Page 207

Saint frowns. "Is Ma up to something? Is that what this is?"

“This is about me.” I swallow hard against the pulse slamming in my throat. “And Fi––”

The feed-room door flies open, and Shay appears in the doorway.

"Saint! We've got a fucking problem."

Chapter 38

Fionn

The wrought-iron gates part before my Range Rover reaches them.

Floodlights throw light and shadow over the drive, strobing the armed guards stationed on either side of the entrance.

One nods as I pass. The other presses a hand to the radio clipped to his shoulder, announcing my arrival.

At the turning circle in front of the main entrance of my family home, I kill the engine and sit for a moment, fingers resting on the steering wheel.

I nearly didn’t come.

After everything he’s done, the invitation to Sunday dinner seemed less like tradition and more like an opportunity to get payback for Graves.

But maybe we can work things out, which would keep Sera off my father’s radar.

I climb out, lift the collar on my coat against the rain, and march to the front door. The head doorman steps aside and welcomes me home.

“Good to have you home, Mr. Harrington.”

“My home’s in the city now.”

“Let me take your coat.”

I shrug it off and hand it to him.

Inside, warmth rolls over me, carrying the scent of old floor rugs, cigar smoke, and fresh flower arrangements.

Staff move quietly through the corridors preparing for dinner, running like clockwork as always.

Two more guards stand outside my father’s study, jackets hanging open, so their gun holsters are visible.

They both acknowledge me; however, these men are loyal to him. Not me. I know the men who’d put their neck on the line for me and those who’d put a bullet in my back for him.

One of them opens the double doors.

“Mr. Harrington.”

My father sits in a leather wingback beside the fire, a fat cigar burning between his fingers. A crystal tumbler of whiskey glows in the firelight on the narrow table beside him.

Mother occupies the chaise by the window, wearing a long emerald silk dress, her usual high ball gin accessory clamped in one hand while the other turns a page of a magazine.

When she notices me, her red lips spread wide.

“There you are, Fionn,” she says, dropping her kitten heels to the floor. “Prompt as always.”

She crosses the room, kisses my cheek, and smooths an imaginary crease from my shirt.

“You look tired. Are you not sleeping, son?”