Chapter 31
EVERLEIGH
I’ve been staring at the same page in my book for almost ten minutes now without actually reading a single fucking word on it.
Something’s been wrong ever since Dante left earlier.
Dante steps inside looking exhausted, dressed in his usual black leather jacket and dark jeans.
The expression on his face immediately tightens something inside my chest.
I slowly set the book down onto the table. “What happened?”
For a second, he just looks at me.
Like he’s trying to figure out how to say whatever this is without detonating the entire room around us.
I stand up from the sectional and walk towards where he stands in the foyer. “Dante.”
He shuts the door behind him before finally looking up at me. “There’s a problem with Marco.”
Ice floods through my chest instantly. “What kind of problem?”
Dante drags a hand through his hair slowly before answering. “Somebody called the precinct accusing Marco of..”
Silence crashes through the room so violently it almost feels physical.
“Of what?’”
He releases a breath. “Of murder and rape.”
For a second, I genuinely think I heard him wrong.
Marco, rape and murder all in the same sentence.
No. He wouldn’t.
Anger slams into me hard enough to make my pulse roar in my ears.
“What?” I snap sharply.
Dante steps closer carefully, like he already knows I’m seconds away from losing my shit. “Leigh-”
“No.” I shake my head immediately while backing away from him. “Marco’s a fucking mess, okay? But he wouldn’t do that.”
I drag both hands through my hair before gripping the sides of my head tightly. “Who the fuck accused him?”
Dante hesitates.
“Who,” I repeat colder this time.
“Some guy named Finnic Lawson.”
I stare at him for a second before turning away completely, dragging both hands through my hair while I pace toward the windows overlooking the city.
“Oh my God.”
Lightning briefly flashes across Manhattan outside while my thoughts start moving too fast to fully keep up with.
“No,” I mutter more to myself than him. “Marco didn’t kill anybody.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know,” I snap immediately while turning back toward him. “I know.”
Dante’s footsteps echo behind me a second later before his hands suddenly grip my arms, turning me around to face him.
“The Sidorovs fed Finnic the information,” he says carefully after a moment. “They told him Marco followed her home the night she disappeared.”
I let out a humorless laugh under my breath while crossing my arms tightly over my chest. “They’re trying to fracture us,” I say quietly while piecing it together out loud. “Internally. Publicly. Every fucking way they can.”
I start pacing again immediately afterward, anger building hotter with every second.
“They picked Marco because he’s believable,” I continue bitterly.
I stop near the couch again before looking directly at Dante.
“I want to talk to Finnic myself.”
His expression hardens instantly. “No.”
I stare at him flatly. “Excuse me?”
“He thinks Marco killed somebody he loved,” Dante says carefully. “You confronting him right now is a terrible idea.”
“I don’t care.”
“And I do,” he says, his voice rough enough that the words seem to scrape their way out of him.
But my anger’s moving too fast now for softness to survive inside it.
I grab my coat off the back of the chair nearby while shaking my head sharply. “If the Sidorovs manipulated him into this, then I need to know exactly what they told him.”
“You’re too emotionally involved.” He mutters.
A bitter laugh leaves me immediately while I shove my arms through the sleeves of my coat. “It’s my brother, Dante. Of course I’m emotionally involved.”
I reach for my purse off the counter nearby.
Dante immediately straightens. “Where are you going?”
I look back toward him coldly. “To find Finnic.”
“You’re not going alone.”
Something about the way he says it softens me for half a second.
But Marco’s my brother.
And somebody just accused him of something monstrous while trying to tear my family apart in the process.
That softness dies quickly.
“Then grab your keys,” I mutter while heading toward the door. “Because I’m not sitting around this penthouse while the Sidorovs turn my family into their next fucking game.”
Brooklyn looks ghostlike this late at night.
Rainwater floods the streets while Dante’s black SUV drives through the city. Neon signs blur across the windows every few blocks, smearing red and blue light against the wet glass while the windshield wipers drag back and forth rhythmically.
Dante’s been on the phone almost the entire drive.
Half the calls sound official. The other half absolutely aren’t.
Every few minutes I catch bits and pieces of conversation drifting through the SUV.
Eventually, he hangs up and grips the steering wheel tighter.
“He’s at a bar on 47th avenue.”
I stare out the passenger window quietly. “Okay, get us there fast before he leaves.”
“He’s been there almost two hours. I highly doubt he’s leaving anytime soon.”
He’s grieving. It’s a normal reaction to death.
The SUV finally slows near a run-down corner bar tucked between a pawn shop and a liquor store. The neon beer sign hanging in the front window flickers violently every few seconds like it’s fighting for its life.
Dante parks across the street before killing the engine.
“I’m going in,” I say while reaching for the handle.
“No.” The answer comes instantly.
I slowly turn toward him. “Are you fucking serious?”
“You’re far too emotional right now.”
A bitter laugh leaves me immediately. “My brother’s being accused of atrocious things that can put him in prison for life, Dante. Yeah, I’m emotional.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want you going in there.” He grumbles.
I stare at him for a second before shoving the door open anyway.
Cold rain immediately crashes against my skin while my heels hit the wet pavement outside.
Behind me, Dante curses quietly before his own door opens. “Leigh.”
I stop near the front of the SUV and turn toward him while light rainwater slides down the sleeves of my coat.
“I’m not going in there to threaten him,” I mutter. “I just want to see him first.”
Dante studies me.
He’s trying to decide whether he believes me.
I’m not sure I even trust myself. I genuinely don’t know what I’m going to do once I’m standing in front of Finnic Lawson.
Finally Dante exhales sharply through his nose. “He’s got blonde hair, barely older than you are. He works for one of the city’s construction companies so he may be in uniform still.”
I nod once and turn to walk towards the bar.
“Five minutes,” he yells out.
I wave him off.
The second I step inside, warmth and cigarette smoke hit me simultaneously.
This place smells like bad decisions.
Most of the crowd looks like normal everyday people. Construction workers, older men hunched over beer bottles and people trying to drink away pieces of themselves quietly.
My eyes immediately move across the room searching for him.
Just as Dante described, Finnic sits alone near the far end of the bar with a beer in one hand.
His sandy blonde hair’s slightly messy like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours. His eyes are bloodshot enough that I can tell he’s either been crying or trying very hard not to. One of his knuckles looks bruised too, fresh enough that I know it happened recently.
The bartender says something quietly to him, but Finnic barely reacts.
He just stares at the tv screen, watching it drone on about the crime rates climbing in our area.
I slowly move toward one of the darker booths tucked into the corner of the bar before sliding into it quietly. A waitress approaches a minute later, and I order a glass of red wine.
She doesn’t ID me. But in a bar like this, they rarely do.
As much as I hate to admit it to myself, I need the alcohol for my nerves right now.
Every few minutes, I watch Finnic takes another drink, pretending that he’s listening to whatever the reporter on the tv is spouting off.
Eventually, his eyes lift and turn, catching mine almost instantly.
I glance away automatically, taking a big drink of my wine.
A few seconds later, boots scrape against the wooden floor while he approaches the booth.
“What the fuck do you want?” he asks bluntly.
He has a rough southern accent.
I slowly look back up at him while softening my expression slightly. “Sorry.”
His brows furrow immediately.
“I didn’t mean to stare,” I continue while lifting the wine glass toward my lips. “I just thought you were cute.”
The irritation on his face falters slightly at that.
I let an awkward little smile pull at my mouth while pretending to look embarrassed.
Finnic studies me carefully for another second before finally sliding into the seat across from me anyway.
“Cute?” he repeats skeptically.
“Mm.” I tilt my head slightly. “You also have sad eyes.”
That earns the faintest snort out of him.
“You always stare at random guys in bars like this?” he asks, his words slightly slurred together from the alcohol.
“Only the emotionally damaged ones.” I tilt my wine glass towards him.
He stares at me for what feels like forever, his melancholy-blue eyes slightly glassed over beneath the dim bar lighting.
Between the alcohol on his breath and the slow way he’s reacting to everything I say, he’s definitely somewhere between tipsy and drunk.
I swirl the wine slowly inside my glass afterward while figuring out how exactly I want to play this.
Everleigh Genovese won’t work here.
He’d probably strangle me now if he knew who I was.
Suddenly Chloe pops into my head.
Her warm smile and gentle voice. The sarcasm that somehow always found a way to make it into her conversations.
I liked her immediately because she felt normal in a way nobody around me ever does.
Normal is exactly what Finnic probably needs.
I lift my eyes back toward him again.
“I’m Chloe,” I lie smoothly.