Chapter 35 Finn
FINN
Malachy really is a pathetic mess. He’s practically twitching when I shove a file across the table and he snatches it up greedily.
“That’s the best we could find on short notice.” I lean back and glance up at the light. Smoke swirls around the small room. We’re in the basement of a club my family owns. Malachy’s chain-smoking cigarettes like his life depends on it as he scans the pages, flipping through them with angry grunts.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Financial documents mostly. Dermot’s smart but transactions don’t change, no matter how deep you bury them. If you wanted better, you should’ve given me more than a few days.”
Mal sits back and stares. He looks drained. The poor bastard’s probably been losing his mind this whole time. I should’ve let him stew longer, but Caroline’s getting impatient.
She wants this over with, and I can’t blame her.
“Just explain this shit.” He tosses the pages down. “Plain English.”
“Guns. Lots of guns.”
Mal flinches. “Seriously? Dermot?”
“Stockpiles of guns from arms dealers across Russia and the former Soviet bloc. Good weapons too. Old stuff, hard to trace, but solid.”
“He’s got security. Why does he need guns? Dermot hates guns.”
“Private security is licensed. They’re tracked and watched. That hit he sent them on? That shit probably cost a fortune. But if he hired real shooters, serious killers, they’d need weapons that couldn’t be traced.”
“Guns.” Mal’s shoulders slump. “God, he’s really doing it. I had hoped… but no…”
I don’t say anything. It takes some serious self-control not to rub this in his face. And maybe I should. Maybe it’s suspicious that I’m not enjoying this more. Mal knows I hate him. The man isn’t stupid. He knows what he and his brothers did to me all those years ago.
But he’s so desperate he can’t see past his own impending murder.
Which really is hilarious. He’s totally right about dying soon. It’s just that the bullet isn’t coming from where he thinks it is.
“What the hell are we going to do?” Mal sounds old and tired. But he quickly starts flipping through the pages—all of them fake, cooked up by Liam with help from Seamus—before finally coming back to life. “We need to kill him. Right fucking now.”
“I’m not sure that’s reasonable.”
“You’re Whelan. You have muscle. Get your crew here. Call up a dozen men, good ones, and we’ll storm Dermot’s apartment. I don’t care how many guards he hires or how good his algorithms are. We’ll kill that motherfucker.” He crumples the pages and throws them on the floor with a snarl.
I smirk at him. Good boy. Now roll over.
“You really want Whelan muscle?”
“Fuck, yes, I do. Come on, Finn, don’t act like you can’t get it. We’ll do it off the books. I’ll pay for the whole operation if that’s what you need. But you have the guns and the men to pull the triggers. That’s all I need.”
I pretend to consider it. He smokes furiously, puffing away like a chimney. Poor, pathetic, weak fucking Malachy.
This is the problem with bullies. When they’re on top, they feel invincible. Nothing can touch them.
But once they realize how small they really are?
They fall apart like paper soaked in water.
I get to my feet. “No.”
He flinches away. “What? What do you mean no?”
“We’re not doing that.”
“What the fuck, Finn?! You said you’d help me.”
“You’re right, which is why we’re doing it my way. I don’t rush into operations without a plan. I’ll gather intelligence, handpick some fighters—”
“Fuck that!” Mal stabs the cigarette at me. “By the time you get off your ass, I’ll be dead. We do it now.”
I stare at him, all good humor fading away. I take a step in his direction and he cringes back.
“Understand something, Mal. I’m not the kid I used to be.
You don’t order me around. You don’t command me to do shit.
You are nothing compared to me. You never were.
That’s why you hated me so much back then, isn’t it?
You were jealous because I was a Whelan and you were a Flanagan.
You were never going to be on my level.”
His eyelid twitches. “We were kids.”
“You were a rotten, vindictive prick. I have half a mind to let Dermot murder you here and now.” I let him stew in that before I give him my best smile. “But you’re useful so I’ll keep you alive. Just remember, I fucking own you, Malachy. I always have.”
He gapes at me, face drained of color, and he doesn’t say a word. Even if his pride is broken, he’s too pathetic to stand up for himself and risk losing my help.
That’s how I know he’s still the rat he’s always been.
I leave him in the basement.
I’m feeling pretty good. Malachy’s losing his mind.
He’s suffering like Shane and Redmond never did.
Dermot’s probably the same. It wasn’t just the physical abuse they put me through that really fucked me up, but all the mind games they played too.
They were constantly acting like I was weak and soft, and if I just toughed it out and acted like a man, all the beatings, the scars, the broken bones, they’d somehow fade away into the background.
What do the kids call it these days?
Those fuckers were gaslighting me.
Now I’m doing something similar to them, or at least I’m letting them torture themselves. Whatever’s going on in Malachy’s head, it’s brutal and twisting him out of shape, and I hope it only gets worse before they tear each other apart.
I come home in a remarkably good mood only to stop short on the threshold.
Something smells… really fucking good.
I take a second to acclimate. My place is usually sterile. I didn’t buy this apartment because it felt like a home. I moved in here because it had good views, was reasonably defensible, and it was available at the time I needed a place.
The cooking smells are incredible. I can’t put my finger on what exactly it is—something tomatoey, like a sauce, and doughy too, like fresh bread.
I drift toward it and the sound of soft music hits me in the face.
I almost laugh at the idea of how calm… and simple…
and domestic this is. I come home to cooking dinner.
And there she is, standing near the oven, a big frown on her face as she peers through the glass.
I stare at her, heart racing suddenly. She’s stained with splotches of flour on the cuffs of her shirt and on the thigh of her jeans.
Her hair’s up but starting to come undone.
I’m dimly aware of pots and pans on the stove and a few of those enormous pizza things with the wide, flat ends stacked haphazardly beside jars, shredded cheese, and more flour.
“What’s going on?” I ask softly.
Caroline looks over at me wildly. “You’re home early! I thought I had more time!”
“Are you baking?”
“Sort of. Cooking too.” Her face brightens, and I swear, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. “I’m making a pizza!”
I laugh. I can’t help myself. Pizza, in my kitchen? Homemade fucking pizza? I’ve survived on takeout and microwave meals for years and years, and now here’s this gorgeous woman, my own damn wife, listening to jazz and making pizza.
She frowns and glances at the oven. “Do you like pizza? I guess I should’ve asked, but I mean, I just assume everyone loves it.
Oh, shit, if you’re not into it, I just wasted hours making the dough, days letting it ferment in the refrigerator, and now more hours making the vodka sauce and getting it all stretched and—”
I stride over to her, pull her into my arms, and kiss her. I kiss her hard so she knows what I’m feeling right now. I hold that kiss because if I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll lose my mind. I need her, I’m pulsing for her, and I feel like I might crumble to ash if I don’t hold on tighter.
But she eventually pulls back, grinning madly, her eyes bright with happiness. “So… you like pizza then?”
“I’m a fan.”
“You got a little—” She brushes at my cheek. “A little flour.”
“You too.” It’s all over her hair and streaking her face. “What happened in here?”
“Pure madness. But look at it.” I follow her gaze.
There in the oven is a pizza. A real, honest-to-god pizza, the crust fluffing up, the cheese bubbling, everything.
“I got this steel thing that cooks the bottom and I followed this dough recipe I found on Instagram, and I think it’s gonna be really good! ”
“Caroline.”
“Look, if you hate it, that’s fine. You probably consume like ten calories of cheese and dough in a calendar year based on the way you look, but come on, it’s a cheat day, right?”
“Caroline.” I kiss her again, lightly biting her lower lip. “No matter what happens, I swear on my life, I’m never going to leave you again.”
She blinks in surprise. She’s breathing quickly and her grip on me tightens. “All because I cooked? It’s probably not even that good.”
“This place would be empty without you in it.”
“Even my mess?”
“Even your mess. Especially your stupid mess.”
She laughs and pulls away. “Hold that thought. I think it’s done.” She retrieves one of the big pizza spatulas. “What do you think of my pizza shovel?”
“Pretty sure nobody calls it a shovel.”
“The real word is dumb. Peel.” Her nose wrinkles. “I prefer pizza shovel.”
With surprising deftness, she opens the oven and retrieves the pie. It sits on a wire rack cooling as she claps her hands happily and checks to make sure the base is done to her satisfaction.
“This is going to be amazing.” She does a little dance, wiggling her hips and shoving her hands up in the air. “Pizza time, baby!”
I watch her, completely fucking bemused. All the bad shit I’ve done. All the horrible shit we’ve done together. And I end up here, with her, like this, in a bizarre moment of domesticity.
I love it more than I ever thought I could.
“Slice me up, wife.” I sit down on a stool and lean forward. “I want to taste you.”
“Ignoring the subtext and serving the za.”
I catch her wrist as she places it down in front of me. “Thank you.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Gonna say something weirdly nice and way too intense for the moment again?”
“I plan on fucking you brainless after I’ve eaten my fill.”
“Oh.” She blushes slightly. “Well. That’s inappropriate. You better say a bunch of nice things if you want to get in my pants this evening.”
I tighten my hold before letting her go.
It’s pizza. Just fucking pizza. So why’s it make me feel like my life’s coming to a conclusion?
I take a bite.
Well, fuck me sideways.