Chapter 17
Finn
The flickering light above me buzzes like it's got something to say.
I ignore it, just like I ignore the ache growing in my head from hours of sifting through paperwork that doesn't add up.
The office stinks of old metal and damp concrete, but it's the silence that presses hard against my chest. It's late.
The warehouse is filled with men loading crates of weapons into the truck.
I've locked myself in here, drowning in ledgers and bills, anything to help me figure out how the hell to recover from the disaster the Italians left us.
Pages are spread out across the desk like a crime scene.
Seventeen crates, gone. All weapons, rifles, handguns, and explosives vanished.
Intercepted somewhere between the docks and the Boston drop.
I still have a lot to sort out with Costello Motors. I left in a hurry earlier, but this is more important than that.
I push back from the desk with a heavy sigh, the chair groaning beneath me as I rise. The air in the office feels too tight. I grab the clipboard off the table and head for the door, pulling it open with a creak.
The metal stairs outside the office groan under my shoes as I descend, the cold iron railing rough beneath my fingers.
The warehouse floor sprawls below, bathed in a dull amber glow from overhead fixtures.
Machinery hums in the background, and the scent of oil, gun metal, and sawdust clings to the air.
Two of the guys, Troy and Cole, are by the loading dock, tightening the straps around a freshly sealed crate. I walk over, shoes echoing on the concrete. "Status," I ask.
Troy looks up, sweat lining his brow. "Crates four and five are locked down. Six is still waiting for suppressors to come in. Should hit the yard in twenty."
I nod, glancing over the crate. Labels, weights, markings—everything looks in order. "Double check the seals. No mistakes this time. I want this load airtight."
I tap the clipboard, scanning the checklist again. "Route's still clear?"
"Yeah. No flags," Cole confirms.
"Good," I mutter, half to myself. The last thing we need is another fucking leak. I give the crate a final look before turning away. "Let's keep it that way."
I head back to the office to finish up with work.
Stella left several messages, but I'll have to attend to them later.
I enter the office, leaving the door open.
I already feel so stuffy. I drop into the leather chair and lean back, rubbing my temples.
The ticking of the wall clock starts to get under my skin.
I reach for the bottle of whiskey on the edge of the desk and pour myself a drink, letting the burn settle in my chest.
Gianna's face flashes across my mind before I can stop it.
I can't believe I asked her if she was the one who tipped them off.
I stare at the floor, replaying the look in her eyes, hurt and confused.
She was trying, doing everything she could to stay afloat in this twisted world.
What did I do? I let Declan's suspicions crawl into my brain like maggots.
I exhale hard, dragging my palm over my face.
Then, the kiss hits me. Her lips were soft, desperate, and real like that night at the chapel.
I could tell she wanted me. Her fingers in my hair, my hand clutching her waist like she's the only steady thing in the chaos of this life.
I've never wanted to protect someone so badly.
I flip open another binder, scanning the inventory sheet.
Ammunition is running low. The next supplier won't deliver till next week.
We'll need to reroute the Chicago drugs to cover part of the gap in cost, and Declan is not going to like that.
Still, it's better than bleeding cash and looking weak.
A knock taps against the office door, pulling my eyes away from the clutter of paperwork in front of me. I raise my head to see Ailish.
Great, just the person I need to see the least right now.
"Busy?" she asks, casually leaning on the door frame.
Her voice carries that confidence I've grown tired of.
She knows exactly what she's doing, and it grates at the edge of my patience.
I roll my eyes and drop them right back to the paperwork before me.
"What do you want, Ailish?" My tone is tired and not at all interested in another one of her passive-aggressive conversations.
She lifts off the door frame, taking deliberate steps toward me. She's wearing a jacket and pants with her hair styled in a low bun. "I came to oversee the shipment," she says, resting her hands on the vacant chair before me.
"Then, do that. You can see I'm busy," I answer with a curt voice, not bothering to look up this time. I'm still not over the way she treated Gianna at breakfast the last time.
She doesn't move. I feel her standing there, looming like a shadow I didn't ask for.
"I bet if it's your pretty Rosso maiden, you'd have time," she mutters with a biting sweetness, twisting the words like a knife straight into my gut.
My jaw tightens. The pen slips from my fingers as I close the file in front of me.
"If you have something to say, say it, Ailish. Otherwise, go do your job."
She scoffs. "Look at you, Finn," she says, walking slowly around the desk now. "When did you become like this? You're letting a girl play you and not just any girl, a Rosso."
"Leave, Ailish," I say, too tired to exchange words with her.
"Don't you see we've never been intercepted before," she says, like she's desperately trying to speak sense into me. "All of a sudden, she gets into the estate, and we get blindsided by the Italians."
I sigh, leaning back in the chair. "She didn't do it, Ailish. So, drop it."
"How are you so sure, huh? She blinks her pretty lashes, and all of a sudden, she's innocent."
"You're crossing a line," I warn, my voice low but sharp, staring daggers at her from behind my desk. One thing about Ailish, she won't back down from an argument, and that can be so frustrating. She's like a storm that refuses to pass, all wind and sharp words.
"You're going to ruin everything we've worked for, everything we've protected because of a girl?
" she bites, folding her arms, her eyes blazing with accusation.
The light overhead reflects off the silver ring on her finger as she leans forward.
The question hits me deep. Gianna didn't do it.
She wouldn't. She won't lie to me. I trust her.
"Gianna didn't do it. What happened was a disaster, but it has happened," I say, crossing my arms on the desk. "What we need now is to patch things up. Go and monitor the shipment." I point towards the door.
"You must think because she tortured the Italian, she's innocent.
But I see right through her lies," Ailish snaps.
I slam my hand on the desk, loud enough to echo through the office.
My fists curl. My jaw clenches so hard it aches.
"Ailish!" I raise my voice. "I'm tired. I've got a pile of shit to clean up.
I don't have time to babysit your paranoia. Leave."
She pauses, her chest heaving, and then her voice softens, but it cuts even deeper. "Deep down, I'm sure you know I'm right," she lowers her voice. "I have proof that she did it. I know she did it."
"God, Ailish," I mutter, dragging my hand across my face, frustrated with this nonsense. "Aren't you tired?"
"I'm just telling the truth, Finn. You know it." Her voice wavers between conviction and desperation.
I shoot her a look that could slice steel. "If you're so sure and you have proof, why don't you go straight to Declan?" I push the words through gritted teeth. "I promise you. He's going to listen. So be my guest."
Her lips part like she wants to say something more, but instead, she turns sharply on her heel.
Her boots hit the floor with a clipped rhythm as she storms out.
The door slams harder than it needs to, and I finally let my back hit the chair, exhaling a deep, frustrated sigh that echoes through the quiet room.