Shattered Hearts (Irish Kings #1)

15. Finn

Chapter 15

Finn

Reporting to Thomas Brennan takes all of five minutes. In most ways, it’s just like every other report I’ve ever given him, except this time, I have this near-overpowering itch to slam my fist into his face over and over, until my knuckles shatter.

I’m responsible for more than my fair share of bloodshed, but even I’m not far gone enough to miss how fucked up it is to sell your own daughter to a monster. I’m almost positive my father wasn’t aware. Lots of mafia families treat women worse than dogs, but Shane Gallagher has always been different. He loved my mother too much for that.

When I think of that sweet smile that graces Riley’s face when she speaks to her colleagues or the way she patched me up when all I’d done the day before was act like a giant prick, rage sizzles in my chest.

The man I’ve been reporting to all this time sold his daughter to an abusive asshole. And when that bastard hurt her, she came to her father for help, and he told her to suck it up.

Fuck.

I thought I’d go put Goatee through some more pain, but my current appetite for violence is focused on Riley’s father. If I can’t use it on him , what’s the damn point?

I’d rather get back to my aching cock, which has been chanting Riley’s name since she locked her lips to mine a few hours ago. I skip Goatee, leave the Interrogation Unit behind, and resurface on the upper floors of the mansion.

Outside the door to my suite, I hesitate, imagining Riley inside. My heart is doing something in my chest, something it absolutely should not be doing.

Riley moving in with me was a spur of the moment solution. It’s definitely the right answer for her safety, but otherwise, I didn’t think this through at all .

Obviously, my bed is big enough for both of us, but after the way we kissed back there at Riley’s apartment? I can’t afford any more mistakes. Any more distractions. Not with Red Hill Mafia members running around trying to kill us.

Besides, she’s my future sister-in-law.

The thought sours my stomach.

I key into my suite and glance around. “Riley?”

Silence.

I remember that face she made in the garage. Pink cheeks and horror hiding between her quizzical eyebrows. I can’t just walk into an enforcer’s suite.

What are the odds she’s downstairs waiting for me to finish up because she’s too weirded out by the idea of coming up here on her own?

I’m out the door, down the hallway, and hurrying down the central staircase when I find myself standing eye to eye with Cian.

He hides it well, but I can tell he’s distracted.

His eyes flick toward the window beside us and then to me. “Where you headed?”

“Nowhere.” I try to mask the urgency in my voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you lose your wife?”

Wife.

Heat rises to my neck, but I will not fucking blush. “Umm…”

The asshole grins. “Think I saw her heading to her old bedroom.”

Her room? I squint at him.

Oh, right. Riley’s in her sister’s suite.

I don’t know how Cian knows the whereabouts of my fake bride, but as long as he doesn’t find out her identity and blow our cover, I don’t care. “Probably for clothes. She’s always telling me my closet’s too small.” An idea hits me, and I stride past Cian into the second floor hallway. “Actually, I should help her.”

Cian doesn’t say anything as I jog down the hall and turn left, headed toward what we call the children and family wing. The kids of the Gallagher elite usually live in the apartments in this region of the mansion. I know where Harper’s room is, but as soon as I get to the door, I panic, spin around, and head back upstairs to my own suite.

The first reason is because I don’t have a key or the code to Harper’s room. Despite our impending nuptials, she and I are not close enough to have shared that information, so getting inside on my own would require me lurking in the hallway, knocking on her door like a jackass.

If anyone saw me, rumors would fly tomorrow about my marriage with Harper being on the rocks.

Second, when I’m alone with Riley, my sense of reason goes out the window. And I don’t want to wind up fucking her on her sister’s—my fiancée’s—bed.

By the time I get back upstairs to my empty apartment, I’m actually happy I’m alone. Because my suite is only a few degrees from a pigsty.

That’s what happens when you tell the housekeeping staff to come once a month instead of every week .

I eat and exercise elsewhere in the mansion. I do my work in the field or in the Interrogation Unit in the basement. My apartment doesn’t need to be cozy.

Dark combat boots lay strewn in the doorway, since I’m normally too lazy to put them in the shoe cabinet a foot away. I toss them in there and then calculate every single area in this place and what needs to happen before Riley arrives.

My suite is open concept. A giant, spacious square separated by furniture and appliances that designate the purpose of each space. The far wall is entirely windows. I start there and drag the stage-sized curtain back to show off my view. It’s not much, but treetops, a bit of skyline, and the occasional star on a clear night is better than a massive black curtain.

After making quick work of putting fresh sheets on the bed, I head to the living area. I grab a wadded navy blanket on the leather couch and start folding.

I’m going to make you come…over and over again. On my fingers. On my cock. On my tongue.

How the fuck could I say that to her?

Just because Riley has reawakened every sexual cell in my body doesn’t mean I can have her. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I deserve her. I don’t deserve any of what happened earlier. Not her sweet mouth against mine, not her full, soft breasts in my hands, not her muted sighs of pleasure stifled against my ear.

With a frustrated groan, I clear all the memories away.

I don’t want to admit this, but today was a huge mistake. One that cannot happen again, so I can stop tidying up like a housewife under duress.

I shift gears, my brain shunting back to Troy Sullivan, safe for now, locked away beneath the house in cell block one.

I should have killed him.

I would have killed him. He broke into Riley’s apartment and attacked her. Did I need another reason? When I thought he did so to get to me, I was furious. But when Riley told me he’d abused her in the past, I wanted to obliterate the fucker and send his ashes back to the Sullivan brothers with a Gallagher greeting card.

However, if I add Red Hill’s heir to my resume—especially given past events—I could start a war between the Kings and Red Hill, and war is the last thing any of us needs?—

“Knock knock.” Riley’s hesitant voice washes over me as she pushes the door open.

“Hey.” I give the area a once-over, hoping again that Riley will feel comfortable here. “Make yourself at home.”

She opens the door all the way and takes a few hesitant steps inside while I close the distance between us.

Of course, she’s nervous. You told her to come here without a plan. You told her you were going to fuck her, to her face, even though you’re very much engaged to her sister.

Riley stops in my foyer and politely takes off her shoes. She doesn’t move, though, as if she’s waiting for me to invite her farther in.

I make a sweeping motion toward the living area. “Got you some peas.”

Get a fucking grip, Finn.

She scrunches her forehead. “For…dinner?”

“For your hand.” I spin on my heel. “Come on.”

I’ve been tortured twice in my life, and somehow, this is more painful. Like a robot, I lead Riley to the space containing a couch and two recliners I call my living room, then grab the bag from the freezer.

Careful not to get too close, I sit about half a foot away from her on the couch, settling the frozen veggies over Riley’s swollen knuckles.

The sudden cold temperature makes her jump. I’m a little twitchy myself, but it has nothing to do with the peas.

“How’d the interrogation go?” Riley repositions the bag with her other hand.

I shake my head. “He’s still unconscious.”

I chose to leave him that way because I’d rather spend time with you.

Where the fuck did that thought come from?

We fall into a pensive quiet. While I sit here and ponder what the hell is wrong with me, Riley’s probably sorting through the facts we have.

Eventually, I come back around to thinking about Goatee.

Troy coming after Riley? I can see it. That dipshit held a grudge against her for rejecting him all these years. But the thing is, she’s been estranged from the Gallaghers since she and Troy ended. She’s been on her own, unprotected, for three whole years. Troy could’ve come after her at any point. I’m damn thankful he didn’t, but…why now?

I’m more likely to have a target on my back than she is. Pissing people off is part of my job description. Seems probable that Red Hill had eyes on me, and Riley wandered into the line of fire by taking her sister’s place.

But that scenario doesn’t fully check out either. Because what would the Red Hill boys have against me? I had nothing to do with the ill-fated expansion deal. On a personal level, I have no bad blood with anyone from their family. So why go after me?

She lets out a soft noise, drawing my attention to her face in time to watch her teeth sink into her plump lower lip. I swallow a groan.

Our eyes lock, and tension crackles between us. The temperature shoots up by at least ten degrees.

Pink spots bloom in Riley’s cheeks as she repositions the peas. She casts a nervous glance in the direction of my bedroom. “I’m too wired to sleep, and I’m really hungry, so do you mind if I go out? You don’t have to come with me or anything?—”

“The fuck I don’t.” Secretly, I’m relieved. Another thirty seconds together in here, and I’d pounce on her like a cat on a mouse. “Where should we go? I’m starving too.”

Riley’s eyes pop like I’ve surprised her. Maybe I’ve caught her off guard for once, the same way she catches me.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the Audi, heading south through the city to Riley’s favorite twenty-four-hour eatery. Some place called King Street Diner.

The theme of the restaurant is playing cards—booths upholstered in red and black leather, illustrated jokers on the menu covers, spades and clubs on the napkins, and miniature jukeboxes on every table, where people can trade spare change for their song of choice.

By the time we walk through the door, a giant clock hung over the bar reads a few minutes after two a.m. Even in the city that never sleeps, we have the place to ourselves in the wee hours of a Thursday morning.

I don’t know what I expected, but eating alone together in an almost deserted diner has all the appeal of a duck sitting on the surface of a lake, waiting to be shot.

In a mostly empty place like this, I feel too exposed. Like I’m leaving myself vulnerable to attack and tempting fate in the process. But every time I look at Riley, a sense of peace seeps into me, bit by bit, like my stress is sand draining into the lower half of an hourglass.

I’m almost calm by the time a sleepy waiter takes our order. We make small talk and listen to classic rock on the jukebox until he reappears twenty minutes later with a bowl of tomato soup and a giant grilled cheese sandwich for Riley and a steak with mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans for me.

We both descend on our meals. After almost killing Troy Sullivan, I’m so hungry I could have eaten this table as an appetizer. But Riley stops short of biting into her sandwich, eyes far away. Something’s wrong.