Page 14 of Protecting His Finch

I should feel grateful. Instead, I think about the man in the warehouse.

How much is a human life worth? I don’t know that you can put a monetary value on that. Yet, over and over, I’ve accepted it. Because this is who I am. And killing is the only thing I know how to do well.

I tuck the envelope into the inside pocket of my blazer. Then my gaze drifts across the bottles of red wine.

I don’t make it a habit to steal from my boss. Catherine Rossi is the kind of woman who might cut my hand off if she caught me in the act. But I’m feeling rotten tonight—rotten about the business on the docks, about the way Madam has her claws in everything, but above all, rotten about the proposal.

The thought of that weaselly brat Raphael putting his hands anywhere near Finley’s body makes my stomach turn.

So I rip at my tie until the knot comes loose and hangs open on my chest. I go through the bottles until I find a red with a small layer of dust on it. It’ll be a while before anyone notices this one has gone missing.

There’s a small table against the wall, and I pick up one of many ornate corkscrews. Gracelessly, I rip the foil from the top and toss it to the ground before plunging the sharp end of the screw through the cork.

“Thief.”

The voice from the silence startles me so badly, I nearly drop the bottle. I catch it before it hits the ground, though, gripping it neatly by the neck.

Finley is here. She’s standing at the entrance of a separate doorway—a small, unassuming thing in the side of the room.

Her hair is down. She’s wearing a sleep shirt and sweatpants. She looks more natural now. A little more herself.

“Jesus,” I utter.

She also doesn’t look like she’s going to rat me out. A small smile twinges the edges of her mouth.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings, bodyguard.” Her eyes flicker over me, and then her brows lift. “Well? What are you waiting for? Pour us a glass.”

“Yes, miss.”

There are shelves along the stone walls with tea lights underneath. I snag two glasses and set them up on the oak barrel.

I try to ignore the pounding of my heart as I uncork the bottle and pour. This is dangerous—and it has nothing to do with the wine.

I shouldn’t be here alone with Finley. The two of us are so rarely alone—Raphael is almost always there, drawing my attention. Now, with nothing but me, her, and the wine, my palms begin to itch. Temptation is a dark, fickle bitch, and it makes my mouth dry.

I pour each glass, set the bottle down, and then lift my own. “Cheers,” I tell her. “To—”

I don’t get to toast. She clinks her glass against mine and then chugs it. And I mean…chugs. She doesn’t come up for air, not until the very expensive, very smooth glass of wine has settled down her throat.

Finley wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, sets the glass down again, and says politely, “Another, please.”

I pour again. Slowly. “Taste this one.”

She squints at that, but she does take her time with this glass. Her cheeks are already rosy. She takes her wine and starts to wander around the room, grazing her fingertips over the wine racks as she passes them.

“You know this place was built in the 1800s,” she says. “In the ’20s, it was rumored to be owned by bootleggers. When the Rossis bought it, they renovated the house completely. And, lo and behold, they found bottles wrapped up underneath the floorboards, layered into the brick. Whoever owned it during the Prohibition built all these funny little secret passageways in and out of this room so they could smuggle alcohol down here.” She points to the door she came through. “That one leads to my room.”

I’ve never been a history buff, but I like listening to the cadence of Finley’s voice. The way her eyes wander around the room when she talks, as though she’s watching the rumrunners stash their loot in real time.

She licks her lips. They’ve gone purple from the pinot noir.

I want to taste the wine on her lips. Instead, I settle for sipping it slowly from my glass.

“You know a lot about it,” I tell her.

She spins to face me, eyes wide, as though she’s forgotten I’m there. “I find it fascinating,” she says. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

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