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He turns and passes me a Laphroaig eighteen-year-old with a single ice cube. What can I say? I’m a scotch girl. The smokier, the better.
“Cheers,” he mutters, clinking his glass to mine.
“Cheers.”
Someone wise probably once said “don’t mix business with family”. But personally, I’ve never found that a problem. I mean, Alistair and Gabriel aren’t my literal blood family. But they may as well be my brothers, and we’ve been as close as siblings—yes, including the bickering at times—since we first met.
After the crash, when I woke up in the hospital without living parents, any memories, or even knowing who I was, I came here to New York to live with my great-aunt Florence. She’s the one that “got me up to speed” with life: learning how to read again, how to dress myself. How to live. That summer spent with her is pretty hazy, because my brain was still repairing itself and reteaching itself how to think. I remember being so thankful that I wasn’t totally alone in the universe for that.
Then I went to college, and two weeks into my first semester, Florence had a stroke and passed away. Then I really was alone.
But two years of pushing myself hard later, I graduated undergrad early, passed the LSATs, and managed to get myself into Harvard Law. I was flat broke and didn’t want to rack up massive student debt, so I got a job bartending at this crappy dive bar in Harvard Square.
That’s where I met the Black brothers.
Alistair’s debit card was declined on a three-dollar beer. Gabriel tried to argue with me that, pursuant to Massachusetts commerce law, and according to Witt vs the State of Maryland, it was on the vendor to prove that a declined card was the result of insufficient funds, and not faulty machinery for collecting payment.
I tossed back Velasquez vs Cardiff, which ruled presenting a means of payment proves reasonable intention to pay, thereby putting the onus on the customer, not the vendor.
I won that round. Then the two assholes pretended to go to the bathroom and ran out on their whopping six-dollar bar tab.
Two weeks later, I found a twenty-dollar bill taped to my dorm door, along with a highly coveted invitation to the insanely exclusive study group one of the most influential professors on campus hosted every now and then. One of those study groups that’s less about studying and more about “if you’re here, congrats, you’ve made it”.
Turns out, Alistair and Gabriel used their considerable powers of persuasion to coax the professor who ran the group into inviting me in.
And the rest, as they say, is history. We became fast friends. We all got internships at the same firm in Boston. Then we all found jobs in New York. Five grueling years later, we poached the best clients we could, walked from our respective firms, and hung up our own shingle. Crown and Black was born.
I have to say, though: it’s felt weird these last two months, with Gabriel making his exit from the firm to the Governor’s mansion. He technically could stay on at Crown and Black. But it would be an ethics complaint waiting to happen, which would suck for both his reputation and ours.
Alistair exhales slowly. “There is one more thing we need to start discussing.”
I sigh. “The new third managing partner.”
“Bingo.”
Again, we’re like siblings. My closeness with Alistair and Gabriel is what made Crown and Black the empire it is. But the balance really only works when there’s three of us.
If it’s just Alistair and I running things, we’re going to throttle each other at some point. I mean, lovingly. But still.
“Any thoughts?”
I lift a shoulder. “You know I’m going to say Fumi.”
He smirks. “Figured. I’m not against it, for the record. But I’d counter with Elsa. She’s been an equity partner for a little longer. And she’s really good. Plus, clients love her.”
“They also love that she married into the Drakos family.”
Alistair grins. “Hey, you play the cards you’re dealt.” He glances at his watch groans. “Shit, I need to cut this short. I forgot I had a meeting.”
I drain my scotch and set the glass down on the edge of his desk—not on a coaster, which I know drives Alistair crazy.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, marching over and snatching the glass up like a worried housewife. “Respect the wood.”
“Please tell me that’s your bedroom talk with Eloise?”
He snorts. “I swear, I’m going to report you to HR one day.”
“I’ll take you down with me.”
