Page 122 of Shattered Hearts

Shane’s eyes steel over with resolve. Resolve…or a rage more all-consuming than I’ve ever witnessed.

The downturned corners of my father’s mouth twitch with irritation. His bearded jowls tighten whenever he disapproves. I would know.

Donal hides his mouth behind his folded hands, his forehead creased with concern. “Enzo must’ve threatened him.”

Rory slams the phone down on the table. “But why didn’t he say anything?”

“He couldn’t.” I surprise the room and myself.

Six pairs of eyes drill into my face.

Shane nods, like he’s giving me permission to speak. “Explain.”

I point to one of the CCTV frames still running on the screen. My thoughts move faster than I can comprehend them, so I hope they don’t come out as gibberish.

“Look there.” My voice comes out breathy and unfamiliar. “That’s Stiletto.”

“The assassin?” Cian’s head snaps toward the screen, as does Shane’s.

I point out the killer in question lurking in the background of one of the security camera feeds.

Dad once asked me to compile a report of all the assassins currently operating in the city. The thing tookweeksto put together. Stiletto was the highest-profile hitman in the five boroughs at that time, and we suspected he was only there on a contract since he’s known to work primarily in Italy and along the southern coast of Europe.

What was he doing at that hospital?

“Rory, you were there. How the fuck did you miss him?” Donal’s gruff voice carries over to the Gallaghers’ tech guru, who seems consumed by shock and self-directed fury.

“Damn him.” Frustrated, Rory appears ready to punch himself in the face. “The De Lucas set us up.”

Darren zooms in on the frame featuring Stiletto. “What happened?”

“They must’ve been tailing us. All of us.” Rory scowls at the footage. “If Finn didn’t get away, Stiletto was there to kill me.”

Abruptly, Shane stands, commanding all the attention in the room. “I know where Enzo’s taken him.” The leader of the Irish mob eyes Rory, Darren, and Cian. “Red spring down.”

Even I know whatred spring downmeans. It’s Gallagher slang forbattle stations.

Cian, Rory, and Darren mobilize immediately, each heading for a seemingly well-choreographed exit. In that one moment, realization slams into me.

If the Irish are going to war with the Italians to bring Finn home, there’s no way in hell I’m going to sit on the sidelines and wait.

I couldn’t do anything when Finn was stabbed in the street. In the hospital, while he recovered, I parked my ass in a chair by his bedside and did nothing but cry for days, praying he’d wakeup. I should have told him I loved him then…that maybe I’ve loved him for years. But I was afraid he might not love me back.

I was a coward.

If Finn survives this shitshow he’s gotten himself into, I’ll lay my feelings for him on the table. Whether he reciprocates or not.

With quick steps, I follow Finn’s friends from the situation room on the third floor all the way to the armory in the basement. Through a pair of automatic barn doors is the Gallagher weapons repository and shooting range.

Bigger than an indoor tennis court, the left half of the space makes up the armory, the right half the shooting range.

When I first decided to live on my own, I got into a huge fight with our father about it. He mocked my ability to take care of myself.

I vowed to prove him wrong. So in the weeks leading up to my move, I used to sneak down here in the middle of the night and practice my aim.

I was already a pretty good shot. My father never would’ve considered using me as an informant otherwise. Not that he cared whether running errands for him got me killed. He just didn’t want me to be a liability or embarrass him. Those nights down here in the range also served to work off some of my anger.

The fury currently spiking my body temperature harkens back to it as Finn’s three closest friends pay me little mind, trading serious words about what’s to come.

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