Thank God Ethan stopped us.
Otherwise…
I can’t even think about what would’ve happened if we had been caught on our way to my car.
I have to pause to steady my hands. They’re shaking too much to undo the buttons of my shirt. Ethan’s blood still stains my suit. I strip it off, dumping it in the corner. I’ll burn that shit later. I drag on fresh clothes, tuck a gun into a holster in my waistband, and stalk out into my apartment.
“Rough night, huh?”
I snarl and draw my gun in one fluid motion. Finn watches placidly. He’s sitting at my kitchen table, a bottle of whisky open at his elbow, two glasses in front of him. He lifts one in a salute.
“Ring the bell next time,” I say and shove the gun away.
“I never worry when it comes to you. Sit down. How’s Regan?”
“Fine. In shock.” I accept the liquor but can’t bring myself to take a chair. Instead, I pace, my energy boiling over. “Did you question the survivor yet?”
Of the four attackers, one was still screaming when the Whelan guards swarmed and took them down. They bundled him into a van and tore off, probably to some black site safe house with a drain in the basement floor and a whole interesting complement of saws and serrated knives.
“We’re working on it.”
“I want a shot at him. I want it right now.” I grip my glass tightly, knuckles going white. “They tried to kill my wife.”
“Not tonight.”
“Finn, they came at me, at my own fucking wedding?—“
“Which is why you’re not getting anywhere near the prisoner.”
I glare at him, steadying myself. I’ve never hated Finn before and doubt I ever will—he’s been through more hell than I can even begin to imagine—but fuck, I’m furious with him right now.
“Myfuckingwedding. Regan’s wedding. You know who it was, don’t you?”
“We have a guess.”
“Let me make it clear then: Max Baranov sent them.”
“That’s one possibility.”
“Possibility? The Baranovs are making their fucking move, Finn. They wanted to shove a wedge between you and the Corrigans. Kill the girl, break the alliance. Imagine how her dad would’vereacted? You couldn’t even protect his daughter at her own wedding? If they had hurt her?—“
“But they didn’t,” Finn says softly, smiling sadly. “You’re angry. I get it. But you can’t storm off and do something stupid. Not tonight.”
“Why the fuck not?!” I slam my drink back and smash the glass down onto the table. The bottle wobbles. “The Baranovs have been a god damn problem for years, always nipping at our heels like hungry little puppies, and now they’re making a serious move. You know what they have, don’t you? Regan showed me what her ex took.”
Finn’s expression sharpens. “You know? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was running it down myself.” I storm over to where I’ve been keeping the dossier in a drawer. I should’ve brought this straight to Finn, but I didn’t. I’ve been telling myself that it’s unsubstantiated, likely half true at best, and at worst some kind of psy-op Max is running. That sick bastard loves to play games. Showing Finn might be exactly what he wanted the whole time.
Now I can’t keep holding it back. I toss the papers down in front of him and slump into a chair, exhausted and so angry it feels like my molars might crack. Finn flips through the pages, squinting, before rubbing a spot between his eyes.
“It’s everything.”
“Near enough at least.”
“Fuck me.”
“That wasn’t the plan for my wedding night.” I refill my glass and lean toward him. “Let me talk to the shooter.”
