Page 4 of Protecting His Finch

The three of us bonded our first year at the Prisedell Art Institute. We shared the same floor in our dorm room and spent the whole year crammed in Marie-Ella’s room, complaining about our roommates, sharing our term projects, and binge-watching Gossip Girl.

Marie-Ella is an Upper West Side hedge-fund child, whose dream it is to be featured in Fashion Week, and who should be far more stuck-up than she is.

Tasha is a sculptor, who dropped out after the first year and went into pre-med instead. Overachiever.

And then there’s me. Finley. Painting major, the awkward black sheep in the flock.

I use my real last name—Larkin—when I’m with them. It’s easier than telling them I’m a Rossi. To New Yorkers, the Rossi name carries as much weight as Gambino or Genovese. The Rossi family is the most infamous mafia crime family currently alive and thriving in the city.

According to the papers, the Rossi family should have crumbled when their don, Marco Rossi, was gunned down by a rival gang. Instead, Marco’s widow, Catherine Rossi, took the helm with her son, Raphael, at her side.

Let’s be clear: Catherine “Madam” Rossi is the most feared woman—or man—this side of the Hudson River.

Everyone bends to her. Including me.

Which is why I’m going to dress up and smile and tell everyone what a wonderful time I had at the party tonight. Because the Madam expects it.

Which is also why I haven’t told Marie-Ella or Tasha about my family. I’m terrified they would run for the hills.

I wouldn’t blame them, either.

I put the brush down. “What do you guys think?”

“The face, flawless,” Marie-Ella says, gesturing grandly. “The eyes, not so much.”

“Too dark?”

“Too depressing,” Tasha scoffs. “You’re going to a birthday party, not a funeral. Lighten up, yeah? Not many people get to say they kicked off their twenty-first at a nightclub.”

“You might find someone special,” Marie-Ella adds. “A hottie?”

“I don’t think so. My brother will be there.”

“Ugh,” Marie-Ella groans. “That capital-C Creep?”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door to my bedroom.

In my most paranoid moments, I’ve wondered before if there are hidden microphones in my room. That way, the Rossis could keep an eye and ear on me to make sure I’m not speaking ill of them. I wouldn’t put it past them. My body tenses at the sound of the knock, and I swivel around in my chair to face the door.

“Yes?”

The door cracks open. It’s Archer. His broad frame is tucked into a black suit. Those dark eyes land on me, his mouth a tight line underneath the trimmed beard that climbs his strong jaw.

“Twenty minutes to exit, Miss Finley,” he informs me.

“Thank you, Archer.” I smile brightly. It’s my job to be compliant, even to the help.

He nods curtly and closes the door again.

My feelings about Archer are…complicated.

He terrifies me. I’ll never forget the first time I saw him. Standing over my father’s corpse. Gun in hand.

But he’s haunted me in other ways lately. In my dreams, he comes into my room. He puts his lips on mine. He dips his hand between my legs, and he tells me to be quiet.

I wake up wet and trembling.

It’s a crush. That’s all. A terrible crush on a terrible man.

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