I glared at Finnegan Lane, who sat on a stool across from me drinking a cup of chicory coffee. Finnegan looked every bit like the smooth-talking, money-swindling investment banker he was. A fitted gray suit draped over his solid frame, along with a matching wool coat. His starched, tailored sage shirt brightened his eyes, which were the slick green of a soda pop bottle. His walnutcolored hair curled over the collar of his coat. His thick locks had a sexy, stylish, rumpled look that had taken Finn at least ten minutes, two mirrors, and several squirts of product to obtain.

In addition to being my money man, Finnegan Lane was also the son of my mentor, Fletcher. Finn was like a brother to me and one of the few people I trusted since the old man’s murder. Finn was also my handler now, for lack of a better word. He didn’t like my decision to retire, as it robbed him of his lucrative fifteen percent handling fee, but he understood why I’d done it. That I was honoring Fletcher’s wishes. Besides, Finn had plenty of other less-than-legal schemes to keep him busy—when he wasn’t out fucking anything in a miniskirt or attending some high-society function and rubbing elbows with his clients who were even more devious, crooked, and dangerous than he was.

“Besides,” Finn continued in a matter-of-fact voice.

“You can’t kill the reporter. Nobody wants him dead, ergo, there’s no one to pay your rather substantial fee. Remember what Dad said—never work for nothing.”

Finn took another sip of his coffee. I drew in a breath, letting the rich caffeine fumes fill my lungs. Fletcher had drunk the same chicory coffee when he’d been alive, and the familiar roasted smell comforted me better than a warm hug. Finn was right. I couldn’t kill the reporter for doing his job. No matter how much trouble he’d just caused me with his story.

“All right, so I won’t kill him,” I said. “How about you ruin his credit instead? Call in his mortgage or something?”

“Mortgages,” Finn scoffed. “Dime a dozen in this city, penny ante, and not worth the trouble.”

He drained the rest of his coffee and stared at me.

“What about the kid, the would-be robber? Did you know he was Jonah McAllister’s son when you broke his wrist and threatened to slit him from groin to gills?”

“It wasn’t a threat so much as a promise.” I shrugged.

“And no. Didn’t matter to me who his daddy was then, and it doesn’t matter to me now.”