The rain fell in sheets from the dark grey November sky, casting shadows of mist and reflections of the night in puddles on the footpaths. The orange luminescence of the streetlights poured onto the droplets, creating dancing lights as the rain drops hit the ground. The showers of rain drove into the Georgian windows of the Cigar Parlour, the white noise behind one of the most lucrative meetings held there in its history.

Tucked away on the third floor of a Georgian townhouse on Merrion Square, the Cigar Parlour was one of Dublin city’s best-kept secrets. Hiding above a florist and a bakery on the ground floor, the parlour’s entrance was discretely located behind a portrait of a previous owner of the townhouse, Mr. Thomas Woodberry. The key feature of this parlour was the sheer volume of mahogany used in it’s construction. The ceiling was panelled with stepped layers of the dark wood, extending down the walls where it was broken into floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Shelves in this room were crammed with hardback books of Dublin’s great authors, save for the shelves behind the grand mahogany desk at the bar window. These shelves housed bottles of the finest whiskey and brandy, with glistening glasses resting on polished trays beside carafes for important meetings. The desk was immense, with sculpted lions and angels facing guests seated in the leather seats opposite the Master’s chair. The dark gleaming wood had on odd effect on the room; it reflected the orange streetlights outside the Parlour, bouncing off each post in the bookcases creating an illusion of a bright space. As an added bonus, the reflection of light in this manner aided in darkening the space around the Master chair and desk, an important factor for the lucrative hosts.

The Cigar Parlour was known far and wide not only for it’s exclusivity and old-world glamour, but also for it’s connotations with the Reilly family. These native Dubliners carried quite the reputation on their backs, curated over the last 100 years. The Reilly family were notorious bandits and seized their properties just after the 1798 rebellion. After a shootout that shivered the bones of those in Merrion Park, they acquired the Square townhouse from the Woodberry family, who were prominent English settlers dating back to 1500s. Local rumours suggested the Woodberry family had just “settled their debt" to the Reillys after a lack of rent paid for over 300 years. A costly debt, indeed, and this laid the foundation for the Reilly reputation to be carried into 1928, where the rain is continuing to drive into the windows.

It is said there is a Reilly in every prominent Dublin establishment; from St. James’s Gate to 16 Grafton Street, where Hugh Brown was in receipt of a large sum of start-up money from an “anonymous donor”. One member of the family who regularly benefited from this partnership was Eilis Reilly; her custom haberdashery pieces from Brown Thomas were exquisite, and she was one of Dublin’s most sought-after celebrities. This would never have come to fruition without her father, Ronan Reilly, who was currently seated behind the Master desk.

His custom made leather shoes were resting atop the desk, crossed, with his suit trousers slightly rising up his leg. His suit jacket was open, showing off his waistcoat and beautiful gold pocket watch, overlying his open-necked white shirt. His elbows were lying against the arm of the leather chair, his right hand gripping a cigar beside his mouth, his left hand nursing a whiskey. He was impeccably well-kept, and clean shaven. His kind eyes pierced the darkness, emerald green reflecting his heritage, but his mouth was razor sharp, his words having a cutting edge to them. Currently he was staring across the vast desk at his

“employees”, who were anxiously wringing their caps and nervously tapping their feet against the woollen rug. His eyes glassed over when he was weighing up news from the inner city, but this evening he was presented with a problem. A loose end, as he called it. It was particularly unnerving for those on the receiving end, his expression calm but his eyes murderous.

He lifted his feet off the desk and leaned towards the ash tray, tapping his cigar twice. In his infamous deep Dublin accent, he exhaled and murmured “Hunt down the traitor, and bring him back to me alive”, the rain outside growing in ominous intensity.