Chapter 53 Fink
Fink
Thanksgiving
The murder suit wouldn’t do. It was too formal. Not to mention, Fink didn’t plan on killing anyone at this dinner. It was a family affair, but not his. Therefore, the opportunity shouldn’t present itself.
Even if it did, he’d vowed no more freelancing. All his hits had to be on contract. If there was no money, he couldn’t do it. No matter how badly they pissed him off.
He shouldn’t go into this thinking Sydney’s chosen family would bother him. She picked them for a reason. They couldn’t be like his kin.
Blowing out a breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror, he considered covering his tattoo. If these people were respectable, having a giant clover inked on his neck might give the wrong impression—no matter how right it was.
He was a dangerous guy, but broadcasting his nature to a bunch of do-gooders seemed wrong.
They invited him into their home, to their table, with nothing but the best intentions. He should respect that. No matter how foreign being welcomed felt for him.
“What are you doing?” Sydney asked as she bopped into the bathroom, poking an earring through her lobe.
“Debating,” he said as he cocked his head to the side and rubbed the symbol on his jugular.
Tightening her lips, she inched closer and rose up on her tiptoes to inspect him.
“I probably should cover my ink,” he admitted. “Out of respect.”
She lowered to flat feet and furrowed her brows. “How is a clover disrespectful?”
Another thing he’d have to include in her lessons—gang markings. Somehow this corrupt woman, who was so devious and dangerous, found a way to be na?ve. He couldn’t help but grin in the face of her innocence.
“Never mind.” He shook his head, more at himself than her.
Reaching outward, he wrapped his arms around and tugged her toward him and against his bare chest.
“Forget I said anything.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’m probably overthinking it.”
That was his superpower, after all.
“I’m inclined to agree,” she said as she squeezed his middle.
Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the simple moment. These stolen minutes of absolute comfort made taking the risk of partnering with her worth it. Sure, the sex was phenomenal, but he could get laid whenever he wanted. This was what made her special. This was why he couldn’t get Sydney out of his head.
She was a vibe. There was something about the contrast of her bubbly persona and her murder-y one. He could never get enough. She was excited to learn about him, what he did, and how he did it. He, and everything about him, didn’t disgust her. He intrigued her.
No one, not even AJ, his longest companion on this planet, took as much interest in him as Sydney did. She was a treasure to be cherished.
And that was why he second-guessed displaying his clover tattoo proclaiming his ties to the Irish Mafia. Her family invited him into a bright space—a happy occasion of coming together and giving thanks. He shouldn’t cloud it with such things.
Except Sydney hadn’t a clue what it meant. Her family might not either.
“As much as I enjoy your bare skin,” she said as she peppered his chest with gentle kisses.
His skin tingled, and his cock twitched. This wasn’t the time. If he acted on this, they’d be late. That was not the first impression he wanted to make.
“I think a shirt is in order,” she said with a wink as she stepped away from him.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I should have a collared one around here somewhere.”
Stepping out of the bathroom into the small hallway, he avoided a box filled with all the lotions, soaps, curling irons, and whatnot she’d collected over the years. They were nearly packed and ready to go to his cabin.
All they had to do was survive this dinner with her family.
Which should be fine.
There was no reason to expect it to go like a holiday meal with his relatives. No one would get stabbed in the hand for taking the last dinner roll. He doubted she’d want to be around them if her experience was like that.
He rubbed his palm, recalling how the steak knife had pierced his flesh effortlessly. Thankfully, it had missed all the major tendons in his hand. While painful, the injury wasn’t life-altering. At least not physically.
There were just some things an eight-year-old shouldn’t have to endure.
Shaking off the memory, he plastered on a smile and ducked into the bedroom to search for the golf shirt he’d bought a few days ago.
When they’d prepped for this trip, he hadn’t planned on attending Thanksgiving dinner. Frankly, he’d forgotten the holiday was upon them. He’d expected to do the questioning, pack her belongings, and head back to the cabin.
They’d stayed far longer than he expected.
Which meant he’d purchased more items, so they had to stow them.
Thankfully, they’d nearly emptied her apartment.
He’d be able to fit every tote in the back of his pickup for the long drive.
While the cab would be a little cramped, they’d make it work.
Plus, they had her car packed to the gills as well, so he’d be all by himself for this drive.
While he was looking forward to finally getting back to the cabin so that she could settle in, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea that they had to ride in separate vehicles. This drive would be the longest they’d spent apart since they met.
If they could make being murder fuck buddies a thing, they could get all her stuff to Maine in one trip.
Vrr. Vrr.
His spine straightened.
Sydney popped into the room.
Vrr. Vrr.
Both of their burner phones sat on the folding table they’d used to hold their possessions while they slept on the air mattress.
Vrr. Vrr.
Whose was it? They exchanged glances as they approached.
Together, they flipped over their cells.
Sydney brought hers to her ear. “Hello?”
Fink held his breath. There was no smile on her face. Her family couldn’t be the reason. Since there were no numbers stored on the device, he hadn’t a clue who it could be. Whoever it was calling on a holiday couldn’t be good.
“Hello, this is Tonya Gerding from Samuel Milford’s office,” the woman on the other end of the phone said. “I’m looking to speak with Sydney Cassidy.”
While it wasn’t on speaker, it was loud enough for Fink to listen in. And that he was. He’d done nothing as intently as he eavesdropped on this call.
“Hi.” Sydney stared in his direction. Her eyes filled with worry. “That’s me.”
He inhaled deeply and motioned for her to do the same. She had to stay calm.
“Oh, wonderful,” the woman gushed. She was far too cheery to be calling with bad news. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you on a holiday.”
“That’s alright,” Sydney replied.
“I just wanted to let you know that Mr. Milford will no longer be requiring your help with the Grant case.”
“Oh?” Sydney perked up.
Fink closed his eyes and let out a relieved breath. Thank fucking Christ. Finally, something in their favor.
“Yep. You’re free to enjoy your holiday.”
“What happened?” Sydney asked. “I thought he needed me to testify.”
Fink’s lids flew open, and he glared in her direction. What the hell was she doing? They were in the clear. She knew damn well how that occurred. Why was she asking some secretary for details?
“You haven’t been following the news?” Tonya asked.
“I’m in the process of moving. Cut all my subscription services.”
“Ah.” The woman clucked her tongue. “Well, since it hit the papers, I guess there is no harm in saying it. Mrs. Grant overdosed. They’ve ruled it a suicide. Poor thing. Though I guess being investigated for murdering her husband really took a toll on her.”
“Yeah,” Sydney agreed as a wide smile spread on her face. “Wow.”
“Such a shame.” Tonya sighed.
“It’s really sad,” Sydney agreed.
“But I don’t want to keep you. Hopefully, you can still enjoy your day.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Sydney said before ending the call.
Scrambling over the half-deflated air mattress, Fink held out his arms. Narrowly avoiding tripping, he gripped Sydney and hugged her tight against him.
Together, they squealed and jumped in place.
They could officially put the murder of Mitchell Leonard Grant Jr. behind them and start their life together with no threats breathing down their necks.