“Yes,” Maggie muses. “Yes, you’re right about that. Over the years I could see Pops softening towards you. Start to change his mind. Start toforget. You have a penis, after all, and I don’t. Pops is nothing if not a traditionalist.”
I’m not going down that road. Besides, I’m still trying to get things straight in my mind. “Did he really blame me so much? Mom’s death—”
“You’re not listening to me. Pops didn’t hate you because of Mom’s death. He hated you long before that. Hence the hit he ordered on you.”
“Butwhy—”
We’re interrupted by gunfire and shouts outside the door.
Maggie starts, looking towards the door, and then her head whips around and she glares at me. She raises the gun. “You little—” she starts, but before the words come out, there’s an enormous thump, and the door shakes and shudders in its frame.
“Finch!” a voice shouts, and my whole body turns to jello, my limbs drooping in relief even as my heart leaps in my chest.
“Luca,” I try to shout, but my voice isn’t strong enough.
There’s another jolt of the door, and a splintering sound. Maggie reacts immediately, running around behind me to grab my hair, keeping my head still, so she can press the barrel of her gun to my temple.
And with one last smashing kick, the door bursts open.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
LUCA
I’ve killed a lot of people in my time, but I’ve never actually hated them while I was doing it. I’ve always kept my cool in a fight, and even when my adrenaline spikes, my hands have stayed steady and my mind clear. It’s been that way today, too, plowing through a handful of Fuscone men with my brother, right up until Frank kicked open the warehouse door and I saw Finch sitting there with a gun to his head.
I’ve never known the kind of red frenzy that’s coming over me now, like I could stretch out my hand and make this whole warehouse blow away just from the force of my will. My first instinct is to rush forward, gun popping, but the icy glare of the woman standing behind me gives me pause.
“If you come any closer, he dies.”
Finch’s head is pulled back, his throat bobbing as he swallows, his eyes trying to find me.
“If you kill him—” I begin, and my voice is shaking with rage.
“I won’t kill him if you don’t make me.”
I take a deep breath and force myself to think.
First of all, I know this woman. Finch’s sister. The eldest—Maggie. The one who gave him the phone. “Did your father send you?”
Her hand tightens in Finch’s hair and he yelps. “I am not my father’s servant,” she hisses.
Finch clears his throat. “Maggie’s a queen in her own right,” he says hoarsely, but somehow still snarkily, and I could die of love for him right now.
Frank, thank God, is keeping quiet, watchful. Waiting for orders.
“What do you want?” I ask.
She considers. “I think, for now, I simply want my life. I’ll walk away from this—if you will.”
I want to shoot her. I have her in my sights, my hand is as steady as ever despite the red veil over my eyes. One shot, right between the eyes. I could squeeze softly here and watch her drop over there.
But could I do it in time? Her hand looks unsteady enough on the gun even from this distance. And I don’t want to chance a death spasm of her hand, those trembling fingers clamping as she dies.
“Put your gun down,” I tell her.
But she must see plain as day in my face what I mean to do. Or she’s just not stupid. She gives a grim smile and shakes her head. “Putyourgun down.”
“Maybeeveryoneshould just put their guns down,” Finch suggests.
