42. Finn
Finn
Trust Issues
Fucking Saoirse is the closest we get to equality. I want her as much as she wants me.
The memory of her using my butt to masturbate is a game-changer. She took charge in the only place where I’ll allow it—the bedroom.
But ultimately, she spreads her legs and lets me fuck her. And it’s not just so she can come. It’s her signal that she accepts me as her master.
I give her wild black hair a sharp tug and watch her experience the pain. Pain of feeling me deep inside her. Pain of knowing she’s going to have to ride me if she wants that climax.
God, but she feels so good, I don’t want it to end. Her narrow sheath grips me like a slippy flesh vice. Her abdomen flexes and quivers, sending those vibrations around my shaft.
Her soft, womanly thighs and rounded arse cosset my balls.
She drives me sex-crazed in so many ways I don’t think she even realizes.
It’s not an orgasm for me when it comes, it’s a release. Pouring my essence into her is all about consumption and control. She consumes so I can control.
But when we’re like this, it’s hard for me not to believe I love her. I learned how to restrain myself the first time we fucked, because I was raised to feel nothing so I could become something.
Now, Saoirse milks strange sensations out of me; feelings that come so close to adoration, that her body could well become my church.
Got to disconnect before I say that L-word out loud. I can’t say it when I’m not even sure what it is yet.
And if I said it all the time, it would mean nothing.
She speaks as I head for the shower room. “I want to see Maeve—today. I checked with Mickey. You’ve got nothing on.”
I don’t answer. Flicking on the shower head I use it to rinse.
She wants to see Maeve. It’s part of the story I sold her.
Leave when you want. Go ahead and do it. You’re too irritating to keep around anyway.
Which made her want to stay.
Those small illusions of freedom I gave her. The driving lessons. The outside visits.
They were all carefully curated operations that had her under covert observation. Taking Saoirse to visit Maeve, however, would be my first calculated risk.
There’s something I still need her to do, but has Saoirse been conditioned enough to do it?
I’m not sure yet, but I can’t keep her locked up here forever.
Maeve is a deal breaker. The carrot at the end of the stick. It’s what turns me into the good guy while painting everyone else as bad.
I’m ready.
“Haven’t Maguire or Patrick told you anything about your sister?” Wrapping a towel around me, I act perplexed, like I’m curious how the two men could be so cruel.
Saoirse crosses paths with me on her way to the shower. “No. Patrick, because I know better than to set him off, and Declan, because he gets all stern and cold and starts talking about boundaries.”
She shuts the door, unwilling to answer the burning question. Not my burning question, but her own.
Should she have tried harder to find Maeve?
The short answer, mo chroí, is no.
No, you couldn’t have tried harder, because deep down you knew the result would always be the same.
Unlike the countless Irish American participants in our dark underworld, where we fight and lie and make deals in the belly of the beast, I’m not afraid to ask the hard questions.
It’s not like anyone would dare take vengeance against me.
Saoirse comes out of the shower room and stops dead when she sees I’m dressed. “Ready to leave when you are, storí, but there’s no need to rush.”
Her double-take turns into suspicion. It’s so easy to tell what Saoirse is thinking sometimes. This time, it’s her narrowed eyes that give her away.
“What do you mean ready to leave, Finn?”
That’s the thing about having a permanent scowl etched on a predator’s face. I’m read as violent and untrustworthy even by those who love me.
Raise the brow. Force the corners of my mouth to curve up. Brighten my eyes.
“To see Maeve, of course.”
Saoirse moves to the shopping bag filled with clothes. She doesn’t like the chaos in the closet.
“Remind me how you found out about my sister again?” Her hands sift through the underwear items as she pulls out random white cotton panties and sports bras.
Damn, but Shirley could’ve gotten some lace stuff, if not for Saoirse’s sake, then for mine.
“Finn?” She draws my attention back to her, mainly because she’s balancing on one long, lithe leg after the other as she puts on panties. Saoirse makes plain white cotton underwear look amazing.
No harm in telling her. “I asked Father O’Malley.”
She’s fierce pissed. “You mean, that’s all I had to do to find out where Maeve is?”
“No. That’s all I had to do.” Big difference.
Saoirse is full of questions now. “Please tell me you didn’t threaten a priest, Finn. That would damn your immortal soul.”
She’s so sweet when she’s pious. “I asked nicely, so don’t stress.”
There’s a long silence while Saoirse gauges whether she can believe me or not.
Halfway up the stairs, on our way out, she says what’s on her mind. “I’m surprised Father O’Malley entrusted you with such private information.”
Traffic is heavy, so I’m driving. “I’m surprised you’re surprised, mo chroí.”
I shut her door and walk around the hood to sit behind the wheel. “Who else would the priest have trusted? Your one? Or the man who put Maeve there—Patrick.”
That shuts her up, but not for long. “You’re just as bad as they are, Finn. Maybe worse. And don’t pretend I’m insulting you, because you flaunt what you are in everyone’s faces.”
Backing out of the parking lot, I spin the wheel a bit too fast. The tires squeal.
Saoirse jumps. She’s nervous, very on edge.
I glance sideways and catch her gnawing her nails. She’s not going to relax until I provide her with a full explanation.
“Full disclosure. Okay? I’m going to present the war from Father O’Malley’s point of view.”
Saoirse perks up. She turns in her seat so she can watch me while I talk.
We Irish love a good story. It’s in our bones.
“As a priest, the Father cares about his flock. He wants nothing more out of life than to baptize babies, give children their first communion, teach them about the stations of the cross, marry them to one another, and—well—you get the picture.”
She nods, riveted to my explanation.
I check the rear mirror before changing lanes.
“This was before your time, so I don’t expect you to get it, but there’s a reason why Connor O’Shea, Patrick Byrne, and David Maguire—your one’s Da—married so late in life.”
“I never thought about not having paternal grandparents, because my Mam’s parents were such a grim bloody example.” Saoirse has lost none of her spirit.
That gets a smile out of me.
“Yeah, and nor did I, but the reason for it was this. That generation of brothers and friends all died trying to prove who was the hardest. Brother killed brother, friends fucking annihilated one another in the mad scramble to be top dog.”
Saoirse is staring at me, fascinated.
“Connor and Eamon teamed up. That’s why they fucking dominated. Your one’s Da killed most of the males in his family, made his bones by absorbing their wealth under his own banner.”
“A… And Patrick?”
“Your uncle Seamus only survived by forfeiting his ranking in the hierarchy. He retired before he was ‘retired’ if you know what I mean. He didn’t have the stomach for it… Not many men do.”
“But Patrick said you killed Seamus.”
The traffic light is red, so I take the time to give Saoirse a scornful look. “Don’t tell me that you still believe that shite?”
She shakes her head slowly, thoughtfully.
“The long and the short of it was this—the men were over the hill when the time came for them to find wives. Most of them were so used to prostitutes by then they had no idea how to treat a good woman when they found her.”
Saoirse makes a sudden movement, like she wants to make a point, but decides not to say it out loud.
So, I say it for her. “Patrick treated your Mam rough?”
All she does is close her eyes and sigh. I get the picture.
“That’s why most of the Five Borough men went back to Ireland to find wives. Back then, only an Irish girl would understand how a man from the underworld operated.”
“Is that why my Connemara grandparents brought my Mam to Brooklyn?”
“Yeah. So Maire could marry not just a man, but a prince.”
Saoirse traces a finger over her lashes. “I have her eyes. She had the most gorgeous double row of eyelashes and I have the same genetic mutation. It’s called distichiasis.”
I take her hand, give it a squeeze. “I call it beautiful.”
We sit in silence. She’s paying attention to where we’re going, but not in an obvious way.
“That’s why Father O’Malley favors me, mo chroí. Not because I’m a saint, but because of what I represent.”
“And what’s that?”
“Jaysus, Saoirse, have you not been listening? Connor, Eamon, Seamus. Half a generation of Irish American hard men—gone. I think we can safely say that your one knows I’m still alive. If you don’t come away with me, you know what’s going to happen?”
She shakes her head and stares down at her lap.
“You’ll be held in that elegant Sunnyside mansion of yours until you’ve provided the other side with the right amount of sons. Because he wants all the next generation of steely-eyed Irish gangsters to be Maguires. Does that sound balanced to you?”
I park outside the convent and wrench the handbrake up hard.
Giving her no time to respond, I end the story.
“You’re trapped with Maguire far more than you ever were with me, Saoirse. You might be old-country by blood, but you’ll always be fighting for freedom in your heart.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but shuts it again.
“Maeve is a teacher here. I’ve spoken to the Reverend Mother and you’re expected.”
Motioning Saoirse to stay put, I walk around the hood and open the door for her. She hesitates, not sure if what I’m doing is real.
I direct her toward the gates with a jerk of my head. “Go on.”
She makes her move, walks to the entrance, but pauses when I call out.
“The Five Boroughs doesn’t need an all-powerful oligarch calling the shots, mo chroí. We don’t need an overlord telling us when to jump and how high. Father O’Malley knows this… And so do you!”
She turns, smiles, waves. Her time for hesitation is over.
Saoirse goes inside and doesn’t look back.
All I can do is watch her. A cold rivulet of sweat runs down my back.