I’ve been the most dangerous man in every room I’ve walked into for twenty years. Then I met Finlay Gallagher.
The Italians left him chained to a radiator in a warehouse on the east side of Columbus — half-starved, hours from death, and worth more to them dead than alive.
Twenty-two years old with clever hands, a smart mouth, and a talent for leatherwork men were willing to kill for. I should have put a bullet in him. Instead, I brought him home.
Now he sleeps down the hall in cuffs he picks every damn night. He eats at my table. Wears my shirts like he belongs there. Touches me like he already knows the worst parts of me.
The worst part is he does. I’m forty years old. Three decades in the vory. Two prison stretches. I’ve killed men for less than what that boy does to me with a look. The Italians want him back.
They want his hands. His mouth. His talent. They want the one thing in this world I’ve decided is mine. They can come and fucking try.
