14. Finn
Finn
Wish List
Her name spirals in my head.
Saoirse.
When I say it out loud, it sounds like the lapping of waves on a faraway shore.
And I want to fuck her on that sunny beach, under the palm trees, feeling the warm sand grinding under her arse as she splits for me.
She’s too old-country for the Five Boroughs. It’s more likely I’d hear the sound her name makes rippling over the lush green banks of the River Slaney as it flows into the Irish Sea.
Connor’s gone heavenward. Eamon’s dead. A couple of old codgers who surrendered instead of facing down the enemy.
They lost because they used a lie to get me gone.
As if I would be a fecking eejit and leave a gun with my fingerprints on it next to the murdered corpse of Seamus Byrne, Patrick’s brother, but more importantly, Saoirse’s uncle.
I was a seasoned pro at twenty-one. Now, at twenty-seven, I’m Death made flesh.
Which reminds me. I’ve still got to find out who killed Seamus and set me up for the frame. It’ll be the same lad who offed Connor.
Declan’s in-house assassin.
His name will go somewhere in the middle of my wish list—those dear souls who will wish for death by the time I’m finished with them.
My list’s already fucking long, but there’s always room for more.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about how things went down. It made no sense for Connor to banish me for such a minor transgression as offing one of his rival’s family members.
There had to be a big payoff to give them a reason. What made Connor and Eamon agree to send me away?
I hold too many secrets. Sure. But that wasn’t it.
I was raised to be a lone wolf. The ultimate predator. A boy who gets all the satisfaction he’ll ever need from slipping into the enemy’s lair and leaving a crime scene behind.
Until that one fateful night I was leaving the scene of a crime and cut across the chapel. There she was, on her knees with her long black hair ready to tangle itself into my chest in place of a heart.
That’s why they bid me gone—a hard man can’t allow himself a weakness. They thought Saoirse was my weak link.
Funny how fucking with the enemy is fine, but fucking the enemy is forbidden. Connor O’Shea got rid of his most lethal warrior because he thought I’d spout family secrets to Saoirse.
My trainer, Mickey, told me about this book called “The Prince” written by some evil fucker called Machiavelli.
He said a ruler should study threats carefully and never act out of irrational fear.
Those words of wisdom work in the octagon during a cage fight, and they work in the real world too.
Connor acted out of fear; kicked me out before I could spill any secrets. It’s too late for me to tell him that waffling about Five Borough politics was the last thing Saoirse and I would talk about when we were together.
Saoirse. Hair black as midnight. Pale skin etched with blue veins. Lashes hiding no secrets in her beguiling Irish eyes.
She wouldn’t dare withhold anything from me, and that’s what I like the most about her. When I see something I want, I take it.
She made an animal out of me, did Saoirse bleeding Byrne. One of those animals that mates for life.
Wanting her back isn’t a crime of passion, it’s a necessity. I saw her first. I fucked her first.
And that makes her mine.
The O’Shea line isn’t extinct, it’s hiding. And I’ll reveal myself when I’m good and ready.
Mickey buzzes to be let in. I can see on the wide angle lens on my surveillance system that he’s alone.
It’s grand how a couple of video cameras and motion detectors make me invisible and invincible. My enemies have no idea I’m here yet. They’re not in the dark, but they are blindfolded.
I’m the one who lurks in the darkness waiting to pounce.
I buzz Mickey in and jog upstairs to meet him. He’s the best trainer on the East Coast. He knows how a tall, muscular man should move during a fight, how we should pace ourselves until our opponent taps out.
Fighters with medium height and solid muscles dominated the fighting circuit for decades until Mickey took them all down. Like me, he’s built like a machine and knows how to use those extra inches and pounds to his advantage.
He might be heading for sixty like a bullet, but he’s sound.
Under his guidance, I’ve bulked out and got ripped. Moving from wrestling to boxing to martial arts, he whipped me into shape one muscle at a time.
He never lets me forget our motto. Never fight a naked man carelessly, because he might have a weapon hidden in his arsehole. In other words, shoot first and fight second outside the octagon.
I added to it. Shoot the shitehawk and don’t stop pulling the trigger until he’s quit moving.
Because for me, fighting has—and always will be—about betting.
Jaysus H. Christ, if I could kill Eamon all over again, I would. He let the betting side of O’Shea business slide. Not only that, he started fucking with the books.
Forgetting the numbers and the odds. Not having enough cash on hand to pay the winners.
And the biggest crime of all. Not factoring in the economy before pulling the odds out of his fat arse.
Loaning money to a man so he can place a bet is the same as stealing food off his family’s table. If there’s no food to put on the table, the wives get angry. And when the wives nag the men to quit, sooner or later they will.
The betting books were a constant source of income for our family. The lads didn’t mind losing a flutter, because they knew the money would go back to funding the unions and paying for widows and orphans.
Thanks to Eamon, they lost faith in our system. A man’s not going to toe the line when he’s got nothing to lose.
“You look like you’re in the mood to throw a few hard punches.” Mickey isn’t a mind reader. He knows my factory settings point to violence.
“Ah, Mickey, did you expect to find me all over the shop because Eamon and Connor drank their last cup of tea?”
He gets busy wrapping and taping my hands. “I taught you to keep your head in the game at all times, Finn. No room for emotion in a fight. That’s what makes it different from an argument.”
“See you on the other side?” That’s what we call it when training is finished. I’ve got to face three hours of running laps around the warehouse, punching the bag, skipping rope, and sparring with Mickey before I can call it quits.
“Hooah!” Mickey’s a vet and proud of it.
I start running. No emotion in my heart, but there’s a fucking truckload of memories running through my head.
Saoirse.
My beautiful, raven-haired storí.
***
Mickey calls it three hours later. “Hit the shower.”
He shouts after me. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
So do I. And I sure didn’t renovate the warehouse myself. “Mickey, come down to the apartment. I want to discuss something with you.”
What is now an apartment used to be a storage space. I’m in the shower when I hear Mickey flick on the stove and put on the kettle.
I shout over the blast of water coming out of the showerhead.
“The old guard is still here, Mickey. They’re working construction and manufacturing—hard jobs, but steady pay. They helped me rebuild the warehouse.”
Mickey shouts back. “Is this the place where Connor used you to put the frighteners on debtors?”
“Yeah. It’s the perfect spot to start up another underground fight circuit. It’s time for the O’Shea loyalists to gather. And this is where they’ll be doing it.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Stepping closer, I swipe away the steam.
I’m not yet in the prime of my life, but I’m close to it.
My sleeves go all the way up my shoulders and creep over my chest and back. All custom designs, all unregistered.
They’re not art; they’re warning signs.
Every muscle pops and ripples when I use the towel to dry my hair. I’ve never needed tren or roids to bulk me up. My body is a gift from hell.
All I do to keep it in shape is train, using my hate as fuel.
The pretty boy has been smashed out of me. Broad, jet-black brows that always seem to scowl despite my semi-permanent grin. The square forehead is furrowed, scarred from giving too many head butts, and shows my youthful hair line.
I’ve got my fair share of Irish pride shining out of my dark gray eyes. The high bridge of my nose has flattened a bit and healed slightly crooked after being broken, but not enough for me to struggle to breathe through it.
None of these features are what the ladies look at when they come to watch me battle it out in the octagon. They aim their gaze a fair bit lower.
My cock. Thick, cut, and seven and a half inches before the blood starts flowing.
I guess that’s why they call me a legend.
I hide my lower half with a towel and head to the walk-in closet to carry on my shouted conversation with Mickey.
“This is going to be a family establishment. I want the wives to encourage their men to come back into the fold. We’re a safety net, not a curse.”
I shake my head when Mickey offers me tea while pulling on a white tee to match my faded jeans.
“Cheers, but no thanks. I’ve got two bottles of water sloshing in my guts. You’re Boston-based, but Brooklyn-born. I want you to start reaching out to the soldiers, union men, and workers.”
Mickey cocks a brow. “Work on them using my powers of persuasion?”
We have to laugh at that. Mickey isn’t talkative on his best days.
“Use your stability to get at them. You’re married, and even though your kids and grandkids are up in Boston, your heart is still here because Shirley came with you to Brooklyn.”
If Mickey uses that narrative, it will definitely appeal to the wives. They’ve been shut out of decision-making for too long.
“Remind me again why they should start paying the union?” Mickey slurps his tea before stirring in a teaspoon more sugar.
“Just because we run our organization like a business, doesn’t mean we’re a soulless corporation. We’re going to need souls to sell after all.”
Mickey chuffs and shakes his head. “What are you like, Finn? You’ve got no shame. It’s a medical miracle you are, lad, because you have no heart.”
I think about my wish list again and can only agree. I can’t wait to start striking the names of my enemies off it. I’m a fucking precision instrument when it comes to killing.
“Those loyal to the O’Sheas must flock to the banner. If they want a good enough reason to do it, Mickey, just tell them that being on the winning side is reason enough.”
Brooklyn, I’m back.
I’m not a sentimental fella. It’s not who I choose to live for, but who I choose to die for that matters.
And I’d kill for the chance to be with Saoirse Byrne again.