Chapter 8
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of intense medical interventions, frantic security sweeps, and violent interrogations in the sub-basement. Lara remained heavily sedated, her body requiring massive amounts of intravenous fluids and careful monitoring to recover from the severe malnutrition and isolation. The doctor assured Finnian she would survive, but the psychological scars would be monumental.
Finnian rarely left the penthouse. He conducted his business from the adjoining study, his deep, measured voice echoing through the suite as he systematically dismantled Marcellus's loyalists within the syndicate. The coup had failed, but the roots of betrayal ran deep.
Aveline became the quiet, elegant anchor of the household. She managed the trusted staff, ensured the doctor had everything he needed, and brought Finnian his meals, which he largely ignored.
On the third evening, the sun dipped below the city skyline, casting long, dramatic shadows across the study. Finnian sat behind his massive mahogany desk, staring blankly at a ledger. He looked exhausted, the neat stubble on his jawline slightly rougher than usual.
Aveline entered the room, carrying a silver tray with a fresh cup of black coffee and a plate of untouched sandwiches. She set it gently on the edge of the desk.
"Are you ever going to eat, sir?" Aveline asked softly.
"Do I have time to eat when half my captains were complicit in a coup?" Finnian replied, leaning back in his leather chair and rubbing his eyes.
"You won't be able to lead them if you collapse," Aveline pointed out, her expressive brows drawing together in concern.
Finnian looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a faint, tired smile. "Are you giving orders to the boss now, Aveline?"
"I am merely offering a suggestion," she replied, a small smile playing on her lips.
The quiet moment of levity was broken by the sharp, encrypted ring of the secure landline on his desk. Finnian picked it up immediately.
"Speak," he commanded.
"Boss, it's Marcus," the voice on the other end reported. "We finally broke Marcellus. He gave up the names of the outside backers."
"Are they the northern families?" Finnian asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, freezing register.
"Yes, sir. The Moretti syndicate funded the ambush two years ago, and they paid Marcellus to keep his mouth shut about your wife," Marcus confirmed. "They are moving on the docks tonight. They think we are distracted by the internal mess."
"Do they believe I am too weak to defend my borders?" Finnian asked, his eyes hardening into twin points of icy resolve. "Assemble the tactical teams. I want every single shipment belonging to the Morettis at the docks burned to the ground tonight."
"Understood, Boss," Marcus said. "What about Marcellus?"
"Does a traitor who buries women alive deserve to see the sunrise?" Finnian asked quietly.
"No, sir. I'll handle it," Marcus replied before disconnecting.
Finnian slowly hung up the phone. He stood up, buttoning his tailored suit jacket, his powerful shoulders squared for war. He checked the magazine of a heavy, suppressed pistol he pulled from the desk drawer and slipped it into his shoulder holster.
"You're leaving," Aveline stated, her voice tight with sudden fear.
"Must I not remind the city exactly who they are dealing with?" Finnian asked, walking around the desk and stopping before her.
"Will you be safe?" she whispered, looking up at his handsome, dangerous face.
"Have I not survived worse?" Finnian asked gently. He reached out, his tattooed hand cupping her chin. "Will you watch over Lara while I am gone? Do you promise to keep the doors locked?"
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"I promise," Aveline breathed, leaning into his touch.
"I will return by dawn," Finnian vowed, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead before turning and striding out of the study, heading toward the impending war.
