REAPER (Boston Underworld Book 2)

by A. Zavarelli

  Beneath his black-framed glasses, child-like brown eyes appraise me. They are fringed with thick dark lashes which he often tries to hide behind. Because he knows those eyes betray him. Those eyes fracture his cold veneer with an underlying innocence. There are times, like right now, when he can be downright benevolent. They skim over my body in a speedy appraisal and then darken. It’s never hunger I find there, but madness.

  Oh, I love that madness. Because madness is better than nothingness. Madness means he isn’t completely immune to feelings. Madness means it isn’t apathy he feels when he has to look upon me.

  Fucking asshole.

  “Hi, Ronan.” My voice is laced with sweet venom, and I hope he hears it. “So nice to see you too. Yeah, my mom’s doing great, thanks for asking. Dying, but you know, that’s life. Oh and Em’s great too, in case you’re wondering.”

  He blinks at me, and for a second I almost think I’m hallucinating. Because I could have sworn a frisson of guilt flashed through those brown irises. But it quickly turns cold under his stare, and I feel the sudden urge to hug myself.

  I don’t know why I’m being such a bitch to him. But he’s irritated with me and I want to irritate him too. These pills make me act crazy, but it’s either that or collapse from exhaustion. I want to pick a fight with someone, and right now that someone happens to be him. He doesn’t respond though. He never responds.

  He adjusts his collar and glances towards the door, mentally seeking an escape. In his eyes, he counts the steps to the door. He always does that. He doesn’t think I notice. But I do. The numbers are there in my head, and I’m counting right along with him.

  I make him uncomfortable. It isn’t hard to guess why. I’m sure he often contemplates ridding the one loose end that could unravel him. I have no doubts whatsoever he regrets the thing that happened two years ago. To hammer that thought home, he dismisses me by dragging his phone from his pocket.

  One of the clients snaps his fingers, and it breaks me from my reverie. The moment I leave the table, Ronan is up and out of the door.

  ***

  When I stumble into the run-down apartment in Dorchester that I call home, I can barely keep my eyes open.

  The place isn’t much to look at. It’s the same apartment I’ve spent my whole life in, with a mother who worked hard to keep the water-stained roof over our heads. There are two bedrooms, a parlor, a kitchen, and the most basic of furniture.

  We never had nice things. After my father died, Ma spent her money keeping me and Emily fed and clothed and healthy, and that was pretty much the extent of it. But the place was always neat and tidy, and it always felt like home.

  Now there is dust collecting on the furniture, and a musty smell that I can’t seem to rid no matter how much I air the place out. My clothes from work are scattered around the apartment, along with the various pill bottles and medical equipment mom needs.

  Emily’s in California, on a scholarship to UCSD, so most of her stuff is gone. Without all of her pink girly things around, everything is washed out in gray. It’s the same place I’ve always lived. But looking at it now, it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

  I plod into the kitchen and find Amy sitting at the table, flipping through a magazine.

  When Ma got too sick, I had to hire a home nurse for when I couldn’t be here. Amy was the woman for the job. She’s sweet and kind and very good at what she does, and she makes Ma as comfortable as she can these days. Plus, she makes me food, so basically she’s the only one keeping me alive at this point.

  “How is she?” I ask.

  “She’s actually awake right now,” Amy answers. “And pretty lucid, if you want to go see her.”

  I toss my bags onto the kitchen table and seize the opportunity with gusto. There aren’t very many of these moments anymore, so I take them as they come.

  “Thank you, honey.”

  “No problem,” she says. “I’m going to head out for the night. Supper’s in the fridge.”

  “Okay, drive safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Amy slips out the front door and I throw on a sweatshirt before heading into Ma’s room. I don’t want to smell like perfume and liquor when I visit with her. She knows what I do for a living, but it doesn’t mean I have to throw it in her face. I try not to if I can help it.

  My mother had high hopes for me. As a child, she affectionately deemed me her ‘little calculator’. I worked hard in school and made the honor roll every year. But when it came to math, it was always my worst subject. I’d failed so many homework assignments that the teacher finally pushed Ma to hire a tutor for me. And when the tutor came to help me, I learned I wasn’t bad at math at all. In fact, I could do any calculation she threw at me, so long as it wasn’t on paper. Before long, I was doing calculus and university level math equations.

  It was a shock to everyone, but especially my mother. When they asked me how I did the calculations, I couldn’t explain it. It was just one of those weird things that came naturally to me, and my mother was convinced I would go places with it. So you can imagine her disappointment when I took my talents down to the local strip club instead.

  But I can’t be sorry for it, because it means she’s here with me in her final months. And math didn’t do that, but dancing did. It’s the only way I can look my mother in the eyes right now and believe that I’m doing the right thing. Because if I wasn’t dancing, she wouldn’t be here. In her own home. I wouldn’t be able to take care of her the way she deserves. The way that she’s taken care of me my whole life.

  My eyes land on her tiny frame in the bed. She occupies barely any space now. It doesn’t matter how many times I see her like this, the sight still hits me like a ton of bricks every time. A painful lump takes shape in my throat and my eyes fill with pressure, but I choke it back as I move towards her.

  “Hey, mama.” I lean down and kiss her on the cheek. “How are you feeling today?”

  She coughs and stares up at me through cloudy gray eyes. Those eyes that used to crinkle when she laughed no longer hold any light inside of them. Only pain. Her lips are dry and cracked, but she doesn’t even try to budge them. She’s too weak to talk right now. These days have been getting more and more frequent lately, and I know what it means.

  She’s near the end. There’s nothing else we can do for her now except to manage her pain. Most of the day, she’s in and out of consciousness. On the days when she can speak, much of it is incoherent.

  It’s the most awful way to watch someone you love go. Every night when I come home and see her like this, I feel as though I’m crawling across a bed of nails. But as horrific as it is, I know she’s grateful. Because she’s here in her home, where everything is familiar and peaceful. I wouldn’t let her go to a hospice. It takes most of my income to pay the home nurse and keep up on the rent, but it’s worth every cent. At least in the end, I can say she died where she was most comfortable. Where she was most happy.

  It will be the only good thing I’ve ever really done in my life. The only thing I can be proud of. Ma would try to tell me otherwise, but she’s not a very good liar. She still thinks I’m a good girl. That I’m her angel. But she’s wrong.

  I used to be good. I went to church. I volunteered. I worked hard in school. I did all of the things that my Ma told me were important, even when I really didn’t feel like it. I’ve been good my whole life, and where has it gotten me? A piece of shit wise guy and a mother with cancer. That’s where.

  She’s leaving me soon, and I don’t want her to go. I tell her as much through the tears because I can’t help myself. She squeezes my hand, and it sends me into another one of my outbursts.

  “I’m not your angel, Ma,” I tell her. “I’m nothing without you. I don’t want to try anymore. Look at me. Look at you. This isn’t frigging fair.”

  Ma understands my craziness. She blinks up at me and a tear rolls down her cheek. I wipe it away as my own eyes blur. She knows where I just came from. She hates that I’m trapp
ed in this world and that I can’t get out. I know she worries about me. That’s always been her biggest concern, that I would get out before she goes. But we both know that isn’t going to happen.

  Getting away from the MacKenna Syndicate isn’t going to be easy. I know too much. Have seen too much. If I were to leave, I know who it’d be to hunt me down. I don’t want him to be the one to kill me. I could deal if it was anyone else. But not him. I can’t look into his eyes as I take my last breath. That would be even worse than death itself. It would be the most painful way to go. Because this time, after everything that’s happened… this time, I know he wouldn’t stop.

  So for now, I just have to put it out of my mind and focus on what’s important. One day at a time, taking care of Ma. That’s all I can do.

  I walk into the bathroom to grab a cool cloth. She likes this, and it makes her feel better. The one small comfort I can give her. I place it over her forehead and watch her watching me. Her eldest daughter. Her pride and joy.

  “Do you know what, Ma?” I whisper. “You don’t have to worry about me. Because I’m going to get out. And I’m going to move to California. Near Em. Maybe I can help her with her school work, who knows. I could be like her math tutor or something.”

  Her lips twitch, and I can almost see her smiling the way she used to. The smile that lit up an entire room. She was always so beautiful, and now, she’s just an empty shell.

  “She says the weather is nice there year round,” I continue. “And I have a friend from high school there too. You remember Sarah, right?”

  She blinks, but her gaze is fixed on my face, enrapt. Sarah still lives in Dorchester, and she works in a dive bar and has four kids, but Ma doesn’t need to know that. The hardest part of all of this has been for her to worry about what will happen to me and Em. And I don’t want her to worry. I want her to be at peace. I still feel guilty for my emotional outburst earlier, so I keep going.

  “She’s an actress,” I tell her. “Says she can get me some work. Nothing fancy, of course. Just some extra stuff. You know the people that sit in cafes in the background or whatever?”

  She blinks to signal that she wants me to keep going.

  “I’m going to find me a nice boring guy, too. You know, like an accountant or something. He’ll probably drive a Prius and run marathons on the weekend, when he’s not donating to charity or whatever.”

  Ma’s lips are twitching again. She either knows I’m full of shit, or she’s buying what I’m selling hard. It’s difficult to tell anymore, but she seems happy. I resolve to tell her this every day until she goes. And then, and only then, will I allow myself to break down and accept reality.

  The chances of the Irish letting me leave are grim. But I have to try. Even if it means I don’t make it. At least I can say I tried. Because behind all the makeup and the stilettos and the glitter and hairspray that girl up on stage is done. Done being a pawn in everyone else’s games. Done with men who use and take and do whatever the fuck they want without any consequence.

  The best day of my life will be when I never have to see any of their faces again.

  Chapter Two

  Ronan

  Obey.

  Be prepared to sacrifice yourself for the benefit of the greater good.

  Never surrender. Always resist.

  Do not hesitate in eliminating any threat.

  Exercise self-control.

  Always be well polished and clean.

  Continually strive to strengthen body and mind.

  Live cleanly. Do not drink, smoke, or partake in sugary substances.

  Do not associate with outsiders.

  Never question orders.

  Always be striving towards the goal of a free nation.

  For as long as Ireland is in chains, so too shall you be.

  “Crack on with it,” Farrell says.

  Glass digs into the skin beneath my knees as I struggle to repeat the core values one more time. I’m thirsty and my tongue is dry so it’s sticking to the roof of my mouth. Farrell’s patience is wearing thin, and if I don’t speak soon, the punishment will be worse.

  I stumble over the words and forget which number I’m on halfway through. My eyes are heavy, and I don’t know how many days have passed since I slept. I’m starting to see things. Things that aren’t real, I think.

  My arms are stretched above my head, but I can no longer feel them. My legs are keen for the reprieve from standing, even it if it is only to kneel in broken glass. In the two years since my training began, I’ve come to know that life is simply trading one pain for another.

  There is never comfort. Not even for one moment. Because operatives are not made in beds of roses. That’s what Farrell told me when they took me from the only four walls I’d ever known. One house, four beds, four other lads. Lads I’m not supposed to speak to.

  I think I was eight at the time. They always start training at eight, Farrell said.

  I’m ten now. Ten.

  I don’t feel ten.

  Farrell glances down at me in shame, and it burns through me. I cast my eyes to the floor and wait for the punishment. My shoulders sag and I bow my head in defeat. My eyelids are growing too heavy, and I’m afraid of falling asleep. Every bone aches. My skin burns, and I tremble with each movement.

  Without another word, Farrell releases the cuffs holding my wrists in place. The resulting fall smacks my face against the concrete. I can’t move. My cheek burns and I reckon it’s bleeding. The sound of Farrell’s boots echo off the floor as he moves around behind me.

  He pulls my trousers up from around my ankles and I try to jerk away from him. Coyne presses his boot into the flat of my back, keeping me pinned to the floor. And then I hear the buzzing of the cattle prod.

  I find a dark spot on the wall to stare at before he jabs at the soles of my feet. But it doesn’t help. Nothing ever helps. There’s only pain.

  Pain. Blackness. Pain. Blackness.

  I like the blackness.

  Water splashes on my face, and I startle awake. Farrell is standing over me, shouting out orders again.

  “Get up.”

  “I can’t,” I tell him.

  It’s not a lie.

  He nods at Coyne and they both heave me up by my arms. I’m naked now. They’ve taken my clothes again, so I know what follows. They stuff my hands back through the cuffs that stretch my arms overhead and it requires me to stand on the balls of my feet to maintain the position. The burns are so bad I feel on the verge of passing out again. But I know I can’t.

  Coyne appears with the hose. He sprays me with cold water for a long time. My body is shivering, but I try to focus on sucking some of it into my mouth. I’m so thirsty.

  The hose shuts off, and Coyne looks to me and then back at Farrell.

  “He’s fading.”

  Farrell nods and then retrieves another pill from his pocket. I don’t like the pills. Anything but the pills. I squeeze my lips together, but he forces it inside my mouth anyway. It tastes bitter on my tongue, and there’s no choice but to swallow it.

  My heart beats too fast, and my eyes feel like they are going to pop out of my skull. Farrell walks around behind me and pulls the noose around my neck again. It’s tied to the wall behind me, with just enough give that I have to stand completely straight.

  He slaps me on the cheek and they walk towards the door. The one that leads to places I’ve never seen before. The one I sometimes think about when they aren’t looking at me.

  “Don’t fall asleep, little fella,” he says. “Or you’ll never wake up again.”

  ***

  Unfastening the buttons of my suit, I hang the black jacket over the usual hook on the wall. Everything in this room is precisely the way I fancy it. Clean and organized, a workspace suited for my needs. I have a ritual when I walk into this room. And even with the anticipation thrumming through my veins at the moment, I ensure that I perform to my exact standards.

  Every object has its place. Every s
tep must be taken carefully and deliberately.

  My watch comes off, followed by my undershirt. Two buttons on the remote, and Bach’s Cello Suites flow through the speakers. Always sixty-two decibels, the perfect volume. I’m not particularly keen on music, or noises of any sort for that matter, but this doesn’t bother me so much. When I was still a young lad, Crow’s mammy taught me that this music could help me to concentrate. Which is precisely what I could do with at the moment.

  Everything is where I need it to be. That list includes my current client. Donovan is already strapped to the steel table I use for occasions such as these. His eyes are black, spewing venom at me, but he can’t manage a word with the cloth stuffed in his mouth. That’s the way I prefer it. I’ve got no notions to hear any more out of him.

  “I know ye think this is for the betrayal,” I tell him as I reach for my tool case and unroll it. “It isn’t. At least, not for me.”

  He attempts a mumbled response, which goes ignored. I continue to set up, running my fingers over the shiny metal pieces that feel familiar, comforting. Donovan and I haven’t had many conversations over the years. He was a part of the syndicate, but I’ve never trusted or liked him.

  In general, I don’t feel the need to communicate as others do. I speak when necessary, and that does me just fine. Most of the clients who find themselves in this room don’t ever hear my voice. Only if I need to extract information from them.

  But this evening, with Donovan, I’ve a few things I intend to get off my chest. I select a scalpel and hold it up to him in question. He only blinks at me.

  “Ye’re right.” I turn back to the tools with a nod. “Too easy. I think you and I both know it wouldn’t do to let ye go easy.”

  Outwardly, I’m calm. Always calm. There’s no need to put on a show. I will not allow him to see how deeply he has affected me. But tonight Donovan will feel the gravity of my long festered rage. Tonight, I will do what I’ve yearned to since I discovered this prick touched Sasha.