“That’s impossible.”
Because Junior had “died” in a motorcycle accident not long after Ferrina was convicted. Santo Ferrina Sr. had been knifed in prison three years ago. That’s when Fionn had stopped worrying about his mother. Lyse wished she didn’t have to bring that worry back into his life all over again, but sometimes dead men didn’t stay dead.
“Not much is impossible nowadays. You know that, Fionn.”
He pressed harder. “Tell me what you know about Ferrina.”
Bossy Fionn was starting to piss her off, knife or not. She cursed, shaking the sting from her fingers. “I know everything; I’m smart, remember?” And you’ve become an asshole. “Can I rinse my hand, or are burns one of your torture options now?”
Fionn’s curses were far more colorful than hers, especially with the Irish accent, but he backed off, allowing her to move to the sink. The cool water soothed the pain searing her skin, and she let it run, a cheerful counterpoint to the weight of her words. “I know Ferrina Sr. was your father’s partner at Dublin International Banking. I know about the money they embezzled, and I know Ferrina Sr. murdered your father after he double-crossed Ferrina and wouldn’t tell where the money was. I know Ferrina was convicted a decade ago and died in prison.”
She turned the water off and reached for a dish towel, taking a few moments to pat her skin dry. Giving Fionn a cautious sideways glance, she moved to wipe up the spilled soup. His expression was completely closed off, revealing nothing, but the knife wasn’t in his hand any longer. That was a good sign, right?
“You could’ve read that in my personnel file. What is it having to do with his son?”
Throwing the dirty towel into the sink, she turned to face him. The edge of the counter dug into her back, steadying her. “To explain that, I need to show you something.”
“What?”
He wasn’t going to like this. She knew it, but that didn’t mean she could avoid it. “A couple of nights ago I caught something on camera that I think you need to see.”
Fionn’s narrowed gaze bored into her. She waited, barely daring to breathe, while he made his decision. No amount of pleading or arguing would convince him about this any more than it would convince him that she hadn’t meant to hurt him two months ago. He’d make up his own mind.
“What did you find?” he finally asked.
Relief sent a rush of fatigue through her. “It’s in the computer room.”
He gestured for her to lead the way. In her workroom the stiff chair that was the bane of her existence waited. Just looking at it made her hips hurt. Sliding onto the seat was even worse.
Her hand settled on the mouse. Fionn’s broad palm slapped down on top of it, sending pain flaring through her burns.
She waited.
“I don’t trust you,” he said in her ear. “I’ll never trust you.”
His rough voice scraped her insides like rocks. “I know.”
“Show me.” Slowly Fionn drew his hand away.
She clicked the mouse. The screen came on. Navigating through a series of folders, she found the video surveillance she needed, but when she opened the file, Fionn called her some very un-nice names.
She blinked back the tingle of tears and told herself to grow a freaking spine.
“That’s my mam’s cottage.”
Lyse knew that. Why else would she have a camera on it? Rather than argue about good intentions, she fast-forwarded to the part he needed to see.
At least this time the curse words weren’t directed at her. Would Fionn laugh if she told him that every time he said feck, she heard frack and wondered if he’d watched Battlestar Galactica too? Her left hand moved instinctively to the side, near the area of her desk that had held her sci-fi bobbleheads back when she’d been at Global First, but all that greeted her fingers was empty air.
Get on with it, Lyse.
A couple of clicks and she’d isolated the man standing under the trees at the side of Siobhan’s yard. “This guy appeared two nights ago.” The section enlarged, allowing Fionn a close-up, grainy view of the shadowed face. “I was able to do some cleanup on the image and came up with this.”
A slightly sharper image of the man appeared on the screen.
“Who is he?” Fionn growled. The hint of fear in his voice knotted her stomach. He was afraid for his mother.
He should be. Lyse was. Nothing else could’ve induced her to risk revealing her position.
“A foot soldier. Who he is isn’t important,” she said. “It’s really all about who he works for. I did some digging—”
“I bet.”
She ignored the muttered comment. He might thank her later, though she doubted it. “Rumor has it he works for a group called the Irish Cartel.” A few clicks and she’d pulled up the intel she’d gathered on their mystery dead man. “Guess who runs the Irish Cartel.”
She scooted back enough to allow Fionn closer to the monitor, but really all he needed was to see the first file—an image of a small group of men walking a crowded street. The only image she’d been able to find of what most intelligence contacts believed to be the head of the Cartel. She’d cleaned it up, focused it, enlarged it. There was zero doubt that the man in the center was Santo Ferrina Jr.
When Fionn straightened, his jaw was granite-hard. “What is the Irish Cartel?”
She clicked on that file next. “Bad news. They first surfaced just after Ferrina’s father was arrested, often in connection with a job—bank heist, robbery, that kind of thing.”
“Keeping himself bankrolled.”
She nodded. “Over the years they’ve gotten increasingly bolder, coming to the notice of European intelligence.”
Fionn was scanning her file. A little whistle escaped him, his breath warming the sensitive skin where he’d bitten her neck earlier. A shiver shot down her spine. “These are some big jobs.”
“And violent ones.
