Page 84 of Finn

“But you aren’t getting her back. I sold her.”

I grabbed the back of the chair in front of me.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me.” He paused. “Remember the other day, Finn? I said one day you’d ask for my help and I’d say fuck you.”

Una was sobbing somewhere behind him, the sound sending rage through me. I struggled to remain in control. I wasn’t above begging. Not for her. Anything for her.

“You sold her. Your sister.”

“Well, traded, really. My life for hers. Plus, a bunch of cash.”

“Don’t do this.” I swallowed. “I’ll give you anything you want. More money. Anything.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Fuck you.”

And he hung up.

I lost it. I picked up a mug close at hand, hurling it at the wall, cursing.

He had her. He had sold her.

Sold her. Like an inanimate object with no feelings.

And I knew who he had sold her to.

I turned, staring at the three men in my office.

“Fuck the casualties. This is war.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

UNA

We pulled up to my apartment, and I looked at Tom in the front seat. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay here or go for coffee while I run upstairs? There’s a great little café around the corner.”

He chuckled and shook his head. Tom got out of the car and opened my door, looking around before he did.

We entered the building, the superintendent meeting us. “I put the new lock on as soon as you called, Una. Mr. O’Reilly had someone sweep the apartment to make sure it was safe. Here’s the key.”

“Thanks.”

“Sad to think you won’t be living here anymore.”

I kept my expression carefully neutral. “Why would you say that?”

“Mr. O’Reilly told me you were moving out soon.”

I lifted my eyebrows but kept my mouth shut. In the elevator, I glanced at Tom, who was trying to hide his grin. He met my gaze with a shrug. “The boss,” was all he said.

The new key slid in easily, and I opened the door, Tom following me in. “I’ll be right here,” he said, sitting in the chair by the door.

I went to my bedroom, finding the dry cleaning bags with the dresses I liked to wear for my singing gigs. I carried them to the living room, draping them over the back of the sofa. “It’s more comfortable,” I informed Tom, patting the back. “You can sit here. That’s the most uncomfortable chair in this place. I only use it to put on my shoes.”

He smiled and stood. “It is awful.”