Filthy (Five Points' Mob Collection #1) - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,95

and rubbed my eyes. I was too tired for this, but Finn was suffering more than I was.

And that was saying something.

Mom had always told me that men could be big babies sometimes. I just hadn’t believed it.

I couldn’t say it wasn’t an accident. Because it wasn’t, was it? The drive-by had been Cause and Effect 101. Still, I didn’t think Finn needed a lesson on causality.

It wasn’t his fault, though. Not directly.

Did I hate him for putting me in a hospital bed? No. Did I wish it hadn’t happened? Of course. I wasn’t a fucking idiot. But it was complicated. Just because I didn’t hate him, didn’t mean I was happy with what had gone down. I was in a lot of pain—unnecessarily so. But my sulking with him wasn’t going to do anything.

It wasn’t like I could even use this against him as leverage. Everyone knew how it worked. You were a Five Pointer until the day you died—unless you’d served them well and they let you retire. If you were lucky enough to live that long, I tacked on ruefully.

So, my holding a grudge and saying, ‘It’s me or the Five Points,’ wasn’t going to get us anywhere, was it?

Had I expected to be shot on my wedding day?

Nope.

Did I expect him to feel guilty about it?

To be honest, yeah, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to be miserable. I just wanted it to make him think about his actions. That wasn’t so much to ask, was it?

“Finn, go to church.”

He turned around to scowl at me. “I’m not—”

“Just do it, would you? For me?”

His jaw worked but as he stared at me, his conscience warring behind his eyes, before he turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room.

The minute he left, it was like all the air was sucked out with him. Fuck, I hated it when he was in the other room, never mind not here somewhere. And if that made me a pussy, well, you try being shot, having your spleen removed, and then…

Well, walk a day in my shoes before you fucking judged.

The last thing I wanted was for him to be anywhere but with me, but if confessing his damn sins put him in a better mood, then I was game for anything.

Chapter Eighteen

Finn

One of the reasons I was so mad?

I knew Aoife was right.

I hadn’t confessed, and I had a lot weighing me down.

Irony being, of course, that I hadn’t really thought I believed in this bullshit. But, in a crisis, it looked like I did.

Samuel was silent on the drive over to St Patrick’s. Normally he liked to chat. Tell me about his missus and the herb garden he tended on his rooftop, of all things. I didn’t mind. It was like white noise after a while, and because I’d trained myself to, I picked up on what he said even if I was focused on something else.

Every man appreciated being listened to. It was the personal touch. It created camaraderie and loyalty—Samuel, though he knew of the consequences, would never betray me anyway because I cared.

I knew when his wife, Miranda’s birthday was, knew his daughter Ciara was studying at Columbia University and that Aidan was helping him pay for most of it. Not just because he was a nice guy, but because Ciara was pre-law and was as deep in with the Five Points as her brothers were, and fully intended on serving with us after graduation. I knew his sons were all under Brennan’s watch, and I knew which ones were heading for promotion and which would stay as runners.

The personal touch.

So for him to be quiet was a testament to his reading of my mood.

It was just before three, and the streets were marginally less crazy than usual. As always, Samuel provided a smooth ride as he drove me and my turbulent thoughts to church.

I swore my frame of mind was almost a physical entity beside me, and it was wearing on me.

The guilt.

Fuck.

It was ripping me to shreds.

My chest felt constrained, all the damn time. When I looked at Aoife, when I glanced over to the sofa she’d taken to sitting on in my study—where she currently wasn’t and where she most definitely should be. Because of me.

When I was heating up soup my housekeeper made for her, I felt so bad because Aoife loved cooking and couldn’t cook at the minute. Because of me.

When I climbed into bed at night and