by Holly Hart
I sit back down. “It’s been said. So, Pat, how can I help you?” I ask.
When it’s clear that Pat isn’t going to sit, I gesture at one of the chairs on the other side of the table. “Sit, will ye? Yer making me nervous.”
“I’m fine standing, Kieran,” Pat bellows. His voice would make a serviceable foghorn. I have to resist clapping my palms to my ears.
“Sit, Pat,” I say. This time, Pat does as I ask without questioning. In this house, spoken by a family member, our word is law. It doesn’t matter the size of the task. If we say jump, our men ask how high. It’s kind of like how I acted around Sofia…
Get that girl out of your head, Kieran, I will myself. It’s easier said than done. Two weeks of longing, of desire building, of seeing her every time I close my eyes.
“How’s business?” I ask, sinking a mouthful of coffee. It’s cold, but I swallow it anyway.
“Nothing I can’t handle. We caught some Templars down by Moakley Park: taught ‘em a lesson they won’t be forgetting no time soon. Oh, and one of the boys got ‘is head cracked in outside –.”
“Where? Who is it?” I ask. If there’s one thing da’ always taught us, it was to look after our men first and foremost. Without them, we are nothing.
“Like I said, Kieran, it ain’t nothing ye need trouble yerself over.” Pat replies, resting his hands on his belly. I look at him side-eyed. I wonder if he still sees me as the little kid who tripped over his toes. Times change: people grow up.
“Try me,” I say. He straightens up. Pat’s old-school: he knows what that tone means. He nods, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining things, but I reckon I see a flash of recognition in his eyes. Like maybe he’s seeing a bit of Seamus in me.
“T’was Danny Murphy: down at the arse end of Dorchester Street. He was jumped coming out of a bar last night – three sheets te th’wind. Never saw who did it.”
“How is he?” I ask.
“He’ll have a sore head this morning, tha’s fer damn sure,” Patrick laughs. “…but nothing serious. He’ll survive. Maybe he’ll learn to look both goddamn ways.”
“Who did it, Pat?” I ask, massaging my temples.
I don’t know why, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this. People don’t jump Byrne soldiers – not in South Boston. They know what happens when people fuck with the family. You’d have to be a brave man, looking to make his mark – or hungry, very, very hungry.
Pat shrugs.
“Did they take his wallet?” I ask, chewing my lip. It’s probably nothing, but I’m not willing to take that chance. Not while Declan’s left the family under my care.
Pat’s forehead wrinkles. “Ye know, I never did ask.”
“Then find out.” I say. My tone isn’t one that leaves anything to the imagination. It’s hard, and cold – and dangerous. Pat’s acting like a completely different man than the one who strolled into this kitchen. He’s going to find out that Kieran Byrne isn’t just the family joker: I’ve also got a spine made of steel.
“Yes boss.”
“Now,” I growl.
Pat hurriedly gets to his feet and slips his hand into his pocket. He begs my permission to step outside for a second with his eyes, and I grunt it. My fingers drum against the wooden table as he makes a phone call outside. He hangs up without saying thanks.
Better, I think. This business is dangerous. I don’t want people in it who are happy to take chances, not when it’s our soldier’s lives on the line.
When Pat returns to the kitchen, he’s acting different: standing up straighter. His eyes aren’t exactly worried, but there’s a hint of intrigue in them now.
“So?” I ask.
“Good catch, boss,” Pat replies apologetically. “They didn’t touch him once he was on the ground. Left his phone, wallet, keys – everything. I should’ve caught it –.”
I wave my hand, cutting him off. “You should,” I say curtly. Pat flinches with embarrassment. “But I’ll let you off – this time. Don’t do it again.”
“What do you want me to do, boss?” Patrick asks. His tone is far more respectful now. It should have been from the start, but I’ll cut him some slack – this time. Still – I can’t help but wonder if Pat’s time in the business is up. The mob can tend to be a young man’s game. You need the hunger in you to drive you on.
“Find out what happened, Pat,” I growl, “and do it quickly.”
I slump back into my chair. I don’t bother looking up as Pat takes his leave. Declan’s job is a heavy one, and I can’t wait for him to get back. I don’t like having people’s lives relying on my decisions. It’s a burden I never wanted. Pat’s look of newfound respect tells me I’m better at it than he thought…
I might even be better at it than I thought.
But I’d still rather get back to what I’m good at: fucking and fighting.
Chapter Five
Sofia
The smell of coffee brewing in the pot wafts through my nostrils. I breathe it in deeply. It reminds me of happier times. I look around the old, wooden-floored kitchen. Everything my eyes rest upon reminds me of a time when Papa was still alive, and Mama, too. The house was warmer, then, and full of life.
Now it’s just me and Mickey, and it’s a cold place indeed. They say that home is where the heart is: if that’s true, then I don’t know where I live.
I grimace, clenching my jaw. This is a fruitless path to go down. It’s one I’ve taken many times before, but I know it doesn’t get me anywhere: nowhere good, anyway.
I shove a tray of bacon under the grill. It rattles with the force with which I toss it in. The sound says everything about my mood. Mickey woke me up at four in the morning, tramping in with heavy, muddy boots and leaving a mess everywhere.
If I wake him up in return, I won’t shed a tear. Besides, I wake up at an honest time, unlike him. Every day I have to fend off my brother’s runners and his soldiers, making excuses for his tardiness. I’m fed up with it: with Mickey; with this whole goddamn situation. I’m more than fed up; I’m angry.
The bacon sizzles under the grill, and as the fat pops and bubbles, it adds its own special flavor to the scent soaring around the old kitchen’s timber rafters. My stomach groans. I know I shouldn’t treat myself like this so often – it does nothing for my thighs – but I don’t care. It’s my dirty little secret.
I layer the meat onto the buttered bread lying ready for it, and go to pour myself a cup of coffee. I’m humming; living in my own little world.
“Cut that fucking noise out, will you?” Mickey growls. My brother’s voice is thick and heavy with sleep. It’s still slurred with the effects of last night’s overindulgence.
Startled, I quickly turn. It takes a second before my eyes settle on him. His body is slumped over the counter, and –.
Anger surges inside me. “What do you think you’re doing?” I yell. “Get your hands off that!”
Mickey doesn’t reply; he just shovels my bacon sandwich into that fat, ungrateful mouth of his. He takes huge, bullying, messy bites. I’m burning up with rage. I’m fed up with the way Mickey leaves me to deal with his dramas: the way he insults me like this; even the look of him. I’m ready to tear over to him, snatch the sandwich out of his hand, and stamp on it…when I have a better idea.
I hide the wicked grin that curls my lips upwards.
“Mickey, darling,” I say, with the sweetest, sickliest voice I can muster. “I’m grabbing a coffee. Want one?”
Mickey tosses the sandwich onto his plate and holds his throbbing head in his hands.
Perfect.
“Black, two sugars,” he moans. Even that irritates me. He’s my brother: of course I know how he takes his coffee. Then again, I doubt he would have the faintest idea how I like mine . Even after all these years, he’s still as selfish as he was when we were growing up.
“Coming right up,” I simper.
If Mickey Morello had half a brain cell, he would realize that nothing good was coming
his way. But I learned long ago that Mickey only cares about what’s good for Mickey. Should there be anything else? It might as well not exist. As long as my brother thinks that he’s going to get something good, he doesn’t think too deeply about the consequences.
I walk over to the coffee machine. I take light steps, avoiding the cracks in the wooden floorboards to avoid making a sound. I’m not doing it to save Mickey’s headache – I just don’t want him looking up.
I pour a cup of coffee. Still facing the counter, I allow a deep, mischievous smile to grace my lips. I don’t bother putting any sugar in it. It’s not like Mickey’s going to taste it.
I practically dance over to where my brother is sitting on the wooden kitchen island. His head is still in his hands, but as I approach, he slumps onto one elbow, and gets ready to pick up my sandwich.
“Here you go, big brother,” I say sweetly. As Mickey looks up, I hold his gaze. He reaches out his hand, but I don’t meet his grasp. I grin – and turn the cup of coffee over on his plate. The steaming hot liquid splashes his hand on the way down, and he pulls it back.
“You bitch!” He roars, knocking the old, chipped cup out of my hand. It skips against the counter and smashes, and the broken shards of crockery fall like snow against the wooden floor. Mickey stands up and swipes his arm against the table, sending the table crockery crashing to the floor as well.
“The fuck did you do that for?” Mickey growls at me, meeting my eyes once again. His hand is red – what little I can see of it. He’s clutching it like I broke his arm. Good. I hope it hurts.
“Would it hurt you,” I hiss, “to show some manners from time to time?”
“I’m the head of this family, Sofia. You’ll show me the respect I deserve.”
My nose wrinkles with disgust. “Respect is earned – not given – brother dearest. Maybe you’ll learn that one day.”
Mickey takes a threatening step forward. At least, I guess he thinks he’s threatening. I’ve been around my brother long enough to know that his bite is far less impressive than his bark. Of course, once you know that, it’s pretty easy to ignore him entirely.
So I do. I stare him down. He clenches his fists, but does nothing. I knew he would back down. Mickey’s rage is childlike and impotent. It always has been.
“I’m going back to bed,” he growls. “Clean up this goddamn mess.”
“This isn’t the old country, Mickey. You don’t get to set the rules.”
I close my eyes, berating myself for giving into the urge to tweak Mickey’s tail. It was a stupid thing to do, no matter how good it felt at the time. My brother is worse than any child. He’ll sulk for days, after this. That would be fine if he wasn’t the head of the family. Unfortunately, for everyone involved, he is.
“You can’t do that.” I say, clenching my fingers into fists. I squeeze them tight to avoid letting any further insults escape my mouth.
“Says who?” Mickey thunders, barely turning his head to reply.
“Says me: says Papa, before he died; what am I supposed to tell the men when they arrive? How am I supposed to cover for you – again?”
“You’ll think of something, Ivy League,” Mickey mutters, “you always do.”
He stomps up the stairs, not bothering to look back. My teeth grind against each other. My chest is rising and falling: deep, huge breaths of irritation. There’s no one on the planet who can wind me up as easily as Mickey can.
Well, maybe one person.
Kieran Byrne.
But I can’t think of him. It was a one-time thing: a one-time fling; now it’s done; for good. Six months ago, our two families came close to war, and in another six we might again. But of course I had to pick the only man in Boston I simply cannot sleep with to –.
To what?
I expel a deep breath from my lungs and wipe Kieran’s glittering eyes and his messy black hair from my mind. He’ll be back. I know he will. I’ve barely been able to stop thinking about him for days now. But when he returns, I’ll ignore him again: and again; and again.
Until I stop thinking about him entirely.
I greet Lucio at the front door. The heavy wooden door creaks on its hinges as I haul it open, and I make a mental note to have someone oil them.
“Miss Morello,” the old man on the other side says, with an avuncular smile on his face. I can’t help but return it. I grew up around Lucio Ricci. He was my father’s caporegime – his right-hand man. My brother, of course, decided that he knew better than to trust in the old man’s expertise. But I keep Lucio around. He’s useful, and thankful to me for keeping him busy.
“Lucio,” I reply, nodding my head. I respect this man more than anyone alive. My father trusted him, and so I do. Lucio is the only man I’ve ever asked to call me by my first name. He’s also the only one ever to refuse.
“Are we going somewhere?” Lucio asks, his forehead wrinkling as his eyes wander across my winter coat. It’s knee length, and it’s the warmest thing I own. I pull the fur-lined hood tight around my face.
“I thought we might take a walk,” I agree. The truth is, the kitchen floor is still scattered with shards of smashed crockery – and I don’t trust my brother not to storm downstairs in another fit of rage.
Papa always taught Mickey and I to be inscrutable – to act in ways that make us seem all-powerful, all-knowing, and mysterious. “It’s essential,” I remember him saying as I sat on his knee, just a small girl, “that you never reveal more of yourself than you have to. In this business, bambina, secrets are the strongest currency.”
I learned that lesson well – even before I fully understood what my father meant. Apparently my brother did not. I do know this one thing: if the men ever truly learn the kind of man Mickey Morello is, then the Morello family will be no more. Soldiers don’t follow a leader like him.
“That might be nice,” Lucio says as he smiles. He pulls his printed silk scarf tight, and I feel a momentary twinge of regret. Perhaps I shouldn’t put the old man through this hardship. After all, there is still snow lying on the ground. But I harden my mind.
My feet crunch against the snow. “Be careful, old man,” I smile. Lucio is the only soldier – advisor, really – I allow myself to lower my guard around. It’s kind of hard to act like a bitch to a man who burped me as a baby.
“I always am,” he replies, thrusting his hands into his overcoat pockets. As usual, Lucio looks the picture of sophistication. If I didn’t know that the old man was once a killer, I wouldn’t believe he was capable of it. That’s part of his skill, I suppose.
We pause underneath the skeleton of a tree that has shed its leaves for winter. I stamp my feet against the ground. I take a second to marshal my thoughts. I need to be careful here – no matter how much I trust Lucio. The more I think about it, the more I realize that Mickey’s grip on power is weaker than he thinks. I worry what kind of horrors my brother might unleash if he realizes that fact.
“How are you, Miss Morello?” Lucio asks, getting the first word in. The old man always had an uncanny ability to get right to the heart of any problem. This time is no different.
I let out a deep breath. It steams in the air in front of me. “Fine, just fine, Lucio.” I reply. I don’t sound convincing.
He raises an eyebrow. “And Michael?”
My laughter barks out rudely. The harsh sound echoes around the mansion’s huge, sparse grounds. “Call him Mickey, Lucio,” I say, “everyone else does.”
Lucio smiles at the ground. “He was Michael to me, first. And that wasn’t an answer.”
“It wasn’t,” I agree with a smile. I lean against the tree trunk. A cold chill searches for a way in through my back. “Michael is doing as well as you might expect,” I sigh. “…and that is “not very”. I don’t know if Papa’s death hit him harder than I expected, or –.”
Lucio shakes his head. “He’s a wild child, all right. You need to be careful, Miss Morello.”
I glance up sharply. That isn’t j
ust an idle comment; there’s a warning in Lucio’s tone. It’s impossible to miss. “What do you mean?”
Lucio runs his palm down the side of his cheek. A white line follows close behind, before the blood rushes to the frozen skin. “I’m hearing rumors …,” he grimaces – clearly unhappy to be incapable of giving me facts – “… just whispers, really: about power plays; about Michael extracting his pound of flesh.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “Mickey couldn’t get a flock of pigeons to follow him if he held a crate full of breadcrumbs.”
Lucio raises his eyebrows. It’s the same look that Papa used to give me. It’s a discreet warning. A cold chill runs through me. I try and explain it away as coming from a sharp blast of wind, but I’m not sure I believe that.
“Are you sure, Miss Morello?”
“Go on,” I say. My face is blank, but I’m biting the inside of my lip. I remember Papa’s lessons, even if Mickey doesn’t. I listened, when he wouldn’t. I learned when he didn’t. Papa always taught us never to listen to the violence of our own emotions. “They will tempt you,” he often said. “Don’t allow them to.”
I listen.
“You think of your brother as a bumbling fool, as a drunk; as a –.”
“Lucio,” I interrupt. The old caporegime raises a finger to hold me off.
“He may well be all of those things,” Lucio says, changing tack. “And yet is there anything in this world more dangerous than a fool?”
I fall silent, lost in thought. Lucio doesn’t make a sound. There is no need. Every word he has already spoken hits home. He’s right. My brother is an angry young man. I don’t know if Mickey has anything planned – anything at all – but I wouldn’t put it past him.
That makes me worried.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say, Lucio,” I say, finally breaking my silence.
Lucio nods. “These are dangerous times, Miss Morello. I will understand if you don’t wish to talk to me again. I thought it only right to bear you a warning. But if you have no further use for me, I imagine my wife will be happy to see me home more often.”
