I blink, hesitating for a second, not because of myself but because of Gianna, but I nod, agreeing to help Liam.
"What do I need to do?"
CHAPTER 34
Finn
I watchas the beautiful black iron gates of the Greenhouse slowly open up, allowing cars, including mine, to drive through. A few others follow behind me as I pass the gate, and the inside is breathtaking. The kind of place where deals are made, empires are protected, and betrayal feels like part of the decor.
The lawn is perfect, and the trees lining each path are perfectly pruned into beautiful shapes. Security swarms over every corner. It's a sight to see, Irish and Italians working together.
I think the correct term is watching each other. No one trusts anyone. Vito made the decision to host the meeting at the Greenhouse—his upstate estate. The sprawling property had been emptied of family days before. Anywhere the Rossos actually lived would have meant blood before the first words. I pass by a water fountain with two mermaid sculptures, their tails connecting at the base, and water slowly drips out of the clam shells in their hands.
The cars in front of me begin to slow down, and I get the memo. I slow down my car, parking just a few steps from the mermaid fountain. I watch through my windshield as Declanand a few of the Irish I recognize follow behind him. Their perfectly tailored suits make them look ready for war.
My eyes flick from the entrance to my dash mirror and trace my hand over the faintly visible scar on my eyebrow. It's one of the many places that have yet to completely heal. My eyes land on my shirt collar, making sure it's properly buttoned. I remember Gianna's words from this morning, back at the house as she helped me into my suit jacket, her eyes filled with worry.
"Declan has to see you look good. He has to know he didn't break you."
I step out of the car, my boots crunching against the gravel. The air is heavy with anxiety over the change that will happen today. I close the door a little too hard, which sends a small pain to my healing ribs. I make my way with the rest of the men into the mansion. The cream-colored stone walls glint under the sun, the tall windows like eyes, watching everything, knowing everything.
Two guards approach me, thick-necked men in fitted black suits, sunglasses hiding their eyes.
"Arms out," one says, and I oblige. They sweep a handheld scanner down my sides, starting from my neck to my leg. Another pats me down, methodical and precise. They search my boots, feel under the collar of my jacket, and even my belt buckle.
These are just protocols to follow.
A lot of powerful men are in this building, and no one's allowed to carry a weapon.
"All clear," one of them finally says with a nod, stepping aside.
I step through the double doors. The marble floors are so shiny that I can see my reflection. A chandelier the size of a car hangs from the ceiling, and oil paintings that I don't recognize line the walls.
A man in a gray suit appears. "This way, sir." I follow him through long hallways that feel like they stretch for miles. Gianna is here somewhere, and as I follow the escort, I'm attentive, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Staff move past like ghosts, fast and quiet. I wonder how many secrets this place has heard.
We stop at a pair of double doors at the end of a narrow corridor. They're already open, and I walk in.
The room is wide and deep, the kind of space that turns people into pawns on a board. A long table slices through the middle, dark wood gleaming under the light. On one side sit the Italians, sharp suits, cool expressions. On the other side, the Irish, my side, darker clothes, darker eyes, barely contained tension.
At the end of the table sits Declan. Our eyes lock, and his face hardens instantly like someone flipped a switch inside him. Hatred rolls off him like heat from a flame. He doesn't blink. Neither do I. All the torture he put me through flashes across my mind, but I don't show weakness.
He looks at me like I'm the problem he didn't plan for, and I look at him like I know something he doesn't.
Because I do.
Before the air can split apart, Vito's voice slices through the tension like a blade.
"Welcome, Finn," he says smoothly.
I drag my eyes away from Declan and focus on Vito, nodding once. His expression is unreadable as usual, but there's something different about his eyes; the strong look of disgust he always has for me isn't there.
"Please, have a seat."
There's a nameplate in front of an empty chair halfway down the Irish side. Finn Costello. My throat is dry. I sit, every movement calculated to hide the pain that still lingers in myribs. The table is perfectly set. Microphones are fixed to the surface. Bottles of water and crystal glasses sit beside each place setting. I reach for mine, the glass cool and steady in my hand. I take a slow sip, more to ground myself than anything.
Declan's still staring at me. I can feel it, like a weight on the side of my face. The room is quiet now, too quiet. The Italians sit tall, and the Irish are coiled with tension, ready to snap. At the end of each side, like bookends of a bloody history, sit Vito and Declan, and somewhere in between them, the war that's about to change everything.
Connor Costello, one of the Irish men, speaks.
