"Gianna," he breathes, like my name is a prayer. My pulse thrums, my skin burns. He leans in, and every second stretches thin like the universe is holding its breath for us, and then he kisses me. Softly at first, his lips brushing mine with the gentleness of a whisper. My breath catches, and I close the last inch of space between us, pressing my lips fully to his.
The kiss deepens. His hand cups my face, and I melt into him. There's a slow ache in the way he moves, hungry but not in a rush. I let out a soft sigh against his lips, and he pulls me closer.
This is wrong, so wrong, but why does it feel so right? The blanket shifts between us as his arms wrap firmly around my waist. His other hand tangles gently in my hair. Our noses brush as we move in sync, mouths parting and meeting again like we've done this a thousand times.
Everything else disappears, the tension, the fear, the guilt. All I can focus on is the heat of him, the way his lips taste like wine and danger, and the way his heart beats in sync with mine. When we finally break apart, it's not because we want to, it's because we need air. I gasp softly, eyes fluttering open to find him already looking at me.
His pupils are dilated, lips slightly swollen from our kiss, and his breath is ragged.
I lean into him, his warmth, wrapping my arm around him. His scent is everything I need. Everything I want. "You have no idea what you do to me," he whispers with a rough, thick voice.
I smile against his chest, letting the outside world and expectations slip away. We remain like that for some minutes with my eyes closed and my fingers tracing the thick muscles of his back, engraving every part of him into my memory.
Finn pulls away slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. "I wish I could stay here with you till the sun disappears from the sky," he says, tucking a few strands of my hair behind my ear. "But I have some important business I need to attend to."
Even though I don't want him to leave, I know work is important. "Okay," I whisper.
CHAPTER 17
Finn
The flickering lightabove me buzzes like it's got something to say. I ignore it, just like I ignore the ache growing in my head from hours of sifting through paperwork that doesn't add up. The office stinks of old metal and damp concrete, but it's the silence that presses hard against my chest. It's late. The warehouse is filled with men loading crates of weapons into the truck.
I've locked myself in here, drowning in ledgers and bills, anything to help me figure out how the hell to recover from the disaster the Italians left us. Pages are spread out across the desk like a crime scene. Seventeen crates, gone. All weapons, rifles, handguns, and explosives vanished. Intercepted somewhere between the docks and the Boston drop.
I still have a lot to sort out with Costello Motors. I left in a hurry earlier, but this is more important than that.
I push back from the desk with a heavy sigh, the chair groaning beneath me as I rise. The air in the office feels too tight. I grab the clipboard off the table and head for the door, pulling it open with a creak.
The metal stairs outside the office groan under my shoes as I descend, the cold iron railing rough beneath my fingers. The warehouse floor sprawls below, bathed in a dull amber glow from overhead fixtures. Machinery hums in the background, and the scent of oil, gun metal, and sawdust clings to the air.
Two of the guys, Troy and Cole, are by the loading dock, tightening the straps around a freshly sealed crate. I walk over, shoes echoing on the concrete. "Status," I ask.
Troy looks up, sweat lining his brow. "Crates four and five are locked down. Six is still waiting for suppressors to come in. Should hit the yard in twenty."
I nod, glancing over the crate. Labels, weights, markings—everything looks in order. "Double check the seals. No mistakes this time. I want this load airtight."
I tap the clipboard, scanning the checklist again. "Route's still clear?"
"Yeah. No flags," Cole confirms.
"Good," I mutter, half to myself. The last thing we need is another fucking leak. I give the crate a final look before turning away. "Let's keep it that way."
I head back to the office to finish up with work. Stella left several messages, but I'll have to attend to them later. I enter the office, leaving the door open. I already feel so stuffy. I drop into the leather chair and lean back, rubbing my temples. The ticking of the wall clock starts to get under my skin. I reach for the bottle of whiskey on the edge of the desk and pour myself a drink, letting the burn settle in my chest.
Gianna's face flashes across my mind before I can stop it. I can't believe I asked her if she was the one who tipped them off. I stare at the floor, replaying the look in her eyes, hurt and confused. She was trying, doing everything she could to stay afloat in this twisted world. What did I do? I let Declan's suspicions crawl into my brain like maggots.
I exhale hard, dragging my palm over my face. Then, the kiss hits me. Her lips were soft, desperate, and real like that night at the chapel. I could tell she wanted me. Her fingers in my hair, my hand clutching her waist like she's the only steady thing in the chaos of this life. I've never wanted to protect someone so badly.
I flip open another binder, scanning the inventory sheet. Ammunition is running low. The next supplier won't deliver till next week. We'll need to reroute the Chicago drugs to cover part of the gap in cost, and Declan is not going to like that. Still, it's better than bleeding cash and looking weak.
A knock taps against the office door, pulling my eyes away from the clutter of paperwork in front of me. I raise my head to see Ailish.
Great, just the person I need to see the least right now.
"Busy?" she asks, casually leaning on the door frame. Her voice carries that confidence I've grown tired of. She knows exactly what she's doing, and it grates at the edge of my patience. I roll my eyes and drop them right back to the paperwork before me. "What do you want, Ailish?" My tone is tired and not at all interested in another one of her passive-aggressive conversations.
She lifts off the door frame, taking deliberate steps toward me. She's wearing a jacket and pants with her hair styled in a low bun. "I came to oversee the shipment," she says, resting her hands on the vacant chair before me.
