by Shea Godfrey
The ceiling was vaulted and finished, and the eggshell-colored fans that hung down complemented the color of the brick walls. There were stairs on the opposite end of the loft, and a full kitchen that flowed out from the space beneath them and into the living area.
She wondered about the bed upstairs, and the thought of sharing it with Finn made her stomach toss over in a lovely manner. That particular mystery, however, was not quite as tantalizing at the moment as how Finn came to be in possession of such an exquisite, expansive space. Especially in one of the most miserly cities in the world, at least where real estate is concerned.
Casey stopped at the french doors and considered the lock. The open air terrace just beyond offered a gorgeous view of the surrounding blocks.
“Casey.”
Casey closed her eyes at the sound of Finn’s voice. She licked her lips and smiled as her hair fell forward. A shimmy of pleasure moved through her stomach and deep into her thighs, and her nipples became hard. This is just terrible, it really is…
“I thought you had left.”
Casey spun around.
Finn stood near the mantelpiece and she seemed a thousand miles away. Casey considered Finn’s hair first, and then she went to her face, an unexpected wave of distress pushing back at her happiness as she closed the distance between them.
Casey’s left hand took possession of a belt loop on Finn’s jeans, while her right lifted in a confident manner. The backs of her fingers brushed against Finn’s cheek, her touch careful upon the bruised flesh. Finn’s eyebrow was swollen and so was the lid, though not enough to close her eye. The bleed had spread and Casey wanted none of it, because the stippling upon the skin and the crease within her eyebrow were decidedly not what she had thought they were in the late night shadows, with Finn’s mouth on hers. It was not just a bruise.
Three shots, Casey reasoned. Two men down, and the third shot…no, it was the first shot.
“I thought you’d left.” Finn smiled in a guileless manner.
“No,” Casey answered with a grin of her own, unable to stop it. “I told you I wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
“I know, but…?”
“But I’m sure you’re busy,” Finn replied with care.
“I’m sure I am.”
Finn’s eyes sparked. “Why are you mad?”
The real truth of Finn’s injuries was new to her, and before she could put it into a neat little box and address the ramifications at a later date and time, reality popped her in the mouth with a closed fist. “Did you get shot in the head?”
Finn blinked at her, startled.
“You were shot in the fucking head, Finn,” Casey accused with barely contained outrage. She stepped back to maintain a physical distance, if not perspective.
“Oh, well, wait now,” Finn started. “I wasn’t really—”
“I was there, Finn—I saw it.” Casey interrupted. “And I don’t care who you are or what you used to do, only a fool plays those kind of odds. Whatever that was, it was a total clusterfuck and you know it!”
“No, I didn’t like it either,” Finn agreed in a rational voice. “But I also wouldn’t say I was shot in the head.”
“No?” Casey fired back. “That’s not a gunshot wound?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“No.”
“No?”
Finn’s pleased expression was filled with unexpected warmth. “Stop repeating what I say, Marinos.”
“I’m adding the question marks, Starkweather. You seem uncertain.”
“O’Connell.”
Casey started to speak and then stopped. “What?”
“My real name is O’Connell.”
Casey considered the statement for a moment and then she was moving. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Finn.” She brushed past her and stalked to the couch. “Do you think I give a damn what your real name is?” She slid across the floor and grabbed Finn’s coat from where it had fallen the night before. She looked up as she dug within the inner pockets and her eyes narrowed in warning. “Although if you tell me your name isn’t Finnegan? You better save last night in a special place, because you’ll never get that close again.”
Finn smiled. “No, that one’s right.”
Casey pulled the thick manila envelope free, dropped the duster, and ripped at the seal. “That’s good. Moaning out the wrong name as I’m getting fucked has never been high on my list of things to do.”
“Not much fun for the other person either, I suspect.”
Casey smiled, the expression arriving completely against her will. The sound of traitorous laughter was in her voice, as well. “Don’t even start.”
The passports fell into her hand as she dropped the envelope.
They were American, and they were real, or they were the best damn forgeries she had ever seen. She did not have the impression, however, that the National Security Agency dealt in forged passports. “What sort of deal did you cut?” She tried to put the pieces together. The first passport was for Sahir Hamdan, and he was Syrian, as were the others. “What the hell are you doing, Finn?”
“Finishing a bargain I struck two years ago.”
Casey studied her face with every ounce of deductive reasoning she could muster before she’d had her first cup of coffee. “Malik.”
Finn nodded. “His cousin’s family. They ran from Homs and wound up in Jordan. They fled without their papers and now they’re in Zaatari, with no way out. His cousin, Sahir, was a teacher of Western poetry and literature. When the shabiha came for him, they ran.” Finn gestured to the documents Casey held. “There’s one for his wife, and one each for their three children. Those papers give them full political asylum. As of yesterday, they’re official citizens of the United States of America.”
Casey stared at her, uncertain of how she should proceed with this new information. “And you got shot in the head for these?”
“Only a little bit.” Finn admitted. “I was more than content at the bookstore, debating the finer points of good literature, all while wanting you so badly that I popped something in the back of my brain. Something I’m fairly certain I’ll need at a later date, by the way, but they called me. I thought the deal had died over a year ago, at least. It was the last call I ever expected. I jumped as high as they told me to—I admit it.”
“Does Malik know what you were doing?” Casey asked, though she was fairly certain he had no idea. He was too interested in looking out for your heart, Finn, instead of keeping your fine ass out of real trouble.
Finn looked a bit sheepish. “No.”
“Why you?”
“It was a crime of opportunity, if you will. I still had the contacts that would get me close.” Finn made a face of discontent as she debated her words. “Close to the guy you—”
“Ammon Richter?”
“Jesus.” Finn frowned and her right shoulder came up slightly. “You’re gonna get nailed if you aren’t careful.”
Casey laughed. She’d had enough. A fucking Boy Scout…sort of. Casey considered the ways in which Finn had touched her the night before, and then she considered what might come next. A fucking badass, sort of almost a Boy Scout…okay, not a Boy Scout at all. Jesus, we’re never gonna get out of here in one piece. She found the thought oddly pleasing as she let her eyes wander over her newly poured tall drink of water.
Finn’s lips curled to the side in a sly grin that Casey had never seen from her before, and then she was on the move.
Finn’s body language was likely a bit more mercenary than she understood it to be, but Casey had no plans to inform her of that fact. It was almost lupine in nature, and her natural fierceness could be seen even when it was not her dominant emotion. Casey’s lips parted slightly as a spear of anticipation sliced through her.
“Has anyone ever told you how sweet your lower lip tastes?” Finn’s voice was ever so soft as she stood but a few inches away.
“Don’t change the
subject,” Casey managed.
“It tastes like plum brandy on a summer’s night in June,” Finn continued, ignoring her with a flash of rebellion in her eyes. “Slivovitz, made from the damson plums that grow in the hills, north of the White City. You may pick them early in the morning, in the spring…”
Finn took the papers from Casey and dropped them onto the couch. “But if you try to eat them from your hand?” Finn looked down into her eyes. “They’re really very tart, and they’ll make you sneeze, and you think at first, I will never eat these again, they’re really quite awful…but their color is so rich and lush, like velvet for your eyes, that you try again when no one is looking. But your second bite is still too sour, though a fraction less cruel for having taken the first.”
Casey held her breath as Finn’s index finger caressed a path from one side of her lower lip to the other. She felt it between her legs in no uncertain terms.
“But in June,” Finn whispered, “their taste is the fermented sweetness of laughter, the laughter of the one lover you can never forget. The one whose name shall be whispered with your last breath. It lives in small glass cups, cups that were blown within a fire that burned a hundred years ago, cups that play an F-sharp in a D scale, when they touch in a toast meant for good fortune.”
Casey felt the absence of Finn’s brief touch like a physical blow.
“That, Cassandra Marinos, is how your lower lip tastes.”
Casey regarded her for a seriously long time before she allowed the smile that fluttered within her chest to reach her lips. She had just been on the receiving end of a poem spun out of thin air, and she knew it. And though it certainly wasn’t the first time a top had tried to charm her away from her own path, by God and sonny Jesus, it was the first time it had ever fucking worked. “I swear to God, Finnegan,” Casey said in promise, “if you find me a decent cup of coffee and some real french toast?”
Finn leaned close, her eyes bright with laughter. “I’ll find you these things, and you’ll owe me nothing.” Finn’s hands slipped beneath Casey’s shirt and pulled her close, her fingers opening upon Casey’s skin. “For you have nothing to offer me that isn’t already mine for the taking.”
Casey moaned as Finn’s tongue opened her mouth, though it wasn’t long before she was laughing in their kiss. “You’re still…in so much trouble…Finnegan Whoever.”
“In a sticky wicket, eh?”
“A sticky something.”
Chapter Sixteen
London
March 2010
“My friend,” Asher said as he rolled his smoke, “you are not listening to me.”
Finn glared at him with dark eyes. “I am listening.”
Asher smiled. “Yes, that is what my Domino always says, after which she goes and does exactly what I told her not to do. She does it, I believe, because she does not like to be ruled by another person. Her freedom is everything, but she does not understand yet that freedom is not what she thinks it is. But you will do it, because it is your nature to do what you think is right.”
Finn’s expression softened when she smiled. “I’m not a fucking Boy Scout.”
Asher chuckled. “No, not that.”
“Listen, you told me that Ketrin—”
“She has big brown eyes,” Asher said, ignoring her. “And they have the power to sway, oh, my sweet Lord, it is very wonderful, and terrible at the same time. Such a beautiful woman, she has the power to destroy worlds.”
Finn laughed. “Thankfully, none of them are yours. You’re her papa.”
Asher smiled and then sealed his cigarette, tacking it down with a smooth swipe and turn of his fingers. He set it between his lips and his gold Zippo pinged and ripped, its flame rising and lighting his smoke. “No, she is my Domino. Perhaps you, Finnegan Starkweather, she would be gentle with, but I cannot guarantee it.”
Finn blushed and glanced down with a strange half smile. “I don’t think I’m her type.”
“I am betting you are everyone’s type.” Asher smiled when she looked up, clearly not understanding it was a compliment. “It means you are the sort of person people want around.”
Finn shrugged and Asher extended the smoke to her. “Take this—I will make another.”
Finn took it and brought it to her lips.
Asher scoffed and pulled a new paper from his pack. “Everyone thinks I am only so smart.”
“A carefully cultivated ruse, in my opinion.”
Asher smiled and bobbed his eyebrows, glancing up. “Will you just listen, then?” He stopped his smoke and tapped at his temple with a finger. “You must listen up here.” He put his hand above his heart. “Do not listen here. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand,” Finn answered quietly.
“Ketrin Arshavin is not a man you fuck with. He is not even a man you run over with your car, and then go back and shoot in the head just to be safe. Because he will get up, and he will remember who ran him over and shot him so rudely, and then he will proceed to crush you and all that you love. He is the man you run from at all costs.”
“Then I don’t know why we’re even talking,” Finn argued with a frown. “You said—”
“You were looking for the man responsible for the deaths at Badovinci. That man is Ketrin Arshavin.”
Finn’s expression was quick and curious. “You never have told me how you knew that, by the way. How did you know I was looking for the Butcher of Badovinci?”
“Many people are looking for the Butcher. Important people, yes?”
Finn sat back in her seat, her black wool jacket stark against the red vinyl of the booth. She wanted to trust him, he could see it, but she still wasn’t sure. “Yes, which begs the question, why come looking for me? I’m no one, and we both know it.”
Asher lit his smoke, then moved the ashtray to the middle of the table.
“Thomasino Lazarini would pay you some very serious money for the name you’ve given me for free. So I have to wonder, what is it you want from me in return?”
Asher watched as Finn took a drag on her smoke. She resembled a young Alain Delon, only just…not. He sniffed a gentle laugh. “Why are young people so suspicious?”
Finn’s smile was beautiful, curving the left side of her lips. “Why don’t you just answer the question?”
“Do you think I wish to be mixed up with organized crime?” Asher raised his eyebrows at her. “I have enough problems.”
“His money is as good as any.”
Asher scoffed. “Strange thing for a detective inspector of Interpol to say.”
Finn shrugged. “Well, it is—good money, I mean.”
“I would like you to do me a favor, okay?”
“What is it?”
“Not now, my friend, but later.”
Finn’s bright eyes sparked with interest.
“It is nothing illegal,” Asher assured her. “I promise you that. I would not do that.”
“And you’ll give me Ketrin Arshavin?”
Her eyes had become hard, and he could almost feel her heartbeat push into a deeper, darker rhythm. “No, my lovely friend,” he said and watched as her eyes showed subtle surprise. “Ketrin Arshavin may be the man responsible for the deaths at Badovinci, it’s true, for it was his order that was carried out. But that was like ordering a steak for Ketrin—do you see what I mean?”
“No,” Finn said softly, and he could see a touch of sorrow within her eyes now.
“He orders a steak, someone brings it, and he eats it.” Asher picked a bit of tobacco from his tongue as he exhaled. “The empty plate goes back to the kitchen. He does not think of where the steak came from, or who cooked it just so. He does not think of the cow that dies, or the farmer who tended the cow for many years. It is just meat on a plate and it makes him happy, because someone brought him what he wanted. He thinks no more about it.”
Finn took another drag on her smoke, leaned forward, and tapped the ashes into the ashtray. Her eyes were bright
with unshed tears, and for a brief moment he could feel the heat of her anger. It was gone by the time she sat back again.
“But there is always a man who finds the place which makes the best steaks in town. And he watches the chef, to make sure he is skilled at his job. If the chef is not a good cook, this man will kill the chef and do it himself. Sometimes, he will go out and kill the cow himself, if need be, or the farmer, if he does not wish to give up his cow. This man likes to do these things, because the power he craves, is not the power of Ketrin Arshavin. Ketrin Arshavin is a good master, and this man loves him.
“He loves him for several reasons, but mostly, he loves Ketrin because Ketrin does not mind if he kills the chef for merely being a bad cook. And he approves if this man kills the farmer because the farmer did not respect Ketrin enough to give up his cow. All because Ketrin wanted a steak on his plate, which he would eat and forget about, until the next time he wants a steak.”
Finn’s hands sat upon the table as she watched her smoke burn to ash.
Asher took up his drink and sipped at the whiskey. Finn took a drag and then leaned forward and put it out.
When she looked up, he had no idea what she was going to say. “What did you do, James, to Ketrin Arshavin, that keeps you awake at night?”
Asher nodded and set his glass down, the ice clinking softly. It was a good question and an extremely keen observation. “How do you know it keeps me up at night?”
“Because I only ever see you in the dead of night.”
Asher smiled at her. “I am an old thief—these are my office hours.”
“How good a thief are you?”
The question surprised him. “There is only one better.”
Finn smiled, her eyes alight. “Domino?”
Asher chuckled happily. “I cannot say.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
“No.”
Her disappointment was obvious.
