Destroy Me (Southern Nights: Enigma Book 3)

by Ella Sheridan

  “Fionn McCullough. As I live and breathe.”

  Not for long. “Santo.”

  The man grimaced, his dark mustache twisting into something threatening. “You always were too familiar with your betters.”

  Fionn allowed a chuckle to escape, though he knew the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Is that supposed to be you?” He moved down the path a few steps. “Let’s just remember which one of us needs money and which one has it.”

  “Not for long,” Ferrina snarled, echoing Fionn’s thought of a moment ago. “Not if you want that pretty mam of yours all in one piece.”

  We’ll see, asshole. Fionn shrugged, a gesture he knew would infuriate his opponent even more.

  “Let’s see it, McCullough.”

  “That might be difficult,” Fionn said. The grin that flickered over his lips this time was genuine.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because most of the gold is about two miles that way”—he pointed back over his shoulder toward the rear of the house—“and it will take some serious doing to haul it out.”

  Ferrina’s hand went to the small of his back, no doubt where his weapon waited. “You are wasting my time. How do I even know you have the money here?”

  “I didn’t have the money put here, Santo.” The twist he put on the name made it sound like an insult. “My father did, in gold bricks, before your father killed him. But I do have proof that it’s here, in the pack I’m carrying.” He slid one strap from his shoulder.

  Ferrina pulled his gun then, bringing it up to point at Fionn. “Show me!”

  “Fionn,” Deacon said in his ear. “Nice and slow.”

  Exactly what he’d intended. Fionn let the bag settle slowly on the ground at his feet, then reached to unzip it. The tension in the air rose exponentially when he reached between the gaping flaps, but he didn’t stop, just kept up his steady movements until he pulled his hand clear of the top of the bag, heavy gold bar gripped in his fist. Several of the men cursed.

  “Nice, yeah?” Fionn watched Ferrina’s greedy gaze fasten on the gold. “Easy to melt down, easy to change into cash. Hard to trace. Now who was the smartest man in our fathers’ partnership?”

  A slow red flush rose along Ferrina’s neck, up his face. Fionn enjoyed the sight, but not as much as he was enjoying what he could hear—the faint rumbling of vehicles coming down the drive.

  “See, I normally wouldn’t be hesitatin’ to hand over just about anything to protect my mam,” he continued. “The problem isn’t giving you the money; it’s what you want to use it for.” He nodded toward the now-visible caravan coming onto the estate. “A wee birdie told me you were looking to finance an expansion. Know how the European mafia likes to deal with incursions into their territory?”

  Ferrina’s eyes were widening, realization dawning in his eyes as he looked behind him. His men, scattered around the drive, began converging toward the house.

  Rage rose in Ferrina—Fionn could see it, feel it. Feed it.

  “Those cars? Those are Andre Sonaro’s men. I think you’ve heard of him? Head of the Grasseri Syndicate. One of the largest mafia organizations on the Continent. How do you think he feels about your plans?”

  “You didn’t,” Ferrina snarled toward him just as the line of vehicles screeched to a halt behind the Irish Cartel.

  “Of course I did, but hey, I’m a man of my word. You came for gold”—he hefted the bar in his right hand, his left reaching back to grasp his gun—“so here. Catch.”

  Human instinct is a powerful thing. No matter how slow our brain, if an object is coming toward us, we will try to catch it. We might not succeed, but we will try.

  Ferrina tried. Fionn put a bullet through his brain before the man’s hands could close around the gold he so desperately desired.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Everything’s fine, Mam,” Fionn said into the phone, his voice holding the tiniest bit of exasperation. Women got emotional when something like this was over; Lyse knew because she’d been fighting tears for the past hour. “I’ll get back with ya as soon as Mack touches base, but everything is fine, all right?”

  Deacon was giving his friend an amused look. The man was engaged; no doubt he had experience at this too. Fionn would learn.

  With someone else. This is about over for you, isn’t it, Lyse?

  Could you tell yourself to stuff it and still be sane? Of course, sane was relative.

  “That was one helluva cleanup crew,” Deacon said when Fionn hung up the phone. The three of them sat in the hotel room Lyse and Fionn had slept in the night before. On a nearby radio, the sound of Mack’s voice came through as he liaised with the local garda in the aftermath of the fight between Andre Sonaro’s crew and Ferrina’s men. Casualties had been as minimal as they could make them, though only a few of Ferrina’s men had escaped. Sonaro had been serious about guarding his territory, and Ferrina’s incursion had angered not only him but several other crime lords in Europe. The prestige of taking care of their problem had been worth the risk of the head of the Grasseri Syndicate carrying out a hit on foreign soil.

  Not that he’d carried out the hit on Ferrina. Fionn had.

  Lyse’s heart had been in her throat as she’d listened to Fionn’s conversation through her earpiece earlier in the day. When she heard that single gunshot, despite knowing their plan, panic had flowered deep in her gut, nearly paralyzing her. She’d finally managed to make herself move, to get down the back stairs to meet Fionn and escape, but when he’d arrived…

  God, the look in his eyes.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Maybe conflict? She’d certainly spent plenty of time, both before and after the act, agonizing about what she’d had to do at Global First. But at that moment, staring up at him… There’d been nothing in Fionn’s eyes—no emotion, no regret, no nothing. Just a blank wall.

  It had taken a couple of hours for that blankness to dissipate.

  “Yeah, Sonaro means business,” Fionn said, pacing the length of the room, phone still in his hand. “We had a couple of run-ins not long after I left Ireland, in the Middle East. I didn’t tell him about the gold or this situation might’ve turned out very differently.”

  The gold would be handed over to the garda. Lyse wasn’t sure exactly what tale Mack was spinning to mesh all of this together and have it make sense, but she knew whatever he was saying was working. The garda weren’t looking for Fionn. Sonaro and his men had melted into the forest as if by magic. All in all, it had worked out exactly as they’d planned.

  So why didn’t she feel satisfied? Relieved? She should be glad their mission had succeeded, but that sense that she could lose herself crying for the next week and a half wasn’t going away.

  “Was Siobhan all right?” she asked.

  “Fine,” Fionn said absently. “King’s taking her back to Mack’s.”

  She’d known that—she’d been standing right here as he talked to her—but really what Lyse wanted was Fionn’s focus, not his answer. Unfortunately his focus was on Mack, as it should be, not on babying her over the emotional hump she’d somehow face-planted into.

  Unable to keep the calm facade intact a moment longer, she crossed the room and began to rummage in her bag. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

  Both men nodded her way, barely seeming to register her words. Lyse slipped into the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it.

  The first tear slid down her cheek.

  With shaking hands she stripped off the clothes she’d worn in the woods and kicked them into the corner. With every tug, every pull, another tear fell and the lump in her throat got bigger. The throbbing at her temples beat at her, hounded her, refused to let her think about anything but the rhythm that echoed in her head, the racing of her heart. When she climbed into the tub, hot water hit her thighs, belly, chest, face, and she closed her eyes, letting it pour over her, cleanse her of the dirt and sweat and fear and adrenaline. The tears she couldn’t seem to co
ntrol. She stuffed her fist hard into her mouth and let everything out, and yet, even when she could breathe again, she didn’t feel relief.

  Water was supposed to wash away dirt. Why couldn’t it wash away sins? Or consequences? Why couldn’t they go back a year and let her gather her courage in both hands and approach the man she’d always wanted? Have a soft place to land when threats had arrived out of nowhere? Instead she’d made a decision that destroyed her life. Yes, she’d ultimately come to know what living truly was, discovered the joy of being in Fionn’s arms. Now it would all be taken away again.

  Fionn had told her just a few hours ago, in the bed on the other side of the bathroom wall, that he wouldn’t be taking her back to the States when this was over. And now it was over. For a little while after Fionn found her, she’d felt clean. Now she was going back into hiding, going back to running. A world where she’d never be clean again. Was that really what she wanted?

  How the hell did she live without him beside her? Could she survive the rest of her life on the run, with no Fionn, alone? Because if she knew anything at all, she knew no one would ever take his place. No man could make her feel what he had. Could she walk away from that?

  But she had to, right? If she went back, she’d have to face the consequences of her actions, have to go through a trial, jail. Would Fionn stay with her through all of that, help her fight? Would he forgive her all over again when everyone else stared at her with accusation in their eyes?

  What was the alternative? She thought back to all the lonely nights she’d endured, watching the people she cared about live their lives without her. Watching Fionn give what she’d so desperately wanted to other women. She squeezed her eyes shut, hung her head until the water pummeled the back of her neck. She wouldn’t want to look, just like she hadn’t before, but she’d look anyway. Just like before. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself if there was the remotest chance she could see his face, watch him move. And every single time, it would rip her heart to shreds.

  He hasn’t said he loves you. You know he’ll move on.

  The hard knot in her stomach surged upward, and she bent over to empty what little was in her stomach onto the shower floor. When the spasms died away, she rinsed the tub, rinsed her mouth with warm water, then leaned against the tile and tried desperately to breathe.

  She couldn’t bear to go back to that, to ripping her heart out over and over. Fionn’s forgiveness in the car…that had felt so good. She had felt good for the first time in a long time. Like her heart had been scrubbed clean, not with soap and water, but with love. The washcloth in her hand could never wash away the stains on her soul.

  And Fionn’s forgiveness had started the process, but he couldn’t finish it. Only she could.

  Stepping out of the tub, she dried hastily, her hands still shaking, this time for a different reason: fear. She found herself leaning against the sink, her fists planted on the counter, her gaze meeting itself in the mirror. Her eyes stared back, wide and pain-filled and terrified. And knowing. Because as scared as she was, she wouldn’t be able to face herself in the mirror until she faced her past, just like Fionn had done by coming here. Strength wasn’t just about muscles; Fionn had taught her that, shown her she was stronger than she knew.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  After throwing clothes on her still-damp body, she forced herself to walk to the door, grasp the knob, pull it open. Breathing shallow in her too-tight lungs, she moved into the bedroom. Fionn and Deacon were still standing in the same positions, still waiting, Deacon in the chair, Fionn pacing. They both looked up as she entered the room.

  “Fionn…” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, forcing her to stop, swallow, try again. “Fionn, I need to talk to you about something.”

  Whatever he could see on her face must’ve driven home how important this was, because he set the phone on the table and walked to where she stood, planted, mere feet from the bathroom door. A vee dug into the space between his eyebrows. “All right. What are you needing?”

  When he reached for her, she backed up, hands out to ward him off. If she let him touch her, if she felt his warmth, his strength one more time, she’d give in and beg him to run away with her, far, far away where no one would ever find them. And she couldn’t do that. Fionn had earned his freedom; she wouldn’t put him back in a cage.

  Her silence made that vee deeper. “What’s the matter, love?”

  She steeled herself, stiffening her knees when they threatened to buckle at the sound of that word on his lips. “I’ve made a decision.”

  The air in the room seemed to thicken, tension ratcheting up as if Fionn could sense the enormity of what was coming, was readying himself to fight something he couldn’t even see yet. Deacon had gone silent behind him, and she knew from long experience working with the man that he was zeroed in on her too.

  “What decision?” Fionn asked, gravel in his voice. When she didn’t answer, he stepped forward, towering over her, reaching for her arms despite her clear sign to back off. “What decision?”

  She opened her mouth, thinking the words would fall out easily, but she had to force the air from her lungs, the sound from her throat.

  “I’m going back to the States with you. Back to Global First.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Tell her she can’t, Mam.” Fionn dug his fingers into his hair as he paced the length of Mack’s kitchen, desperation making it hard to breathe. “Tell her she has to stay here. Feck, help me tie her up till I’m gone. Anything. Just help me!”

  His mam sat at the wide wooden table, her smile small and secretive. Maddening. All he wanted was someone to help keep Lyse safe, help protect her from this insane idea that she should turn herself in. She was trying to make things right—he got that—but it didn’t mean he wanted the woman he loved locked up in prison. He wanted her free. Secure. Protected.

  He’d forgiven her. He didn’t want to escort her back to her punishment.

  “Son, sit.”

  He paced another lap around the island, just because he thought he’d be going crazy if he had to contain himself in a seat, but his mam wasn’t one to be ignored. He pulled the chair at her elbow out and sat, his elbows going to the table, his face landing in his palms. He was going to hyperventilate; he knew it. Nothing he could do about it. Nothing anyone would help him do. He’d argued with Lyse until Mack came back to the hotel room. Argued all the way home. When they’d arrived back at Mack’s, she’d walked calmly into their bedroom and began packing. That had been the final straw.

  “I can’t take it, Mam. I can’t do this.”

  A warm palm landed on his forearm, gripped the muscle there, holding on tight. “You’re capable of so much more than you know, Fionn. Always have been. We knew that when you were a child, and when you became a man, you proved it. Look at all you’ve been through. Do you really think you couldn’t do this and so much more?”

  He fisted his hands, digging them hard into the sockets of his eyes. “I don’t want to,” he finally admitted. Though it wasn’t really about want; want was too simple a word. This was about begging for an alternative, desperately seeking anything to save the one person he had no power to save, not if she refused him. This was about the choking fear that something would happen to her because, where she was going, he couldn’t stand in front of her and take any bullet headed her way.

  “You know,” his mam said, her voice washing over him like a warm blanket, “I wondered for a long time what I would’ve done had your father come to me, confessed. Would I forgive him? Turn him in? Help him make it right?” Her grip on his arm tightened. “Stay silent?”

  When he glanced up, surprised, she chuckled. “I’m not a saint, Fionn. Of course I considered just running away, the three of us, not saying anything to anyone. Not that it was a practical option, considering, but one could dream. I loved him more than life; I’d have done anything to keep that dream.” Her smile held the same warmth as her hand, h
er voice, steadying him as his world turned to chaos. “All kinds of crazy things went through my mind, but in the end I wasn’t given that choice, was I? Your father made it for me, and Ferrina killed him.”

  He covered her hand with one of his own. “I know.”

  “You have a choice I never got to make. You could run away; you could turn your back on her. You could hide with her.” Turning her palm, she laid it on the table, waiting while Fionn settled his hand over it. “The question you need to ask, before any of that, is…why are you insisting on protecting her?”

  He studied their hands. He already knew the answer to the question. There was no doubt in his mind whatsoever that he loved Lyse. But love meant being together, didn’t it? Having each other’s backs? Taking care of her? He couldn’t do any of those things if, instead, he did what she was asking of him. To help her turn herself in.

  “I love her.”

  “I know.” His mam shook her head, her smile wry. “I doubt she knows that, but I do. I look at you when your eyes are on her, and there’s no doubt in my mind. Your father would be proud of your choice, as am I.” She squeezed his hand. “But loving her doesn’t mean taking away her choices. We can’t make others do what we want; we all have free will. If we didn’t, I’d certainly turn back time and force your father to do what was right. That’s just not possible.

  “We all make our own choices. Lyse has made hers, very courageously, I might add. Now help her do what she feels is right. Be there for her any way you can.”

  “But—”

  Siobhan laid a finger on his lips, silencing his protest. “If you love her, Fionn, don’t wait. Go tell her. Give her your strength. The road she’s about to walk won’t be easy, but it’s the one she’s chosen. She needs you beside her.”

  “Fionn?”

  Lyse’s voice burned through him like a swallow of whisky he hadn’t bothered to savor. He certainly hadn’t savored her near enough in the handful of days they’d been given. He closed his eyes, let himself feel the pain for no more than a moment, then manned up and stood. He knew what he had to do. “Thanks, Mam.”