Chapter 6

"Finley?"

Before she could answer, before she could scream for help, Shane lunged. He was a wall of muscle and cheap cologne, his hand grabbing for the phone.

"Give me that!" he snarled.

Finley twisted away, a raw, terrified scream tearing from her throat. "Get away from me! Don't touch me!"

The sounds-her scream, the man's guttural voice, the sound of a struggle-shot through the phone and directly into Garrison Strickland's ear.

He was in a private dining room at one of New York's most exclusive restaurants, closing a nine-figure deal. The air was thick with the scent of expensive wine and self-congratulation.

At the sound of her scream, the world narrowed to the small black rectangle in his hand. The blood in his veins turned to ice.

His smile vanished. He placed his wine glass down with a soft, deliberate click that made everyone at the table fall silent. He gave Pierce a sharp, almost imperceptible nod, then quietly excused himself, his movements smooth but radiating an undeniable urgency.

"Finley, where are you? What's happening?" he demanded into the phone, his voice sharp and urgent.

Back in the living room, Shane had wrestled the phone from her grasp. He looked at the screen, saw the active call, and let out a derisive snort. "Oh, still talking to your imaginary husband?"

He held the phone out, his thumb hovering over the speakerphone icon. He pressed it.

"Hey, buddy," he said, his voice full of drunken bravado. "Whoever you are, the game's over. Finley's staying here. She's going to be my wife. So do us all a favor and don't call her again."

Dozier, emboldened, chimed in from his chair. "You hear that? This is a family matter. Butt out."

In the quiet hallway of the restaurant, Garrison listened. The sounds of their taunts, the faint sound of Finley crying in the background. Pierce had never seen his cousin's face look like this. It was a mask of pure, controlled rage. It was terrifying.

Garrison didn't waste his breath arguing. His voice, when he spoke, was preternaturally calm, a chilling quiet that seemed to suck all the heat from the room.

"Stay on the line," was all he said.

Then he ended the call.

The silence that followed was more menacing than any shout.

"You have her phone's location," he said to Pierce, his voice flat. "Get me there. Now. And get me the East Sector security lead. I want the two-man team I sent to that address to lock the place down. No one in or out. They are not to enter the premises. They wait for my command."

Pierce was already moving, dialing as he ran. Someone was about to have the worst night of their life.

In the living room, Shane tossed the phone back at Finley. It clattered to the floor. "See? Scared him off," he said with a triumphant grin.

Finley stared at her phone, dark and silent on the floor. He'd hung up. Garrison had heard everything, and he had hung up.

The last, fragile thread of hope inside her snapped.

He wasn't coming. No one was coming.

A cold, bottomless despair washed over her, so profound it felt like dying. Her body went limp, her strength gone.

Shane saw her surrender. He thought he had won. He took another step toward her, his hands reaching out again.

And that's when something inside Finley broke.

She looked up, her eyes no longer filled with fear, but with the flat, dead light of a cornered animal. With a speed she didn't know she possessed, she lunged for the coffee table, her hand closing around the heavy, glass ashtray.

She swung it with all the force left in her body.

It connected with the side of Shane's forehead with a sickening, wet crunch.

He let out a choked scream of pain and surprise, stumbling backward, his hand flying to his head. When he pulled it away, it was covered in blood.

The room froze. Dozier and Sharon stared, mouths agape. They had never seen Finley do anything remotely violent in her life.

Finley stood there, her knuckles white around the bloody ashtray, her chest heaving. "Stay away from me," she gasped, her voice a raw rasp. "The next person who comes near me, I swear I'll kill you."

"You little bitch!" Dozier roared, finally snapping out of his shock. He started to get up from his chair.

At that exact moment, a series of loud, insistent bangs echoed from the front door. Not a knock. A pounding. Hard, fast, and utterly commanding.

Everyone froze, turning toward the door.

"Who the hell is that?" Dozier muttered, stomping toward the entrance. He wrenched the door open, a curse on his lips.

He stopped.

Standing on the doorstep was a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating an aura of such cold fury that Dozier physically recoiled.

Garrison's eyes, chips of gray ice, swept past Dozier without a flicker of recognition. They found Finley. Standing in the middle of the room, trembling, her face streaked with tears, holding a bloody ashtray like a weapon.

His gaze took in the scene, and the last vestiges of civility in his expression vanished, replaced by something primal and terrifying.

He stepped inside, his polished leather shoes silent on the worn linoleum. He walked past Dozier as if he were a piece of furniture, his eyes never leaving Finley.

And with every step he took, the world of the Mccarthy family began to crumble.