“Are we—are we going to die on this honeymoon?” I ask.
And for one of the very few times in my life, I actually give a shit about the answer.
Chapter Twenty
LUCA
“No.”
Finch looks relieved by my response, but then, strangely, puzzled. He looks down at his legs again, covered in spatter, and nods slowly. He clears his throat and says, “I’d like to clean up.”
I’ve got my adrenaline under control by now. I had the shakes for a while after…well, I won’t think about that again, not yet, because I feel my temper rising once more. I’m not used to that hot anger. I’m usually much more restrained, and I’m kicking myself for shooting someone right next to Finch, considering the way his mother went out.
He doesn’t look like he’s freaking out, but how would I even know?
Frank has assured me that the asshole was Fuscone’s only man on the yacht; the rest are Tino’s. And if any of them have been turned, or if it’s actually Tino who’s ordered our deaths…well, we’ll know soon enough.
Tino. I hate to think of Sam Fuscone moving against him, but it was only a matter of time. I bet Tino knew it, too; he’ll have something in place.
At least I know we’re safe for the moment. The chair under the door handle won’t stop anyone really determined to get through it, but I have my gun.
So, let’s see.
I don’t really believe this was Tino’s doing. I also don’t believe there are any other enemies aboard, and I’ve taken care of the body. The blood can stay there as a warning in case I’m wrong, and there are others here who would do us harm.
Finch is safe. That’s all I care about.
But when I think of what a close thing it was—if I hadn’t been coming back down the dock right then—if I hadn’t caught sight of Finch’s bright bleached hair dancing around in the window and the cloud of smoke filling up that the room—if I hadn’t marched straight there, intending to catch him red handed with his drugs—
If I hadn’t heard the noise inside the room and Finch’s panicky voice…
Maybe it’s true, and the saints are watching over us.
It still surprises me the way my cool exploded, made me burst into that room, literally guns blazing, without thinking about how incredibly dumb it was to let off a shot in an enclosed space like that, and especially on a fucking yacht.
Finch has his weakness for drugs, but I seem to have mine, too: Finch. That protective, possessive madness rose up in me, an unstoppable force. I’ve never felt that way about anyone, even Frank.
But now, apparently, Howard Fincher Donovan the Third has found a way to trigger something uncontrolled and dangerous inside me.
Once I eliminated the deckhand, I shut the door on the mess and half-helped, half-dragged Finch back up to the master suite, where I put him to bed to sleep off whatever shit he’d taken. All those drugs and all that drinking seems to be kept in check with his gym regime, but damn those muscles make him hefty these days. At least I didn’t have to stitch anything up, although I was worried about his head wound. But I’ve learned enough over the years in tending to Frank—and myself—that I’m pretty sure his loss of consciousness was due to the drugs. God knows what the deckhand put in there.
I left Finch sleeping, locked him in, and went back to collect the body. The rest of the crew—the legitimate crew, as I’m thinking of them—were smart enough to make themselves scarce. So I don’t think any of them saw me rolling a large weighted bundle off the back of the yacht once we got out to sea again. Or if they did, they’re not saying anything.
I feel as safe as I’m going to in a place I don’t control, and I don’t intend to leave Finch alone for another second. So now all I have to do for the rest of my honeymoon is keep him right next to me, which…is what he actually wants.
My life just got easier, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.
I help him slowly into the bathroom, but I’m relieved to find he’s regaining his strength rapidly. “This is Tommy’s blood?” he asks when we reach the bathroom. It’s all black Italian marble and gold trimmings. I can see my reflection in the darkness everywhere I look.
Finch is still looking at his splattered legs.
“Don’t think about that,” I tell him.
“Are you kidding? I want to fucking Instagram this shit. That asshole was gonna knife me. He got what he deserved.” He looks up at me, licking his split lip. “Besides, this wasn’t just an attack on me, was it? It was supposed to be a sign to you, too.”
It’s such an incongruous statement that I let out a huff of laughter. But Finch isn’t wrong. This was supposed to be a sign to me, and maybe I need to think about the long game and stop worrying so much about Finch, who is fine, and safe, and mouthy as ever. That’s what I tell myself, anyway, and I try not to think about that red veil that came over my eyes when I heard Finch’s voice, high with fear. But I can’t help it replaying in my head, just for a moment, and my grip tightens around Finch’s arm.
He winces. “Ease up there, honey,” he complains.
“Sorry.” I can’t think clearly, and I don’t know why. I need to get away from him, think things through, understand the connections and the possibilities that this move from Fuscone has opened up. “I’ll leave you to your shower.”
“Nuh-uh,” he says, belligerence in his voice. “I’m having a bath with bubbles that fill this whole fucking room, and you’re gonna get into it with me.”
I look at the enormous sunken tub; shiny black like the rest of the room. “It’ll take an hour to
