Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
When she’s gone, I struggle to compose myself. Finn’s patient. He’s almost kind. But I doubt he’s really got much humanity left.
Not if my brothers treated him even half as bad as they treated me.
“I’ll help,” I whisper, and this is wrong, so deeply wrong. I should be afraid of staining myself with murder, but if there’s a God in heaven, he’s been ignoring my desperate prayers for years. I doubt he’ll notice me now.
“Good.” He nods like we’re finishing up a business transaction. And maybe to a man like him, that’s exactly what we’re doing. “We’ll start planning tomorrow. I think you need a day to recover.”
I’m trembling, but not from the hangover. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Just think about the hell they put you through and you won’t worry so much. Trust me, finish that coffee, and by the time we’re outside, you’ll feel better.”
He pays up front. I watch him make small talk with the fair-haired waitress. He makes her laugh, and I don’t know how he does it, how he can go from planning the murder of five men to cracking jokes. But that’s Finn, hiding behind lightness, softening the horror inside of him with a smile. I study the way he moves, how easily he swipes his fingers through his hair, the effortless way he scans the crowd with that confident, knowing smirk. The man oozes strength. His eyes meet mine, and his grin widens, which sends another trickle of excitement down my spine.
My brothers deserve what they get.
So does my father. Him most of all.
I know it’s true, and maybe I can live with myself if I try to be more like Finn. Maybe I can cover the darkness in me, just like he does.
I try to smile. It doesn’t feel wrong. I grin, sitting up straight, letting myself relax. He seems amused as he gestures for me to join him. I down my coffee and get to my feet. I glide across the diner, all lightness and joy.
“Ready to go home, wife?” he asks, casually putting his arm around my shoulders.
I should shrug him off, but I don’t. I like the way it feels. “Sounds good, husband.”
We step outside into the bright morning light together.
Despite the hangover, I feel better than I have in a very long time.
12
FINN
Caroline hesitates on the sidewalk. She frowns at the dilapidated old warehouse and looks around the crumbling Hunts Point neighborhood. “You said we were meeting a friend?” she asks, clearly uncertain.
“Liam’s inside.” I gesture at the building. “It’s better if we don’t linger out here. Remember, we’re up to no good.” I raise my eyebrows and reach out a hand.
She doesn’t take it. I like that for some reason. My wife has had a rough few days, but she’s doing her best to process on her own. Tonight, she’s wearing black jeans and a dark long-sleeve shirt. It clings to her body. Her light brown hair’s up in a braid and her eyes are done up all dark. I like this look. She’s fucking beautiful.
But I need to remind myself that I can’t trust her, not yet at least.
I take her through the side entrance. It used to be for trucks, but someone built makeshift steps up to the big loading bay years back. There’s a side door where a big man sits on a stool, glaring at us with obvious displeasure. I give him a twenty and he nods us through.
Once the door opens, music blares through the soundproofing. Caroline moves closer as we walk down a cramped hall. Human shouting echoes closer. It’s a mix of elation and terror. The full gamut of emotion. I can’t help the big grin that spreads across my face. For once, it’s not fake.
I love this place.
We step out into the main room. The windows are all blacked out. Big lights shine on a boxing ring on a raised platform. People are arrayed all around it, smoking cigarettes, drinking from plastic cups, screaming and yelling as two shirtless men pummel each other, bare-knuckled and brutal. Both fighters are bloody. Both are swaying from the effort. Neither wants to give up.
“What is this place?” Caroline calls in my ear.
“It’s an unaffiliated, unofficial fight club.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Our families aren’t involved. We’re safe to talk.”
She gives me a look. It’s slightly bewildered. I grab her hand and pull her on, past the spectators, around the ring, right as one fighter lands a nasty blow to his opponent's face. Both topple to the mat, a tangle of struggling, bloodied limbs. Past the thickest crowds are booths and tables, hidden away in smoky, dim light. There’s a bar against one wall and more people milling around quietly. Several bookies are taking bets. Money flows freely in a place like this.