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“No?” She glares at me.
“The name’s Finn, not Conor.”
For a second, she looks confused. “Finn.”
“You heard me. Last name’s McDuff.”
“Your name’s Finn McDuff.”
“Better ring to it than feckin’ Antonio Nobody, yeah?”
“It does.”
My chest swells with pleasure. Feels good to be recognized, even if just in name.
“So, Finn McDuff, are we off to the port?”
I spin on my heels, dodging her and her questions. I need a drink. A shave. Time to fix me head back on me shoulders after losing it over this mad plan.
Yeah, she can be mylack. My ears while my fists are flying and while I’m drawing O’Brien’s attention. She’ll make a brilliant good cop, her with her bleeding heart and grand intentions.
And me, I’m the bad cop. A man the world needs but nevertheless dislikes acknowledging. A hitman for hire. A killer.
I quicken my stride, not wanting her to see how pleased I am with this new plan. We’ll draw O’Brien into the fight clubs. Get in good and tight with his men, and their women.
Clarissa is going to get a story, all right.
It just might not be told exactly as she’s expecting or end the way she believes it will.
