5. Finn
Aweek and a half later, I’m standing in the small makeshift locker room in the basement of one of our bars we use for the fight nights Eoghan puts together. The room is sparse, with concrete floors and a metal bench sitting in front of a couple beat-to-hell lockers. It’s not fancy, and the room smells like old mildew and sweat, but Eoghan says it adds to the authentic grittiness of these types of underground fights. I can’t argue his logic considering they bring in a pretty penny for the family, and my brother thrives in this kind of environment. It’s not often I participate in the fights, but with all this shit with Cataldi and my wedding, which is going to be taking place tomorrow, I need to blow off steam.
Usually, I spend this time mentally preparing myself for the ring in peace and quiet. Tonight, however, I don’t get that luxury.
“All I’m trying to say is maybe getting in the ring the night before your wedding isn’t the best idea.” Eoghan has been trying to talk me out of fighting tonight, but bets have already been placed, and this type of crowd wouldn’t take kindly to a last-minute cancelation.
“Cillian,” my brother says, looking over at my lieutenant. “Help me out here.”
Cillian looks to my brother, then me, and shakes his head. “You’re on your own with this one. If he wants to fight, let him fight. He may as well get used to it since he’s marrying Alessia.”
My brother waves a dismissive hand, and I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me.
“Mom is going to have a shit fit if you show up tomorrow with your pretty face busted up.”
I shrug because, yes, I’ve thought about that, but no, I don’t care. I need this.
“Honestly, Eoghan, out of everyone, I thought you’d understand my need to spill a little blood tonight.” I finish taping my knuckles and test it by punching one hand into my palm then the other.
“It’s not that I don’t understand. It’s that I don’t want to hear it tomorrow when we show up to the church and you have a busted nose.”
“Oh, come on. When was the last time anyone got a face shot on Finn?” Cillian asks.
“You two are impossible. And when did I become the voice of reason? Fuck you both for making me be the responsible one,” Eoghan says, pointing a threatening finger between Cillian and me.
“It’s really not a good look on you. You should probably stop trying,” I tell my red-faced little brother. “It’ll be fine.”
Well, it was fine until round five when the giant Russian cage fighter landed an elbow to my eyebrow. It was a lucky-as-hell shot that had blood pouring from the cut and blinding me momentarily. I’d been mostly taking body shots, successfully guarding my face, and returning his sloppy blows with precise ones of my own. The guy relied on his strength and brawn, but I had him beat in skill. My confidence cost me, though, and now I’m sitting in a metal folding chair as Cillian butterfly bandages my fucking eyebrow.
“Could have been worse,” Cillian says, wiping the excess blood from my brow.
“I should have seen it coming. He was going for the face in the first four rounds. He tired himself out so much, swinging hard and wide, I thought round five was going to be a cakewalk and I’d knock the guy out.”
“Why didn’t you go for the knockout earlier?”
I blow out a breath and chuckle at my stupidity. “I wanted to put on a good show.”
“You got cocky.”
“Sure as shit did.” And now I have to face my mother with a busted eyebrow on my wedding day. As if the thought of tomorrow isn’t stressful enough.
Cillian finishes and disposes of the bloody gauze he used to clean me up with. “Let’s get a drink at the bar.” He purposely slaps his hand on my bruised shoulder.
“Asshole,”I mutter in his direction, but he just laughs and heads out of the room and up the stairs to the bar before I follow him.
The good thing about having these fights in the basement of a bar is the limitless supply of alcohol available upstairs. Since the fights are over for the night, everyone up here is either excited about their winnings and buying round after round for people, or they’re drowning their sorrows over losing money and spending what they have left getting shit-faced. It’s a win-win for business.
We make our way through the crowded space that’s packed brick wall to brick wall with almost everyone who was downstairs watching the bloodshed take place. Thankfully, my brother always makes sure to reserve a corner table for us on fight nights. Not that it would matter when everyone here knows we own the place. I’ve made people give up their tables on busy nights like this for me on more than one occasion. Perks of being the boss.
Eoghan spends his time running the four bars we have in Boston and fight nights circulate between each of the four. It’s always interesting to me the variety of people who come out for these nights. Some are your typical working-class crowd who enjoy boxing and are here for a good time. Others are dressed to the nines and reek of money, while others stink of the desperation of trying to feed their gambling addictions.
Eoghan runs a crew responsible for loaning the money to the sorry saps who don’t know when to quit. That’s part of how our family got started in this life. We were loan sharks and bootleggers who did what we had to do to survive. Then, when prohibition ended, we went into protection. My father wanted more for us and started the underground casino. When I came on board, I realized there was money being left on the table and started a little gunrunning business the Black Roses MC were happy to assist with. It brings in a pretty penny, and it’ll be even more profitable when we gain control of the ports.
Cillian and I have a seat at the table, and Eoghan isn’t far behind with a round of whiskeys.
He looks at me and shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Mom’s going to be pissed, brother.”
I roll my eyes at the glee he takes in telling me that unnecessary observation.
“I tried to tell him,” Cillian states.
“You most certainly did not,” I say, looking at the man with a shit-eating grin sitting next to me. “You said if I want to fight, I should. And that I should get used to fighting, considering who I’m about to be married to.”
“I was the one trying to keep you away from the ring tonight.” Eoghan sits to the left of me, sipping his drink while still wearing an excited smile.
“Don’t act like you aren’t giddy as a schoolboy, knowing I’m going to get a ration from our mother tomorrow.”
My brother smirks, and I want to wipe the smug smile off his face.
“Maybe I should give you a matching cut, Eoghan. Then she’ll have two sets of ears to box.”
“Now, why would you do that when I’ve gone through all the trouble of putting together this fine bachelor party for you?”
I look around the bar then back to my brother. “What bachelor party?”
“Exactly,” he says, nodding at me. “You wouldn’t let me plan anything for you, so we’re stuck here drinking the same whiskey we do every night with the same people we see almost as often.” He shakes his head in disappointment.
“When it’s your turn to walk down the aisle, I’ll make sure to throw you a damn bachelor party with all the strippers and alcohol you could possibly imagine.”
Eoghan scoffs. “Like thatll ever happen. Marriage is for suckers.”
“Or men trying to take over criminal empires,” Cillian says with a smirk.
Ignoring my brother and lieutenant, I scan the crowd. I’m not looking for anyone in particular. It’s just a habit of mine, making sure any and all possible threats are noticed and eliminated before they become a problem.
Eoghan is pouting in the corner, obviously wishing I’d taken him up on his offer to have a full-blown celebration tonight instead of sitting in one of our bars, but this is exactly where I’m comfortable. I don’t need a last night of freedom celebration. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing that’s going to change is I’ll have a roommate with my last name.
A sexy as hell roommate that’s sure to keep me on my toes…but she’ll never be in my bed.
It’s obvious she isn’t interested in mixing business with pleasure, which I fully think is for the best. Unfortunately, it doesn’t answer the question of why; for the last week, I’ve been finding any excuse to call or text her. Asking her for little details about the wedding, which she doesn’t know, just so she’ll have to find out from Lilliana and get back to me. Or why I’ve been imagining her in my home and in the bed she’s made clear she has no desire to be in. Three nights in a row, I’ve fisted my cock with thoughts of her painted-red lips tipped up at the corners while on her knees in front of me. Even in my fantasies, her eyes still held that glint of defiance, which I think made me come even harder. There has got to be something wrong with me. I’m inviting a woman who can’t stand me into my home, into my sanctuary, and I’m getting off on her hating me.
My gaze must linger in one spot for too long. When I finally shake myself out of my thoughts of Alessia, a tall blonde with fake tits and a dress that leaves hardly anything to the imagination is walking over with a smile directed at me.
“Hey,” she says. “I saw you fight tonight. Congratulations on the win. Can I buy you a drink to celebrate?”
I hold up my glass. “Already have one.”
“Well,” she says, sitting in the empty chair next to mine. “How about a different celebration? Somewhere not so crowded.”
She leans in, a hairs breadth from my mouth. It would be nothing to lean over and take her lips in a bruising kiss, then take her to my brother’s office and begin the “celebration” she has in mind. But her hair is too light, and the shade of red on her lips isn’t the same one I can’t seem to get out of my head. The shade worn by a woman who has obviously cast some unwanted, powerful spell over me. I shake my head and smile politely, telling the blonde, “Not tonight, sweetheart.”
She shrugs a slim shoulder and licks her bottom lip in a move that’s meant to look seductive but isn’t doing a damn thing for me. “You sure?”
“While I appreciate the offer, I’m about to be a married man.” I shoot her a smile in the hopes she isn’t offended by my rejection, seeing as angry drunk women at a bar can be bad for business.
Her eyes trail up and down my body, and I’m getting the feeling she doesn’t care one way or another about my marital status. “Lucky girl. Another time then.”
Her nails scrape across my hand before she gets up and wanders off.
“Jesus,” I mumble, taking a sip of my whiskey. “Does no one respect the bonds of marriage anymore?”
My brother and Cillian look at each other, then me, erupting in a fit of laughter.
Assholes.
“Finnegan Patrick Monaghan. Let me see your face.” My mother storms into the dressing room at the church, eyeing me through the mirror while I straighten the tie that feels as though it’s choking me.
Fucking Eoghan.
I turn and face my mother and she walks up to me, grabbing my chin and wrenching my head to the side, scrutinizing the cut and bruise above my eyebrow.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she grits out, letting her hand fall. “I would expect this from your brother, but seriously, Finn? Did you really need to fight the night before your wedding? And could you not have protected your face? You’re better than that.”
My mom shakes her head as I bark out a laugh. “Which has you more upset? The cut or that I let him get one in?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure.” Her gaze softens as her blue eyes search mine. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“A little late to call it off, don’t you think?”
My mom was never fully on board with this plan. She’s a good Catholic woman and tried to raise us the same, even with my father being the head of the family for so many years. She believes marriage is a sacred vow made before God that can’t be broken. I don’t know what would bother her more. If she knew about all the men I’ve sent to their deaths or if I got a divorce?
“It’s not too late. When mass is over, and you’re tied to Alessia for the rest of your natural life, then it would be too late.”
I have the feeling my mom is under some misguided impression that I should be holding out for the love of my life or something. That’s not something I’ve ever given thought to. I don’t and never will harbor the idea that there’s that one person in the world who you’re destined to marry. My parents may feel that way about each other, but it’s not realistic for me. What is, though, is making my family one of the most powerful on the East Coast. That’s something I have control over, and I’ll do whatever it takes to grab it, including marrying Alessia Amatto.
My mother stares into my eyes for a few moments, noting my silence before straightening my already perfect tie, then smiling widely at me.
“Well, I suppose it’s time you walk an old lady to her seat then.”
I look around the room with a slight frown. “What old lady?” I ask, then turn to her with a wink.
“Save the charm for your bride, son. You’re going to need it.” She laughs, and I take her arm, leading her out into the old Gothic-style church covered in blush-pink roses and white gauzy fabric to my father, sitting in the front pew.
My brother is standing off to the side of the altar, waiting for me to take my place with a shit-eating grin on his face.
I smile at the guests and lean over to whisper in my brother’s ear. “You’ll pay for that, asshole.”
“Such language. And in the house of the Lord.” He shakes his head, clicking his tongue.
I look around at the saints faces in the stained-glass windows that line the long walls of the sanctuary. If they had a little brother like mine, they would surely understand and forgive the coarse language. Before I can tell him all the ways I’m going to pay him back for running to our mother, the music changes, and the doors at the back of the church open. Alessia told me Gemma, her best friend since college, was going to be the only person in her bridal party. This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on the woman walking out in a knee-length pastel-pink dress, and I notice my brother stand a bit straighter. I’ll have to make sure to tell him she’s off-limits, though that might make her more desirable to him. The last thing we need is Eoghan screwing around with the wrong person and creating any more tension for me or this deal.
When Gemma takes her place in the front, the music changes and everyone stands. I look at the doorway once more, and Alessia is there with her father. The air is knocked from my lungs. Goddamn, the woman is stunning. I’m glad everyone is looking at Alessia and not me, so I have a moment to compose myself. Her dress looks like she’s been sewn into it, the intricate lace hugging every curve of her body until it reaches her knees then flares, creating a train that trails behind her. I catch her eye and smile, but she remains stoic as she walks up the long aisle.
I don’t know why that bothers me like it does. This isn’t real, at least not in the way two people getting married for love would be. But her air of indifference tugs at something in me. For a brief moment, I feel like a thief, stealing her moment to be a real bride, marrying someone she actually wants to spend the rest of her life with. Not someone she’s marrying to gain power for her family. This is the life we live, though, and the commitment we’ve both made for our families. I’ve never been interested in marrying for love, but I can’t help but wonder, as she glides toward me on her father’s arm, if she had dreams of this day as a young woman. Maybe she feels as though she’s missed out on her chance to have a real marriage with a wedding she’s actually excited about. Not one she signed a contract for.
Alessia reaches me, and her father kisses her on the cheek before she turns toward me. Now that I can look her in the eye, there’s no little girl with broken wedding dreams looking back at me. Instead, her green eyes are hard, and her shoulders are straight as she glares daggers at me. What the hell was going through my head when I felt a pang of regret only moments before? Alessia Amatto—well, Monaghan now—doesn’t seem to possess one shred of girlish fantasies or dreams.
Throughout the entire ceremony she repeats the words she’s supposed to. She kneels and stands on cue, but there isn’t one iota of sadness in any of it. There’s no joy or love or happiness, not that I would have expected there to be. She’s performing her duty and leaving emotions where they belong—far away from here. It’s not like I’m all of a sudden thinking she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on and am a lucky son of a bitch to be marrying her. It’s not as though I thought she looked like an ethereal goddess with every word she spoke through her nude-colored lips. Lips that I’m excited to kiss even though I know it’s fake, for show. No, those thoughts haven’t crossed my mind once. And it’s not as though her indifference unsettles me—frustrates me every time I look into her eyes and see not even a spark of emotion. Just an infuriating nothing.
When the wedding mass is finished and I’ve kissed her, feeling all the emotion of a fucking corpse from her, I smile wide and lean close to her ear.
“I liked the red lipstick better,” I whisper and pull back with a happy grin on my face.
Alessia doesn’t miss a beat and turns her fake-as-hell smile toward me. “Don’t worry, I’ll wear it to your funeral,” she replies.
Any outside observer would think we were whispering words of love and devotion. I must be crazy, but there’s a certain thrill in knowing my wife isn’t afraid to speak her mind. She doesn’t pretend to be the demure Mafia princess I mistakenly assumed she was. Admittedly, I don’t know her well, but she’s sharp as a tack and tougher than many of the men I know. She doesn’t cower to me or her father in a world where most women are expected to. She can stand in front of all these people and look like the blushing bride while whispering her plans for my death as sweetly as any other woman would express their affection for their new husband.
I’m obviously fucked in the head because I like it more than any reasonably sane man should.
Alessia and I have talked to nearly every guest at the reception that’s being held in one of the premier hotels in Boston. I have to hand it to her mother, she puts together a nice wedding on short notice. The champagne silk draped across the ceiling gives the room an ethereal feel, along with the low lighting and tall centerpieces of white flowers at every table. It looks elegant and sweet, two things that scream Lilliana, which clues me in that Alessia probably had very little to do with the planning. My new wife is elegant, certainly, sweet, though? That would never be a word I’d use to describe my bride.
Alessia works the room as though she’s been training for this her whole life. I admire her for the pleasant smile she’s kept on her face the entire evening. She’s a great little actress. I’m going to have to remember that.
It’s important this marriage looks believable and unbreakable to the outside world. Several of Mario’s associates are here, and we need to appear as a strong, unified front for anyone thinking they’ll be challenging us in the days to come. The way I see it, the other Italian families are our biggest threat for the takeover of the ports in the coming weeks. If everyone thinks Alessia and I have a strong relationship, and by extension, her father and I have one as well, they’ll be less inclined to challenge us. Family ties play an important part in this business, and now, two strong organizations are connected through marriage, fake as it may be.
After dinner, I spot my brother talking to Gemma at the temporary bar set up against a fabric-draped wall and an idea strikes. I head over to the round table filled with Alessia’s cousins, whom she introduced me to earlier in the evening.
“Hello, ladies.” They all turn their attention to me. “I don’t suppose any of you can relate to having an annoying little brother or sister?”
The girls exchange cautious looks with each other, and I continue. “My brother over there needs to be put in his place, and I need some help doing it. Any takers?”
While the rest of the women glance at each other in confusion mixed with apprehension, one of the women leans forward. “What do you need?”
A smile stretches across my face, and I tell her my plan.
“Having fun, brother?” I ask, walking up to Eoghan and Gemma as they stand in front of the bar. I order myself a drink and take in the way the two of them are standing much too close to one another.
“There’s the happy groom,” he exclaims, shooting Gemma a wink.
“I was just telling your brother how it’s amazing what Lilliana can do with one week and limitless spending,” Gemma says, waving her hand around the ballroom.
“It’s a talent, that’s for sure,” I reply. For a wedding based on a business deal and nothing else, Lilliana went all out. It makes me wonder who she had to pay off to score us this ballroom.
When Alessia’s cousin walks up to my brother, I have to turn toward the bar so he doesn’t see the smirk on my face.
“Hey, baby. I’m all set to go up to your room,” Carla says, wrapping her arm around my brother’s arm. “I told my dad I was staying at a friend’s house. I’ll just need a ride home in the morning because I have to babysit my little brother.”
Through the mirror, I see the girl look at my brother with wide doe eyes while he looks like a deer caught in headlights.
“Umm, I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, clearly uncomfortable, his gaze darting between Carla and Gemma.
“What do you mean? You told me ten minutes ago you had a suite here and asked if I wanted to come up and check it out.”
Carla blinks rapidly, like she’s trying to hold back tears, and I nearly lose it. It’s everything I can do to swallow the whiskey I just sipped and not spit it all over the bartender.
““I’m going to go. You”—Gemma shoots my brother a disgusted look—“seem to have your hands full.”
Gemma tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder and stomps off in the direction of her table.
When Carla unwraps herself from my brother’s arm, she taps me on the shoulder, holding out her hand. “You owe me.”
I pull the money clip from my pocket and slide out a crisp hundred, handing it to her with a shit-eating grin directed toward Eoghan.
“You fucking asshole,” Eoghan growls as the girl walks back over to her table, waving the hundred.
“Told you I’d get you back,” I say, handing him a fresh drink. “Stay away from Gemma. She’s Alessia’s best friend, and I don’t need the headache.”
“Ugh. You know I’m a sucker for a leggy blonde.”
“I don’t give a shit. The last thing I need is to smooth shit over when you inevitably fuck her and dump her.”
“Marriage has made you boring.”
“It’s been four hours,” I reply in a dry-as-hell tone.
“Oh, that’s right. You’ve always been a boring asshole.” Eoghan looks around the ballroom. “Speaking of marriage, your wife is over there looking rather uncomfortable for someone who’s supposed to be a happy bride.”
I find where his eyes have traveled to, and what I see causes my blood to boil.