“Congratulations on the win,” Finn said, tipping his glass toward his opponent. “Allow me to buy you a drink.”
An arrogant smirk formed on Callahan’s lips. He actually chuckled. “Letting you remain conscious appears to have its reward.”
He sat, occupying the chair to Finn’s left, exactly as Finn intended. While Callahan’s smug expression might have irked those who couldn’t control their emotions — who allowed pride to conquer rational behavior — it only served to inform Finn of the man’s stupidity. Was he not aware that he was the mouse who’d ventured into the viper’s den?
“I’ll have the best whiskey this place has to offer,” Callahan said, addressing Brian as though the man were his personal servant. Less than a servant even.
Nonplussed, Finn waved Brian away, sending him back to the bar, deliberately lulling Callahan into a state where he’d think he was in control. That he had gained the upper hand when he’d used brute force to shove Finn to the ground.
“Where’d ye learn to fight?” Patrick asked, the tilt to his head suggesting a genuine interest that Finn knew he lacked.
“In the streets when I was a lad,” Callahan said as another fight started and men began shouting once more. Callahan raised his voice. “Later, when I felt ready, I came here.” He jutted his head in Finn’s direction. “Never ended up looking as bad as that though. Maybe next time you’ll stay on the sidelines and watch, ay? No shame in admitting you’re not skilled at using your fists.”
“You didn’t use your fists to win,” Finn replied softly.
“What’s that?” Callahan asked. “I can’t hear you over the noise.”
Finn gave his head a slight shake. “Never mind.”
Callahan answered with a you-truly-are-an-idiot kind of look that would have removed all lingering doubt from Finn’s mind. Had he been even the slightest bit sympathetic toward the man.
Brian returned and Finn watched in silence as he placed a glass of whiskey on the table, then slid it across to Callahan.
The man didn’t bother to offer his thanks. He just picked up the glass while Brian moved, positioning himself in a way that shielded Finn and Callahan from the rest of the room.
Finn raised his glass before Callahan managed to drink. The man paused, pressed his lips together as if annoyed by the slight delay in clinking his glass against Finn’s.
“To the rest of your miserable life,” Finn said, his words overpowered by cheers from the nearby crowd. Callahan only gave a slight nod, clearly not hearing the words, then drank. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the liquid.
Finn took a sip of his drink as well then set his glass on the table. He turned his body toward Callahan, clasped hold of his shoulder with his left hand. The stillness that followed was rife with surprise. Callahan tried to shake himself free but Finn held firm as he leaned toward him. Until his mouth was next to the bastard’s ear.
Only then did he say, “You deserve to rot in hell,” right before the blade he’d pulled from his boot sank deep into Callahan’s fleshy stomach. The man’s lips parted, eyes widening with surprise. The glass he’d been holding fell to the floor where it shattered.
Patrick, Sean, and Brian reacted, hollering at each other as though one of them had been a drunken fool. To anyone who might have turned their gaze toward the dark corner, it would have looked like a group of five friends enjoying more drink than they could handle while two of them tried to talk.
Fingers gripping the blade’s handle, Finn twisted it firmly to make sure the deed was properly done before he withdrew it. A shove sent Callahan’s body toward the table. His cheek landed against it with a thump, his lifeless gaze directed toward the wall.
Finn wiped his blade clean on Callahan’s thigh then returned the weapon to his boot. Utterly calm, he retrieved one of his calling cards and a pencil he kept on his person at all times, wrote a few words, and placed the card in one of Callahan’s pockets.
He then downed the last of his drink and addressed his companions. “Shall we?”
Brian helped him rise then offered whatever support Finn needed. Instead of using the tavern’s front entrance, they left through the back and made their way to the next intersection where they were able to hail a hackney.
Uncomfortable from his injuries, Finn focused on each breath he took as they travelled the short distance to their lodgings. He couldn’t wait to return there so he could clean up, tend to his wounds properly, and get the rest he needed.
“How do ye think Croft will react when ’e learns about this?” Patrick asked.
Finn didn’t really care. What he’d done tonight had not been for Croft’s benefit. It had been for the sake of asserting himself and earning the kind of respect that could only be had when men feared you. Another brick in the empire he’d started to build when he got off the boat. A plan to establish himself as the kind of threat one could either support or die fighting against.
Too exhausted and battered to explain any of that, he said, “He’ll know I mean to take his crown.”
11
Mid-march arrived with a flurry of activity. Added sunshine interspersed with bouts of rain helped flowers bloom in every London park and square. Daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, and crocuses added cheerful splashes of color to an otherwise dull cityscape.
Samantha savored it. Especially when she went for her daily walks with Adrian. Or with Murry when Adrian had other matters to tend to. Optimism permeated the air now, instilling in her a happy contentedness that made each day seem brighter than the last.
A sentiment that was likely accentuated by her impending motherhood. Doctor Wolf’s positive reassurance regarding her quickening helped as well by easing her mind.
