too-the sexiest kind of money. He owns a chain of hotels and casinos across America with his brother and another business partner, ranging from upmarket hostels to luxurious seven-star hotels.
Yes.
Seven.
Doesn’t that mean he wants a seven-star nanny maid? My idea of cleaning is to move things to less obvious places.
Which is why the whole scenario stinks of something fishy. I’m likely about to be flogged on some billionaire black market. Why else would they need so many samples of body parts and fluids?
Blood. Hair. Pee. I half expected them to ask for a poo sample.
After much anxiety, I handed it all over, along with a signed twenty-page NDA.
I filled out a questionnaire so detailed I didn’t know some of the answers about myself.
Blood type? I don’t know my blood type.
Feeling self-conscious, I flick at invisible specks on my skirt. The HR lady left me in the waiting area for thirty minutes this time.
If buildings had personalities, this one would be a sociopath-cold and sterile, with monochrome walls and sharp edges. Negative energy swirls in the air every time someone strides by, talking into their wireless earbuds.
Like building, like owner.
“Clodagh.” The HR lady pops her head out of the door and beckons me to follow. “One more form and you’re free to go.”
My heart thuds. Talking to the beautiful HR lady makes me nervous. Compared to her, I feel like a country mouse. I love New York, but sometimes it’s so overwhelming.
I shuffle into the room and settle back in the same seat I’ve been in and out of all day.
Ugly words in a big black font stare up at me, and my stomach drops out of my ass and down all fifty floors.
Criminal record check
Looks like I’m getting on that flight back to Belfast.
***
“Let’s get married!” Orla beams, taking a large gulp of her Manhattan. Since I’m leaving New York in six days, four hours and-whatever, I’m too tipsy to figure out the rest-I figured Manhattans would be a good choice.
Orla came to town from Queens to help me drown my sorrows. Now I’m treating us to expensive cocktails near Quinn’s headquarters at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon like we have money to burn. I thought it fitting to choose a Quinn Brother hotel bar.
Red velvet padding lines the walls, maybe to keep you from getting hurt if you get too drunk, like an adult playpen. Dim lights and fancy lampshades make it feel like eleven o’clock. Dangerous.
“I have an American passport, so we can get married,” Orla suggests. She swings happily on her barstool as if she’s figured out a solution to climate change.
“Shush.” I nudge her knee. She’s too loud for a bar like this.
After this drink, I’ll take her home. For an Irish woman, she’s a lightweight with alcohol.
Though she has a point… marrying Orla doesn’t seem so absurd anymore. We would be a married couple minus the sex, and there are plenty of those out there.
Jesus, I’m desperate.