Shattered Hearts (Irish Kings #1)

8. Finn

Chapter 8

Finn

I puff out a cloud of smoke and watch it dissipate into the midnight Manhattan air.

The Blackadder’s honeymoon suite sits on the thirtieth floor. Too bad I can’t stop thinking about Riley Brennan long enough to enjoy the breathtaking view of New York City’s glittering skyline from the balcony.

The wind whips my hair back from my face and cools me off. Even standing out here naked, save for the towel around my waist, I can’t get my body temperature down after…whatever that was in the limo.

There are too many details to sort through and too little space in my mind.

Taking one last drag, I stub the cigarette out on the wall, suddenly reminded of the night of my engagement party.

To avoid my fiancée and the expectant eyes of my father, I ducked outside onto the balcony attached to the estate’s gourmet kitchen, which overlooks a small corner of the gardens, and smoked. Dad was planning to announce our engagement soon, so I waited until the last second to reenter the festivities.

When I got back inside, I found my friends lounging near the bar and joined them. Only moments later, I heard Harper calling me.

Armed with a fake smile, I turned…and felt like I slammed into a brick wall.

Harper wasn’t alone. She was there too.

Riley.

Full lips. Same blond hair and same blue eyes as her sister. Riley’s quieter though. Always thinking while Harper’s talking. Her face is a little more angular, her posture more rigid. The two sisters are so similar, yet completely different.

The sight of her triggered a strange burst of warmth in my chest. I immediately snuffed it out and gave her a quick once over. She was dressed in black from head to toe, tension coiled tight in her body. I could tell she wanted to be there about as much as I did.

Last time I saw her was the day she left the estate for good. Brianne had been dead for months, and I was sleepwalking through life and struggling to crawl out of a dark place.

Then Riley woke me the hell up by kissing me out of the blue.

Until that moment, she was still just a kid in my mind. But she damn well didn’t kiss like one. Before I knew it, I was devouring her mouth. Guilt eventually interceded and I pushed her away, but it wasn’t easy.

That day, I felt a connection between us. I experienced the buzz again when we locked eyes at the party.

When I stood there with both of Thomas Brennan’s daughters, their differences shocked me. How could I me feel nothing for one, and too much for the other?

Which was why, as far as brides went, Harper didn’t scare me. Despite sharing looks with Riley, we had no chemistry, so the chances of me falling for her seemed miniscule.

And then today happened.

Even in that god-awful wedding gown that didn’t suit her at all, Riley stole my breath.

But the dress she wore to the reception just pissed me off. The sight of her curves hugged in creamy silk and all that bare skin stole the air from my lungs, and whenever she crossed my sight line, my focus fell apart. She was incredible. Problem was, touching her, dancing with her, kissing her…it all just made me want to fuck her. And judging from the appreciative stares, all the men in the room wanted the same.

This attraction to Riley has to stop.

She’s my sister-in-law, for fuck’s sake. Or at least, she will be.

Shaking off the thought, I slide open the balcony door and reenter the honeymoon suite.

I swear, the thing is mocking me. Fake, fire-safe candles on every flat surface. Rose petals blanketing the California king bed. Pink, red, and white balloons pressing against the high ceilings. Matching bathrobes and slippers. A romantic music collection that can play through the speakers in every room of this palatial place.

I forego the complimentary champagne in favor of whiskey. Carrying the bottle to the bed, I whip the comforter back so hard, all the rose petals rain sideways across the room. Half an hour later, I’m practically weightless, like I’m floating on my back in a pool.

I should be asleep, but despite the numbing alcohol in my system, my mind still races.

Why’d I have to kiss her? Not once, but twice? I could’ve given her a quick peck at the wedding and grazed her forehead or cheek at the reception. So why did I put my lips on her like that?

She knew I was acting insane. Riley even had enough sense to pull away from me. Her trepidation should have snapped me out of it but instead, had the opposite effect. That resistance spurred my competitive side, stoking my desire to overtake her uncertainty. To replace her hesitance with my tongue.

I kissed her like she was mine.

Even when I married Brianne, I didn’t tongue her in front of a room full of people.

Guilt bobs up to the surface in my floating state.

At the reception, I found every possible excuse to touch Riley, even though I fucking knew better.

The smeared frosting on her lips tempted me to silence her sarcastic tongue with my cock. And when I told her it was her turn to feed me, she froze like a computer at my choice of words.

If I talked dirty to her, she’d probably faint.

Meanwhile, every time she cursed at me, every time she talked back, her defiance turned me on. Maybe I have a medical problem.

I’ve never been so simultaneously thrilled and pissed off by the same woman before in my life.

The one-two punch of her proximity and her sharp tongue pushed me so close to the edge, I almost kissed her again at our table. But despite Riley’s outspokenness, I caught glimpses of fear in her eyes.

Is she afraid of me? Or does she fear being back with the Kings? A little bit of both?

Agitation and discomfort tumble in my gut.

Why does her wariness bother me? It proves she’s a woman who knows what’s good for her. The likelihood that she’ll survive me is higher this way.

I’m a damn hypocrite if I want everyone’s fear except hers. Besides, if I don’t want her fear, what the hell do I want from her?

And when she told me she was going home, why did disappointment ravage me? I’ve been dreading this honeymoon night for months , and just hours ago, I was actually upset that Riley wasn’t going to come here with me.

It took every ounce of my self-control not to shove her down onto the limo’s long, carpeted floor and drive my dick into her until she screamed my name. I practically salivate when I imagine the taste of her sweet nipples between my teeth…

I want to feel the vibration of her moan against my tongue as I pummel her G-spot.

I glance down at my throbbing dick and realize I’ve turned the blanket into a damn tent. Perfect.

After groping the nightstand for the complimentary body oil, I lacquer my fingers and start stroking myself. While my hangover’s going to be a bitch, at least I won’t wake up with blue balls.

When glaring sunlight pries me awake the next morning, I feel like someone split my head open with a pickaxe while I was asleep.

I drag myself up into a sitting position and instantly regret the movement. When I check my phone, the text message I sent to myself from Riley’s phone. Riley.

Shit. I’ve got to pick her up this morning.

With a groan, I force my sorry ass across the arctic marble floors of this suite to the bathroom big enough to be a one-bedroom apartment all by itself. As I shower, my thoughts linger on the woman who’s turned my life upside down in the last twenty-four hours.

I made her cry yesterday.

I’m not in the habit of caring whether someone cries, screams, begs, pleads, or bleeds out in front of me. But I feel shitty about this. Riley stepped in yesterday for a mob she’s no longer a part of.

Hell, she stayed my execution. The only thing I wanted on my wedding day was not to get married, and she made that possible. And all I did was interrogate her and cause her day to become more difficult.

A sticky, disgusting sensation spreads inside my chest, which must mean I owe her a thank-you. Not that she’d accept the gratitude of some sleazy asshole who put the moves on her despite being betrothed to her twin.

As soon as we get back to the mansion, I’ll give her my gun and let her shoot me once. One good bullet, and we can call it even, right?

After I dry off and dress in the clothes I stuffed into an overnight bag, I bid good riddance to this honeymoon suite and check the hell out of here.

“Do you need a cab, sir?” The valet smiles at me when I step into the crisp midmorning air.

I should get a cab, but after all the cake I ate at the reception, the quart of whiskey I drank last night, and the five a.m. workout routine I didn’t do this morning, I elect to walk. A good five miles will sober me. I run farther than that on the treadmill at the estate most days.

I hit the bricks and head south toward Chinatown, where I dropped off Riley at her apartment last night. Which is located right above a flower shop like she’s some kind of fairy princess.

I hoped my thoughts would leave Riley alone this morning. Exercise usually filters the bullshit from my brain, but not today. My mind doesn’t clear for one second as I close the distance between us one stride at a time.

A breeze brushes my face as I round a crowded street corner. Pedestrians part around me, a perk of this gruff pirate face I have. My gaze snags on a billboard glaring down on us. A coming soon advertisement for a television show called Traitor . I cringe inside, remembering the wounded gleam I put in Riley’s eyes.

And then I squash my remorse into a pulp in my head. I’m not the kind of man who can afford to care if I hurt a woman’s feelings.

Life isn’t fair. It’s ugly. And Riley’s no saint.

We all know who she is. At least, all the people who’ve lived in and around the Gallagher estate in the last decade do. She’s an infamous cautionary tale.

Three years ago, Riley turned fickle and jilted the heir of the Red Hill Mafia, one of our nearest allies, throwing the Kings into chaos in the process. Dad still sometimes gripes about the revenue and expansion we lost in the botched deal, to say nothing of our damaged relationship with Red Hill.

In the fallout, Riley left the family in disgrace of her own volition—she’s the only person I know of to have accomplished such a feat—and she’s been out ever since. No one knows the particulars of why she betrayed the family, save Dad and Thomas, I imagine. But as someone who’s currently dying to get out of his own marriage predicament, I can’t fault her for having had similar feelings back then.

The difference between us is that I would never betray the family.

I have my own life. I have a job. Her words wallpaper my mind.

Few people get out of the mob alive. So when I really stop to think about the fact that she did, and at only twenty, it gives me pause. She built a life for herself, presumably from nothing. Thomas Brennan isn’t the kind of doting father who’d support a fallen child, and I doubt he’d allow his wife to either.

Riley’s priorities are opaque to me. Even if I had her tied up in the Interrogation Unit beneath the estate, I don’t know where I’d begin trying to crack open her mind. And why does the mental picture of her mesmerizing, combative eyes and bound wrists send a coil of heat straight to my cock?

More importantly, she told me herself she and Harper weren’t close anymore, so why jeopardize her freedom by pretending to be my wife? She escaped the criminal underworld we live in with her life intact. Why risk everything by reintegrating herself now, albeit temporarily?

If she cared so much about pleasing her father or protecting her sister, she wouldn’t have excommunicated herself in the first place.

A horn blares, and I shake my head. This walk was supposed to clear my head, not present the perfect opportunity to obsess about Riley. For the next half hour or so, I try to think of anything and everything else. When I glance up, Mandarin and Cantonese subtitle the names of every store in sight.

A heavenly scent tickles my nose, luring me in. Fresh donuts. Across the street is a pastry shop. Won’t hurt to pick up a peace offering.

Quarter of an hour later, donuts in hand, I double-check the address I pulled from the pin I dropped on my phone last night and head left down an alley between two six-story buildings to avoid the crowds. Dumpsters line the wall to my right. Grimy cement extends like the world’s ugliest hallway runner to the parallel street.

As soon as a thick, disfigured head appears from behind a dumpster ahead of me, my senses kick into overdrive. Sudden running footsteps at my flank prompt me to turn my back to the wall and glance over, only to catch a fist to the face?—

The slam of my body pitching against a cluster of trash cans echoes off the bricks. The donut box flies from my hands, but I regain my balance before it hits the ground. I spit blood, mind on hyperdrive.

It takes me less than a second to clock and analyze them all.

Four total. Dressed in dark tones to mask blood stains. Toned, practiced muscles under breathable clothing. Lesser skilled enforcer types. Definitely mafia. Run-of-the-mill foot soldiers.

Muggers would have picked a much easier target. They’ve been following me. They waited until I rounded this corner so no one would see them attacking me. They’re coordinated. Organized. And if they’ve been following me, then they have a plan. Which means I’m being targeted. By who?

“You sure this is the one?” The one who punched me stands to my left, sniffing. He’s quick, slender, and needs a damn manicure. Those talons could cut a cornea. Easy. He flips out a knife even though he doesn’t need one with those claws.

The two in front of me look like a comedy duo. A giant guy with a bald, scarred scalp tucked under a cap standing next to his total opposite. A guy my height, who’s thin, wiry, and a little distracted. I’ll kill him first. He keeps throwing glances at the guy to my right.

He’s thick and tall with short brown hair and a scraggly goatee. His blue eyes are backlit with crazy. He reminds me of Darren… If Darren looked like a kid who grabbed a brown marker and scribbled hair onto his jaw.

“Do I know you boys?” I crack my knuckles, almost glad I don’t have my guns with me. The stress buildup in my muscles is several weeks deep, and I can use this opportunity to blow off steam.

Besides, whipping out guns in the middle of the day in New York City is just asking for trouble…even for a guy like me.

The wiry one sneers. “You will.”

Cute. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got somewhere to be. Can we make this quick?”

My attackers bristle but don’t move. They’re waiting for something. The go-ahead. I glance sidelong at Goatee. My gut tells me he’s the leader. The others are following orders. He’s…gathering information.

“Cut him.” Goatee nods to the others, and we all start moving at once.

Quick and Slender thrusts his blade at me like we’re fencing. I turn his momentum against him, avoiding his strike and using the moment of his surprise to rip his stabbing arm behind him.

I wait for the thick little pop that tells me I’ve dislocated his shoulder. He hacks a cry of pain as I whip my butterfly knife out of my back pocket with the other hand. The staccato clicks it makes when it rotates out of the sheath soothes me like a lullaby. I throw my arm up to his neck and slit his throat, tearing it open from one carotid artery to the other.

Blood sprays onto the giant’s chest as I toss his dead comrade at him.

The wiry one’s eyes, wild with fear, remind me that I wanted to kill him first.

Goatee has receded several paces back, watching from a safe distance. I can’t tell whether he’s a coward or just plain smart.

The giant one throws aside his comrade’s still-warm corpse and charges me with a roar.

I spin away before he gets his paws on me, deftly reversing my grip on my butterfly knife so it will be easier to slash through fabric and flesh. I carve up his forearm pretty good, though he doesn’t cry like his dead friend. He just huffs, sweating and glaring and clutching the elbow above his injured arm, where gushing blood washes his rough skin red.

Next to the gash I gave him, I spot a tattoo I’d recognize anywhere.

The Celtic cross…

“Enough.” Goatee growls.

Irritation fires me up further. Enough? I’ll decide when they’ve had enough.

I throw a scowl at his ugly face and stalk toward him. The wiry one standing beside him shakes a little.

“Just who the fuck are you, and what do you want with me?” I demand, narrowing the distance between us.

The wiry one bolts. Goatee glowers at me. For a moment, it’s just two pairs of eyes exchanging fiery silence, before he backsteps and follows his little sidekick. When I whip back to end the giant, he’s gone too.

So much for my workout.

I stride over to Quick and Slender. To my great surprise, he’s wide-eyed and still choking on breaths, blood pooling from his neck. He has less than sixty seconds. I crouch over him and peer down into his despondent black eyes.

“ Who sent you ?”

But I’m too late. His failing chest hops once, twice, and then stops. He’s gone. They’re all gone. Leaving me with yet more unanswered questions.

I retrieve my cell phone and dial Thomas Brennan. On the second ring, he answers with his customary silent greeting.

“I need a cleanup crew in Chinatown.”

“Text the address.” He hangs up.

I drag the corpse behind a dumpster and text the names of the streets this alley lies between to Thomas. After trashing the mangled donuts, I book it to Riley’s.

I’m afraid being my fake wife just got more dangerous.