“I don’t want to be,” he admits sheepishly, which is fucking weird because I’ve never seen Finn wilt so easily. “I was born into that life, Colson. Same as you. Sure, I made some messed up choices along the way, but they weren’t for my own enjoyment.”
“Then walk away if you’re so bent out of shape about it. Or don’t. You’re still not hearing that I don’t fucking care.”
He shakes his head. “You say that like you weren’t at his beck and call a day ago trying to make a deal with the man.” I look at him. “Yeah, I know about that. What the fuck were you thinking, anyway? Screwing over Tommy is the last thing you need. I told you what he’d do. The kind of man he is. You better hope he doesn’t find out.”
My stomach swoops with that same feeling of wanting to fucking puke. “The only way he’d know would be if your dad told him.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You still don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Clyde doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. He wouldn’t blink before throwing you under the bus.”
“Is that what you’re saying happened?” I challenge. If anyone would know, it’d be him.
“I don’t know what he did. I don’t want in on any more shit with him than I have to be. The older he gets, the less he gives a fuck about discretion.”
If Clyde ran his mouth to Tommy after I threw that fight…
I’m fucked. Totally obliterated.
Like earlier, I sense the door opening, despite my full attention being on Finn. I’m not necessarily expecting company, but Aunt Bess and Sebastian have come and gone all throughout the day.
Violet was here once, too. The first time I woke up in this room, but I was still groggy as fuck from the surgery that I fell asleep after only being awake for a few minutes. She was gone by the time I woke up again. Understandable since I’m sure she has to keep up with her course schedule, but hell if I don’t want her at my bedside. When I close my eyes and think about it hard enough, I can sense her hand curl over mine.
I don’t get the chance to do that now, though, because three men I’ve never seen a day in my life waltz into my room like it’s nothing. They all look alike in dark pants and leather jackets, each of them rocking a buzz cut.
Finn spins, following my gaze. His shoulders immediately stiffen. It’s enough of an indicator for me to know they didn’t make a mistake and walk into the wrong room. This was intentional. Them showing up here.
“Who the fuck are you?” Finn demands, his hands now at his sides, the vulnerability in his tone long gone. He’s back to the stone-cold man Clyde Lincoln raised, puffing his chest out in a way that tells these guys how unafraid of them he is.
The last man to walk in the room dips his hand into his waistband hidden by his jacket and pulls out a 1911 pistol. With his large hand wrapped around the grip, he nudges it at Finn before one of the other men flanks his side with their own gun pressed to his temple.
“What the fuck is this?” Finn commands, insistent on wanting answers.
“You get boss’s message loud and clear,” the head man in charge says with a broken Russian accent.
My body sinks into the uncomfortable hospital mattress, my muscles rioting with enough trepidation to spike my pain yet again. The only way out of this is facing it head on, because it’s clear these guys aren’t fucking around.
“What boss?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
“Mr. Tommy. He sends us to make sure you understand.”
“Understand what?”
My conversation with Finn replays in my mind. We were just talking about the possibility of Tommy knowing about me taking a dive in my fight. Did we fucking summon these guys? The probability that he’s talking about anything else is low. I haven’tbeen up to no good. Not really, anyway. I may be fighting, but outside of my deal with Clyde, nothing else exists.
“It was Tommy,” Finn announces, the cool metal of a gun muzzle pressed into his skin. He acts as if he’s not bothered. Like he deals with this kind of shit every day, having weapons with live rounds pointed at him. “He fucking ordered a hit on you.”
The Russian chuckles. I feel his deep laugh in my own chest at the revelation.
That can’t be. Sure, Tommy is serious about his money, but paying someone to perform a hit and run at my expense?
He won’t spit you out, and if you’re one of the lucky few he doesn’t want, I promise you won’t be whole by the end of it.
“Wouldn’t exactly say hit,” the man says nonchalantly, his accent curling around every word. “But message, yes.”
I sink my teeth into my cheek before asking, “Message regarding what?”
