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Chapter Twenty-One

Finn

I ’m fucking broke. Again. But I’m in Ireland, and I’m in Carys’s hotel room sitting in the dark, waiting for the FBI or the CIA or whatever government organization cornered her in the PLA bar to bring her back.

At what point do I stop waiting? I don’t know. I’ve been chasing my tail since I got here.

Demid’s guard got me Jay’s phone number, helped me organize a private plane to Belfast, and drove me to the airport. Turns out, he wasn’t as inept as I thought. Once I was here, getting to Jay was easy.

Figuring out what happened to Carys? Hard and expensive. The temptation to put a bullet in Jay’s head for losing her was overwhelming. My anger has been on a rapid boil just under the surface since I arrived. He’s more suited to the role of a personal assistant than a bodyguard. Fucking useless. He’s been running around Northern Ireland like a chicken with his head cut off.

After every decent option hit a dead end, I called Thomas Byrne in Dublin to have pressure applied to his Belfast contacts. Given I have almost no money or influence anymore, I didn’t want to owe him. The Byrne family is a tie to my old life in Boston, to Lorcan, to my lost empire. Calling him was like shooting a flare into the night sky. I’m still alive. Here I am.

I run my hands over my face and let out a sigh of frustration before sinking deeper into the overstuffed chair in Carys’s suite. If she arrives— when she arrives—we’ll have a chat about what it means to take personal safety seriously. Today has been a shitshow from start to finish.

None of the Byrne contacts were certain, but the most reliable source thought Carys was nabbed by the FBI or the CIA. The CIA has been sniffing around the PLA. Google tells me they’re low-rent IRA wannabes—dangerous—gaining power. According to Jay, Valeriya, the Russian snake, was supposed to be meeting with them. Can’t say I’m upset she met a watery grave.

There are three reasons I figure the FBI, or the CIA, would nab Carys from a public bar. They’re fishing for information on me, in which case, being in Ireland just became even more dangerous. Or Kimi gathered and submitted sufficient evidence on Carys or the Van de Berg empire to bring its legitimacy into question. Or Valeriya was poised to fuck Carys over by doing a deal with the PLA with the missing merch from the warehouse.

Jay is still running around Belfast trying to get a lead, but I had to come in. If they return her, it’ll be to here. Being out there made me want to murder, beat, burn the world to the ground until I got an answer, until I had the truth, until I got her back. The realization she’s in trouble is enough to send me into a free fall.

My elbows rest on the top of my thighs, and my hands clench and release as though I’m warming up for a boxing match. The next person who walks through this hotel room door better be Carys, or I may end up with another reason I can’t be in Ireland.

At the sound of the clumsy clatter of a key in the lock, I jerk my head toward the door. I rise from my seat in the far corner of the suite, the darkness thicker here unless she turns on a light right away. When the door swings open, the person in the doorframe is too tall and broad to be Carys. From height alone, the figure could be Jay, but this guy has the rangy leanness I recognize. I contemplated flying to Chicago to murder him. The good news? I’m still in a murderous mood.

I draw my gun from the waistband of my jeans but keep it loose at my side. Eric probably hasn’t come here for a fight, but he’ll get one. He enters the room and then says over his shoulder, “She must not be here.”

Another figure emerges in the light from the hallway, causing a sigh of annoyance to escape me. Charles. Her father. Well, fuck me. I can’t kill him, which means I can’t kill Eric either.

They haven’t turned on a light yet. Instead they’re standing in the dim doorway chatting at a decibel I can’t quite catch. I’m not one to hide—ever. But the things that’ve happened to Carys since I woke up point to a level of interference from one or both men. When opportunity knocks, who am I to deny it entrance?

To the right of the chair is an armoire with enough space between it and the window for a person my size to slip between. I sneak over, hoping the two men are deep in conversation and ignore any movement. My chest strains against the heavy, old-fashioned furniture as I slide down as far as I can. My hand with the gun faces out in case I need to take care of a snitch or two.

The light flicks on, and Eric and Charles saunter in, their footsteps muffled by the carpet. They head in the direction of the minibar.

“All the alcohol is here, so she obviously hasn’t been in the room for more than a drop off,” Eric says, and the thump of his foot connecting with something, maybe her suitcase, reverberates around the room.

A glass clatters onto the wooden tabletop, and then liquid splashes into it. “Drink?” Charles asks.

“No. She gets pissed when I start without her.”

“At this point, it’s best to play by her rules, I suppose.” There’s a pause and then a glass thuds onto the table. “Who’d you say told you about the CIA?”

Eric chuckles. “I didn’t.”

The chair in front of me creaks, and my heart kicks in response. I’m concealed by the armoire and curtains, but I’m not na?ve enough to believe I can’t be discovered. They could turn me in to the Irish mob or the CIA. Could I kill them to stay alive and out of jail? Yes. Would she ever forgive me? Not a chance in hell.

“I’m concerned you’re fucking up our plan with whatever side deals you’ve been working. Why was my daughter in a PLA bar? Why is Valeriya dead? Nothing should put Carys at risk. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“The answer to the first is Jay’s good at his job. Perhaps too good. We may need to plant false leads to keep him off the scent. She’ll know someone in the organization has been dealing with the PLA either through Jay or, I imagine, the CIA. I suppose that can’t be helped now. The second question, well, that’s more complicated, and you don’t want to know.”

The sound of liquid being poured into a glass echoes through the room again. “When are you going to make your move?” Charles asks.

“Roughly a month. The timing of these things is always vague.”

There’s a quick flapping noise, and I picture Eric flicking his suit jacket open like he did the last time I met him.

Charles grunts. “A month? And she’s holed up with Finn Donaghey? Christ. She’ll either be pregnant or dead by the time your plan comes through. I agreed to this ridiculous plan with the understanding—”

“Her pregnancies don’t tend to stick.” Eric’s smooth, emotionless voice cuts off Charles. My fingers twitch on the gun. “The original miscarriage, wasn’t it? With him? A literal knife to the heart and a figurative one as well.” Eric’s voice hardens. “I don’t think she’s stupid enough to put herself in either situation again.”

My heart slows in my chest. What-the-actual-fuck did he just say? My brain is processing through mud. She was pregnant? With my child?

“You didn’t see how broken up she was,” Charles says.

“Doesn’t matter.” The chair creaks again as Eric rises, then he crosses the suite. “I’ve made mistakes—paying for that bitch’s abortion being the biggest—she forgave me every other indiscretion. This time around, she’ll be happy. Once I reveal everything to her, once she knows how serious I am, she won’t want to say no.” His laugh is ominous. “She won’t be able to.”

A glass hits the wooden table. Liquid pours into it.

“Then Carys and I will finally run this company together,” Eric says.

I press my forehead into the armoire and brace my free hand against it as Charles and Eric do a toast to the future of the Van de Berg kingdom. The roaring in my ears almost drowns out the sound of the suite door opening and closing.

“Oh,” Carys says, her voice breathy with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

The tension, coiled tight in my belly, releases in a rush. My heart strains at the music of her voice. She’s okay .

Another frisson of anger chases the comfort away. She shouldn’t be saying those words to them; she should say them to me.