Page 9 of Finn

The guard straightens but keeps his hand on the gun holstered on his side. The other guard keeps his finger close to the trigger of the shotgun he grips in his hands. Guard number two directs us where to park with the end of his shotgun and waits behind the car for us to exit.

“Warm welcome,” my lieutenant comments as we follow the two men to the front door.

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Amatto doesn’t like us too much. Hell, none of the Italian families do. They view us as nothing more than street hoodlums with no smarts, only brawn. At one point in history, that was true of the Irish mob, but things have changed across the East Coast. We got smarter and more organized. Instead of spending all our time fighting with other Irish families, we learned to coexist in our own territories. My family happens to control Boston but not the Port of Boston which has been held in the Cataldis tight grip.

Until now. this new alliance with Amatto will guarantee that.

Cillian and I walk through the arched doorway, and we’re led through the massive foyer then down a short hallway to a sitting room with walls made of bookshelves and row upon row of old books lining the shelves. My mom would get a kick out of this place. She always tells Dad she wants him to build her a library in their house.

“Mr. Amatto will join you shortly,” one of the nameless guards tells us.

Cillian looks around the space, walking up to one of the bookshelves and surveying its contents.

“Do you think this guy has read all of these?” he asks, eyeing the range of novels.

I shrug, not really interested in the reading habits of the Mafia don.

I take in the large space and the ornately carved wooden couches with thick leather cushions spaced throughout the room. One wall isn’t covered in bookshelves; instead, it’s painted with a mural that looks like something you’d find in the Sistine Chapel. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s a replica of the famous ceiling of the chapel. Jesus Christ, this man has his house decorated like he has money to burn. Everything is plush and expensive, including the books Cillian can’t stop drooling over.

“These are mostly in Italian,” he says, taking a book from the shelf and opening it.

“Yes, my father was a collector,” I hear from the doorway of the library.

We turn toward the voice and see my future father-in-law standing tall with his wife by his side, her arm looped through his as they take us in.

Cillian returns the book to the shelf as the Amattos approach.

“So nice to meet you, Finnegan,” Amatto’s wife says in a faintly accented voice, welcoming me and Cillian to her home.

“You as well, Mrs. Amatto,” I reply.

She waves her hand as a friendly smile graces her light-pink lips. “Please, call me Lilliana. We’re going to be family soon.”

I smile because I don’t want to be rude to the woman, but the contract hasn’t been signed. As much as Mario Amatto wants this deal to take place, I’m not about to be bowled over by him because he thinks I’m desperate for this alliance.

“Please have a seat. Alessia should be down shortly,” Mario says. “Would you like a drink?”

Cillian and I sit on one of the lush leather couches while Mario fixes himself a scotch neat.

“Would love one, thank you. But I do prefer Irish whiskey.”

“I’m afraid I only have scotch. I can ring one of my men to see if they can scrounge some up for you.”

Leaning back on the couch, I wave my hand in his direction. “Don’t go through any trouble. I’m sure what you’re having is fine.”

Yes, I’m sure the expensive scotch housed in a crystal decanter is perfectly delicious. I just wanted to make a point to remind him who he’s dealing with. Not some smooth-talking Italian mafioso, but a no-bullshit Irishman who isn’t going to put up with being steamrolled and isn’t afraid to call him out if he tries.

“I’d love one too, Dad.”

I look toward the doorway again and see the woman of the hour. Holy shit, the pictures I saw of Alessia Amatto did not do her justice. They must have been taken years ago because the pictures I saw were of a girl who looked far more innocent than the vixen standing before us.

Her dark hair is styled into soft waves that beg to be mussed up by my hands, and she’s wearing a fitted red dress that shows off her trim waist and tightly holds to her rounded hips like it’s a second skin. It’s as though some higher being asked what I would find most attractive in a woman and then molded Alessia to my specifications.

While all of those thoughts are swirling in my head, I work damn hard to keep the mask of indifference I wear most days firmly in place. If I don’t, I might start drooling over those curves and have a hell of a time not getting lost in the green eyes that hold fire and mischief behind a look of being the ice princess she’s known for. It doesn’t matter how attractive she is. I’ve never been one to come undone over a pretty face, and I’m not about to start now, no matter the visceral reaction I’m having to the stunning beauty before me.

“Alessia, come meet Finnegan and his man Cillian,” her father says as he pours another glass of scotch.

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