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Boyd
Iglare at the thumbprint smudge on my computer monitor, contemplating setting fire to Finn Hanson’s hand as he steps back out of range, as if sensing he’s made a mistake. As the boss of the Stonemore gang, mistakes probably aren’t something he’s used to, but he doesn’t make a fuss, regardless, which I like.
There’s far too much emotional turmoil in my life as it is.
But Finn comes with no strings, which is why I reached out to him for this investigation while Kieran’s teaming up with Elia Montalto on his end. Mine will be quick and clean, no evidence left behind to tie me to anything, unlike Kieran’s initial investigation years ago, which is purportedly the motive behind everything going on now.
He got emotional. Sloppy. And now, we’re all paying for it.
Finn crosses his tattooed arms over his chest, smoothing a wrinkle out from the front of the dark green T-shirt he has on. “That person, the one lurking in the shadows, is far more of a threat to you than Romeo Bianchi. If Romeo really wanted your people dead, they would be. He’s an idiot, but he’s got too many men on his crew that are just itching for a reason to kill.”
I stare at the screen, studying the figure as it appears in every clip where Kieran, Craig, and I are concerned. Comparatively, the person is smaller in stature and seems less confident when they walk, perhaps the reason for not approaching us in the open.
They rely on sneak attacks to get the upper hand, which tells me they’re not directly mafia-related for two reasons.
One, no made man would be afraid to approach someone else. The mafia trains the fear from your body, extracting it as though it’s not there as an adaptive, evolutionary response in the first place.
It’s why Finn stands here in my office now, helping me despite the fact that the audit I did for him weeks ago showed his organization is funneling cash in from something that has nothing to do with drugs.
He knows I know about the flesh sales, but he also expects I won’t say anything. Knows that if I do, he’ll just have me killed, anyway.
Two, while sneak attacks are certainly handy, the local mafias have a lot more leniency as far as what the police allow them to get away with—since the Montaltos bankroll half the state, the pigs are generally more willing to let certain things go—and don’t usually resort to lurking. They come right out, put a bullet between your eyes, and then focus on the cleanup afterward.
“So, who would this be, then? Just a random vigilante citizen?”
Shrugging, he reaches up and runs a hand over the top of his hair. “Maybe someone who was affected by what Kieran’s brother was doing with the trafficking? They weren’t exactly discreet about it, you know.”
“Not like you,” I mutter.
He shoots me a warning look. “Could be a major donor to the former organization, mad about it all getting shut down. There’s no scarcity of enemies when it comes to criminal activity. The cops aren’t on your side, and even your sworn allies are potential patsies at best. I say keep looking at financial records, track them to the last place you know the organization was working from, and—”
A large crash in the lobby outside cuts him off; it sounds like a miniature explosion, glass shattering and screams echoing off the walls, even with my door closed.
Finn and I exchange a glance, and I reach into my top desk drawer for the pistol I keep there just as he reaches into his waistband for his Glock. We get up slowly, me taking the lead and swinging the door open, guns trained on the figure through the glass divider.
Fiona lets out a frustrated squeal as she bends down, scooping up dirt and trying to put it back inside a broken ceramic pot. A large flowering plant lays uprooted at her feet, and she swipes at her hair furiously, streaking the dark red with brown.
Dropping the mouth of my gun, I cock the safety and slide it into my suit jacket, walking around the reception desk and peering down at the beautiful little vixen, my body in her presence for mere seconds before it roars to life, begging me to join her on the floor. To take her into my arms and ravage her, the way it always wants to.
But I don’t, if only because something doesn’t seem quite right. Her hands shake as she tries to replant the flower, and I notice beneath the dirt that her fingernails are shredded, the manicured acrylics from before torn off completely while the natural nails have been chewed to the point they’re bloody. Her arms are covered in bright red scratches, her doe eyes feral.
“Fiona?” I squat down beside her, my jaw clenching when I note her labored breathing. She ignores me, continuing to scoop at the dirt, and I glance up at Chelsea, who’s watching us with an expression of apprehension. “What happened?”
Chelsea shrugs, brushing some lint off the red blazer she’s wearing. “I don’t know. She asked if Craig was in, and when I told her he was in Portland for an investor meeting, she freaked out and swiped the plant off my desk.”
Tensing her shoulders, Fiona pauses, turning her chin up to meet Chelsea’s gaze. Something flickers in her gaze, dark like recognition, and her face turns bright red.
“Your voice...” She trails off, eyes darting over a million different surfaces before finally coming back to Chelsea. They narrow into little slits, her hands balling into fists. “You. Oh, my God, you’re sleeping with my father!”
A hush falls over the lobby, a few straggler employees gasping audibly, and I clench my jaw harder, the calm before the storm taking place right before my eyes. Chelsea’s mouth drops, her tongue sliding over the front of her teeth, and she glances at me.
“Don’t look at him, you whore!” Fiona screeches, scrambling to her feet and lunging at the desk; I shift to my knees as she moves, catching her around the waist and drawing her into my chest, locking her arms at her sides and holding her tight against me.
She thrashes, throaty growls tearing through her esophagus that I know she’ll feel later, trying to wriggle free. “I fucking heard you last night, at my house! How dare you do that to my mother!”
I’m too preoccupied with the way her ass grinds into my crotch to notice her reach into her jeans and pull out a pocket knife, too turned the fuck on to react at first when she kicks the blade free and starts swinging it wildly. In fact, I barely register the knife at all until it’s slicing against my forearm, a clean cut right through my dress shirt that splits my skin easily.
Hissing at the onslaught of sharp pain, I wrap my good arm around her neck and increase the pressure until she starts clawing at me, dropping the knife in her attempt to secure oxygen. “Finn,” I bark, clenching my jaw so hard that my forehead starts to ache. “Go down to Kate in human resources and have her send everyone home. Now.”
