Chapter 42 Finn
Finn
"Wake up, Finn," Gianna's voice cuts through the fog in my head. I groan and roll over, ignoring it. "Finn!" she says again, louder this time, and something soft lands on my face—a shirt, maybe? I groan again, peeling it off and cracking one eye open. Big mistake.
The sunlight streaming through the window hits me square in the face, and I nearly curse. I slam my eyes shut again, head pounding like someone's playing drums behind my eyeballs. After a moment, I slowly try again, squinting into the brightness and willing the room to stop spinning.
"We're going to be late for our flight," Gianna's voice rings in my head again. She's across the room, standing in front of the open closet, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with an efficiency that makes me feel even more like a zombie.
"Finn," she calls me again. I groan and force myself upright, rubbing my temples. My head is still aching. I had too much to drink last night.
"I'm up already," I mumble, my voice still hoarse from sleep. How is she so energetic? "My head is about to explode," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"There's a hangover drink right there," Gianna says, pointing to the bedside stand.
I glance to my side. Sure enough, a little green bottle sits there.
I grab it, unscrew the cap, and toss the whole thing back in one gulp.
It's sour and sharp, but instantly soothing, at least enough to ease the dryness in my mouth and dull the ache in my skull, but I still need to drink water.
I drop the empty bottle on the bedside table, blinking at the light again, and my eyes fall on Gianna.
She's still in the red dress from last night, the one that made me forget how to breathe.
She's so focused, pulling clothes from the hangers, folding them neatly, and placing them into the suitcase.
Her hair keeps falling into her face, and she tucks it behind her ear with a frown, one that somehow looks adorable even in her mild frustration.
I still can't believe she's my wife. Yesterday wasn't just a dream, and waking up beside her, hungover or not, is a reality I don't think I'll ever get used to.
I rub my hand down my face, trying to gather myself.
My memories of how we got back here are hazy at best. After we left the rooftop, everything became a blur.
And somehow, we ended up home. I don't remember how we did.
I do remember waking up a few times at night. We were in our bed, and Gianna was still in my arms, curled against me like she belonged there. Hair sprawled against the pillow, breathing soft and steady, looking like an angel.
"You know our flight is at 4:00 P.M., right? It's still morning," I point out, rubbing the side of my face, wondering why she's in such a hurry. She whips her head towards me, one brow raised, like she can't believe what I'm saying.
"Finn, it's 2:00 o'clock in the afternoon."
That sobers me.
I scramble for my phone on the bedside stand. She's right. "Shit!" I curse, throwing the blanket off and nearly tripping out of bed.
"We slept through the day," Gianna says, and I begin to take off my clothes. I start yanking off my shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons. They seem to be working against me now, and I growl in frustration before just pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. I rush into the bathroom.
The second the cold shower hits my skin, I exhale hard.
The pounding in my head begins to ease. My thoughts clear.
I waste no time in the shower before stepping out with a towel around my waist and another in my hand, drying my hair.
As I step into the room, Gianna rushes past me.
"Pack your things," she calls over her shoulder, disappearing into the bathroom.
I chuckle, dropping the towel on a nearby chair in the room.
I pick up a suitcase and zip it open, my focus turning to the closet.
As I open it, the colors of my clothes hit me.
Not too long ago, my wardrobe was a black-and-gray factory line.
Then Gianna came along and decided that needed to change.
She said I needed color to match the life we were building. Maybe she's right.
I pull out my shirt and trousers, tugging them from the hangers and folding them neatly into the suitcase.
Gianna and I are leaving New York for a short trip, and I don't want to spend more time here, especially after what I told Gianna yesterday.
By the time I finish packing and changing into an outfit, Gianna is out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Her skin is glistening, her hair damp and wild. She moves to the vanity mirror and starts drying her hair.
"What do you think our first activity should be when we get to Italy?" she asks over the hum of the hair dryer.
"I'm not sure, but I think I'll be too jet-lagged for any activities," I say, and she pouts through the mirror, nodding her head. I know we're late, and I shouldn't, but I can't keep my eyes off her. I walk up behind her, slowly and gently take the hair dryer from her hand.
She looks at me through the mirror, her brow raising in curiosity.
But she lets go. I switch the dryer to a lower setting, running my hand slowly through her hair as I work.
The strands slide through my fingers like silk.
Every time my knuckles graze the curve of her neck or the side of her shoulder, I feel her tense slightly, then exhale, like she's trying to hide the way she responds to me.
She's failing, and I love that. A small smile tugs at my lips, and she catches it.
"What's funny?" she asks, her gaze narrowing at me.
"Nothing," I reply, trying to suppress my laughter.
She grabs the dryer from me. "I can dry my hair myself. We're already late and you're too slow," she says, and my smile deepens knowing she's pissed.
Finally, I grab Gianna's suitcase and mine, heading out the door. Gianna follows behind me, and when we step outside, I look around for my car. It's gone. "Where's the car?" I ask, turning to Gianna.
"At the abandoned building," she answers, closing the door behind us. "A taxi brought us home last night. We were too drunk to drive." That explains how we got home last night. My eyes widen. "How do we get to the airport?" I glance down at my watch. We're one hour away from 4:00 o'clock.
"Don't worry," Gianna says with no worry. "We have a ride, and they should get here... now."
A Range Rover SV LWB rolls into the compound, its shiny frame humming as it slows and stops right in front of us.
The body glints beneath the afternoon sun.
I glance at Gianna, brow raised. She shrugs, her lips breaking into a smile.
"They wanted to escort us to the airport," she says, and before I can ask who, the tinted window slides down with a smooth mechanical hiss.
It's Marco and Dante, Vito's trusted men. "Get in," Dante says coolly from the passenger seat. His face is unreadable, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses that reflect our image back to us. Gianna doesn't hesitate. She opens the back door and slides in without a word.
I bring our suitcases to the back, lift them in, and slam the hatch shut before sliding into the seat beside Gianna and pulling the door closed with a soft thud.
"Where's Vito?" Gianna asks, adjusting into the leather seat.
"He's waiting at the airport," Marco replies from the driver's seat, his voice calm. He starts the car and pulls out, the tires crunching softly over gravel. I take a deep breath and lean into the seat, relieved I don't have to drive.
The drive is quiet and silent, the best kind of ride.
But Gianna breaks the silence a few times, asking about Sofia and Elena.
Her voice softens as she talks about them, warmth threading through her words.
I catch her smiling a little as Marco answers with short updates.
From the way her face lights up when she speaks of these women, I know they mean a lot to her.
The rest of the drive slips by, smooth and uneventful, the city blurring past in motion. We pull into the private wing of the airport in just under thirty minutes. Gianna and I step out of the car just as another vehicle comes to a stop nearby. The door opens, and Vito steps out of his car.
I grab our suitcases from the trunk just as Vito begins to walk towards us. His steps are slow, deliberate, and controlled—typical. Gianna stands tall. The girl who used to cower at the sound or sight of her brother is no longer here, and pride fills my heart.
That's my girl.
"You didn't have to see us off," Gianna says to Vito, voice neutral but laced with something warmer. Despite her tone, it's obvious she's happy he's here.
Vito gazes at her with that unreadable face. "Rina insisted," he says plainly. "She would have come herself, but she's not feeling well. She told me not to let you leave without saying goodbye."
Typical Vito. His words are always blunt and cold, but if there's one thing I've learned, it's that with Vito, emotions don't live in his tone. They hide in his actions. And we both know Rina didn't have to push him very hard.
Gianna stares at him a beat longer than necessary, and I know she understands the gesture.
"My husband and I need to leave now," Gianna says, tugging my hand into hers like she's claiming territory.
I bite back a smirk. There's a glint in her eye, a challenge, and I know she's doing it to mess with him.
Vito glances at me like he's just realizing I'm standing here.
His eyes linger, sharp and unreadable, as if trying to decide whether to issue a warning or a blessing.
Honestly, it feels like a bit of both. I choose to believe it's a blessing.
"You both have a safe journey. Call me when you arrive," he says, and just like that, he turns on his heel without waiting for a response.
The door to his car opens and shuts with a smooth finality, and just like that, he's gone, vanishing behind tinted glass and the armor of distance he always wears so well.
I'd always thought he didn't care about Gianna. A bad brother with only power and revenge driving him. But when I spoke to him that night about Gianna being in trouble, he sounded concerned, and he actually showed up at the Greenhouse.
I guess that was when my perception of him started to change, even though I still don't fully like him.
Gianna shakes her head beside me, lips twitching like she's not sure whether to laugh or roll her eyes. "Classic," she murmurs.
We start walking towards the entrance of the private terminal, hand in hand, when something—or rather someone—catches my eye. I stop in my tracks, Gianna gently tugging to a halt beside me. She follows my line of sight. "Liam?" Gianna asks, surprise laced in her voice.
There he is.
Sitting behind the wheel of a matte black car parked just beyond the terminal fence, half-shadowed by the tinted windshield. His elbow rests casually on the open window, and a smirk dances across his lips like he knows exactly what he's doing.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he raises his hand and gives us a small wave.
Like a silent nod of approval. Before either of us can respond, he's rolling his car window up, the glass swallowing his expression, and the car glides away smoothly into the distance.
I watch the taillights disappear and exhale softly.
I guess the whole family decided to see us off, or maybe they're here to change our minds. Either way, it's too late for that. Gianna and I are leaving New York. And for the first time in a long time, we're not running from something—we're running toward something.
Together.