SAINT (Boston Underworld Book 4)

by A. Zavarelli

  “You’re right,” I whine. “I just feel so bad that I have to fuck you up anyway.”

  “What?” he snarls.

  I pull my hands away from my face and smile again.

  “Don’t worry.” I toss the pictures back into my bag and exchange them for a set of brass knuckles instead. “We’ve moved past them. Long gone, they are.”

  “Then what the fuck are you doing?” he asks, eyeing the metal glint against my hand.

  “I’ve got a different name for you,” I tell him. “One that you should without a doubt remember. Let’s try Coco.”

  He blinks and tries to maintain his cool, but his dick is twitching and growing at even the memory of it. Sick fucking bastard.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells?” I frown.

  “Nope, sorry,” he says. “Don’t know any fucking Coco.”

  “Ah, well allow me to refresh your memory. You left the bar with her last week. Petite, black hair, big tits. She’s a beauty. Or at least she was until you broke her nose.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, and I put a finger in front of my lips and shake my head.

  “You like it rough.” I shrug. “You get off on it. Sometimes, things just get out of hand. Believe me, I get it. You can’t help yourself.”

  His black eyes are boring right through me.

  “The bad news for you,” I say finally. “Is neither can I.”

  Trust fund Teddy bears the brunt of all his peers evil misdeeds.

  The wild beating of my heart is its own war cry. The soundtrack to my savagery. The drum beat of rage as I fuck up his face and dole out my hatred. I don’t need words for this. Communication is best served primitive, in cases like this.

  “Stop,” he begs. “Stop and I’ll fucking tell you.”

  He broke faster than I’d hoped, but I give it a rest and take a breath.

  “Get on with it then,” I tell him calmly.

  Words spew from his lips like a cloud of CO2. I’ve uncorked him, and there’s no stopping it now.

  “Duke has a mistress he keeps in the apartment next door. His wife has no fucking clue. And Quinn’s got a gambling problem. He’s up to his eyeballs in debt and his clients have no idea that their money is fucking gone. They meet up once a month and have ragers on the cape. Fuck as many prostitutes as they can and get fucked up on high end pills and booze.”

  This is not news to me. It’s predictable at best, stale at worst.

  “What else?” I demand.

  Teddy is quiet until I take another step towards him.

  “Ethan,” he mumbles through his bloody lips. “He got jacked up on coke one night and started talking about some missing girl.”

  The room is still and silent and now Teddy is finally getting somewhere. Now, he’s got my full attention.

  “What about her?”

  “He kept saying she was dead.” Teddy shakes his head like he doesn’t believe it. And I almost feel sorry that he was born so ignorant. “Something about the woods. How Alexander fucked her up.”

  Bingo.

  Teddy doesn’t see me smile when he mentions Alexander, and I’m glad.

  “Tell me everything he said,” I insist.

  He’s going to. I can see it in his eyes. His mouth is open, and the words are poised to roll off his tongue.

  But then the door bursts open.

  And my hard work disappears into a void of quicksand.

  “What the ever-loving fuck?”

  The words are accented. Unmistakably Irish. Before I even shift my gaze to collide with the bastard in the door frame, I know who has come to collect.

  The Irish mafia.

  I was supposed to leave town for a while. That’s what I told Mack I would do.

  Like attracts like, and it’s no exception for my only friend. She’s as batshit crazy as I am. And since she went poking around in the mafia’s business, she’s landed both of us in some hot water.

  It’s nothing I can’t handle. Or her for that matter. And I really did have the best intentions of following through on my promise to her. After I took care of this business first.

  But now, here I sit, beatus interruptus.

  I haven’t met this asshole before. But he’s eyeing me like I’m a little fucking insane. Between the brass knuckles and my blood-spattered dress, he’d be right to assume that. No doubt.

  So I hope he’s thinking carefully before he comes at me. Because I won’t go down without a fight. And I want to rip his fucking balls off for interrupting Teddy’s confessional.

  “What in the bleeding hell are ye doing to that poor lad?” he asks me.

  “Nothing less than what he deserves,” I answer.

  The guy blinks and gives me an almost sympathetic expression, which only pisses me off more.

  “We haven’t met,” he tells me. “I’m Rory.”

  “And?”

  His mouth twitches, and he seems to be amused by my behavior for whatever reason.

  “And it’s a pleasure to meet me, aye? That’s what the ladies usually say. Now, sweetheart, I need ye to come with me. Just for a wee bit.”

  And I need you to fuck off. Just for a wee bit.

  “This is about Mack, isn’t it?”

  Suspicion takes over his eyes as I move towards him innocently.

  “Do you think because I’m a hooker, I just do whatever men tell me?”

  His eyes dart to the man groaning behind me before he answers.

  “I’m guessing probably no,” he says.

  His eyes are still laughing, but there’s nothing humorous about this. I don’t like being cornered, and no amount of pleasantries are going to get me out of this room with him.

  I ply the brass knuckles from my hand and hesitate for a moment before handing them off to him. Concern fills my eyes and my voice, but it’s all false.

  “Is Mack okay?”

  He nods, thinking he understands me. Thinking I’ll do whatever he says now to protect Mack. The thing is though… Mack takes care of herself.

  And so do I.

  When Rory pockets the brass, I yank the knife on my thigh from its sheath. I have the element of surprise on my side, so I don’t expect much from him. But he surprises me too.

  Because he’s quick. Quicker than most. When I lunge at him, Rory goes on the defensive and raises his arm, which is precisely where my knife ends up. Lodged into his bicep.

  “Jesus fecking Christ, woman.”

  When I try to dart around him, he grabs me by the hair and slams me chest first against the wall, closing me in with his body.

  My lungs are collapsing in on themselves. Heartbeat thrashing in my ears. The rewind function is alive and well in my head, and I’ve seen this movie before. I’m struggling against him. Fighting with everything I’ve got. I stomp on his foot with my stiletto and rear my head back to hit his nose.

  But he’s big and I’m small so it just bounces off his chest. He uses his full weight to sandwich me against the wall until I can’t move and the inevitable happens.

  My well of adrenaline has run dry.

  There’s no use, but my mind can’t accept it yet.

  “Shhhh, sweetheart.”

  He pulls my hair back to whisper in my ear, and his voice is gentle and soothing. Misleading.

  “I’m not going to hurt ye,” he tells me. “But you need to calm down. And breathe.”

  My body goes slack against the wall and all I’m left with are my words.

  “I just need five more minutes with this guy. And then I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Don’t believe her,” Teddy yells. “The bitch is fucking crazy. You gotta let me go, man.”

  Rory ignores him, and his eyes are all over my face, studying me, trying to read me, and I haven’t been this close to a man since… I don’t know. And things are awkward and tense and now I want to leave.

  He’s too tall and too strong. His face isn’t threatening, but he is a threat. He’s serious. And too clean cut, with his ashy blonde h
air and shaven face.

  “Ye’re coming with me,” he says again.

  “I think that’s called kidnapping,” I tell him.

  He shrugs. “Why trifle with labels?”

  He’s closer now because he knows I’m going to bolt again. Or stab him again, even though my knife is gone, but he doesn’t know if I have another. All I can feel is his body closing in on me. Suffocating me.

  I can’t breathe.

  “There is nothing good or bad,” I whisper to myself. “Only thinking makes it so.”

  I keep repeating the words, over and over.

  Ten times.

  Rory has moved away now, turning me slowly. Giving me space, but still caging me in with his arms. And even though one of them has a knife lodged in it, he isn’t angry with me.

  His eyes are green. And deceptively soft. Like his voice when he speaks next.

  “Scarlett, ye have my word that no harm will come to ye when ye’re with me.”

  “Rory?”

  “Aye?”

  “Your words don’t mean jack, Jack.”

  One

  Rory

  A boot nudges me in the side for the third time and there’s a groan. I believe it’s coming from me, but it’s anyone’s guess.

  “Feck off.”

  “You told me to wake you up.”

  Conor’s voice is like a bag of bleeding cats to my ears right now.

  “I said no such thing. Now piss off and let me sleep.”

  There’s a sigh. Footsteps moving away from me. For a minute, I think the lad is actually going to listen. Until the ice water hits my face and I come up swinging.

  I don’t manage to hit him since Conor is shielding himself with my sofa. And the woman I brought home with me last night since she’s passed out on top of it.

  “Real gentleman, ye are,” I tell the lad. “Hiding behind a lady.”

  He makes a face as his eyes wander to the slumped form of the blonde with raccoon eyes and her mouth hanging open while she snores. Her name is Ivy, so she says.

  “Yeah, a real lady,” Conor scoffs.

  The lad’s voice is hard and bitter. Conor is never hard and bitter, in fact, he’s dopey as fuck most of the time. This is how I know for certain my suspicions were bang on about this girl.

  “I brought her home for you, ye fucking muppet,” I tell him. “I saw the way ye were making eyes at her all night long. But then ye disappeared and couldn’t be bothered to come back here to sort her out.”

  He looks away, and just like that, he’s back to himself. The awkward, fumbling lad I first met when he decided to go Wild West on the Lenox Hill Crew. Thought he’d go down in a blaze of glory, but instead, he ended up working for our crew instead. He should know me well enough by now to know this ride isn’t my sort of fancy at all.

  “Get her some breakfast and then give her a lift home,” I call out as I walk down the hall.

  “You need to be at the church in forty minutes,” he says. “Don’t be late, or Crow will have both our nuts.”

  I hate him right now. But the lad is right.

  The only time you’ll ever see a whole load of mafia men in church is either something grand or something bad.

  Weddings, funerals, repentance.

  Today, we’re all here for Keeva’s baptism.

  Crow’s baby daughter, who has just entered a lifetime of protection better than the president himself.

  She’s a sweet little girl with the looks of her mother Mack. And this is the reason we’re all here in a church on Sunday instead of hungover at Slainte like usual.

  Being that Crow’s now the boss of the Irish syndicate, there isn’t a lad in our crew that isn’t here today. We’ve all come to show our respect and support.

  Family is important. Family is everything.

  And apart from my mammy, these lads are the only family I’ve got. My brothers. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for them. This is the code that we live by. We are in it together until the end, and there’s nothing that will change that.

  I’ve got it in my head though, that I’d like a family of my own someday. A thought only driven home when I see Crow and Mack together. Even Ronan and Sasha. The lads have all reached the age where they are settling down and changing their ways. At least as far as life outside the syndicate is concerned.

  I have a good life. I get to do what I’m best at. Hustling and fighting. I spend my days with the lads, fucking shit up, and my nights with whatever hot ride catches my fancy.

  But right now, in this pew, hungover and hungry, there is a moment of clarity. This hunger inside of me- this emptiness- is for something more.

  I have a vision of myself like that someday. Like Crow is right now, holding his daughter. And when I imagine my wife beside me, there’s only one face that comes to mind. It could only ever be her.

  The woman who does my fucking head in.

  The woman I haven’t seen in months.

  The woman with a suit of armor so goddamn thick I need to bring my entire arsenal just to speak to her for a few moments. Crow likes to give me shite for it. Tells me I only want what I can’t have. But that isn’t it.

  When I met Scarlett, I was kidnapping her and holding her at gunpoint… just for a wee bit. Until the dust had settled with the Mack situation, at least. I had no ill intentions against her, but I knew that didn’t matter. That wasn’t my first rodeo. Most women would have crumbled in the situation. Broken down and become hysterical. But not her.

  Not only did she fucking stab me- a battle scar which I still carry on my arm- but she didn’t shed a single tear. She was stone cold and hard as fuck. And that’s when I knew, she was a ride or die chick.

  The Letty to my Dom.

  I came at her hard, and she didn’t cower in my presence. She came back harder.

  I made up my mind then and there, this was the woman I needed by my side.

  Only problem is Scarlett doesn’t see it that way. She’s a one-woman act, and she’s not about to make room for anyone else on her stage or in her life.

  I know this.

  But when I catch the soft clip of heels behind me, I’m hyperaware of everything in the room. The weight of someone’s presence beside me on the bench. The soft cloud of honey and caramel and arsenic.

  The energy is raw and dark, a force not to be reckoned with. And there’s no doubt in my mind, Satan has just entered the holy land.

  My temples throb and my fists grip the wooden pew beneath me.

  I want to look, but I know better. She is Medusa, and if I look into her hazel eyes, I’ll be done for all over again.

  She’s toxic. Poison.

  But I’ve never wanted to taste my own death as much as I want her.

  She’s the star of my darkest fantasies. The centerfold on every page of my favorite book. Even now, as I sit here in church, I’m thinking about throwing her down on the floor and eating her out. Bending her over the pew and fucking this insanity out of my system once and for all.

  I have a notion that Scarlett would like the depravity of it. Because she’s a whole lot of fucking crazy. But a whole lot of fucking hot too.

  Jesus. I don’t want to look. Because I won’t be able to stop myself from staring at her. Which is the last thing she needs from me. And exactly what she wants from me.

  She fancies these games.

  And it was fun for a while.

  Until she got taken by the butcher. It was her association with us that got her into that mess. That got her hurt all over again.

  He touched her. Carved up her chest like a pumpkin.

  I can’t get that fucking image out of my head. And now I’m simultaneously thinking about fucking her and murdering every last bloke who’s ever touched her too.

  I blame myself for what happened, even if she acts like it never did. It’s easy to forget with that Oscar worthy act of hers.

  She brings out the bad in me.

  But I have a feeling she brings out the bad in a lot of men.


  My eyes drift down to the shoes first. Red suede with a thick sole and tiny straps that wrap around her delicate ankle. All balanced out by a dainty stiletto at the back. I’ve no bloody clue how she walks in them, but she knows I have a thing for the heels on her.

  If I ever allowed myself to fuck her, I’d make her keep them on.

  Discreetly as I can manage with the rush of blood that’s now headed south in my body, I move my gaze up her toned legs and over the hem of her dress. It rides up her thigh when she crosses her legs, revealing the faintest hint of lace at the top of her stockings.

  Pure fucking torture- that’s what she is.

  I’m convinced the woman really is Satan. I know I can’t be the only man who would voluntarily pack a bag and go to hell, so long as she was on her knees and worshipping me during my descent.

  I shift my head slightly, and I know she knows what I’m thinking. Because she’s staring right at me.

  Her beauty is as subtle as a grenade.

  Scarlett has a heart shaped face with freckles around her nose. Dainty, delicate features and sultry lips she always paints in red. Her eyes are like her personality. A chameleon. Always changing. They can be feline at times, warm like brandy. But they can be a whole lot of dark too, the color evaporating into an endless void. Especially when she has an eye for revenge. Which is often.

  Today they are a soft amber, I would swear it. Smoked in black to match her dress. Her dark chocolate hair is pulled up into an elegant bun, hiding the tones of gold I love so much. It doesn’t suit her, but yet it does.

  There’s a natural grace that’s been ingrained into Scarlett. She can’t hide it, no matter how long she’s been on the streets. It makes me question her background. I want to know what motivates the cunning little fox. The events that have isolated her from society. The reason she plays dumb when in fact I know she’s always the smartest woman in the room.

  Pulling those answers from her is impossible. And I’m not about to go down that road again. I’ve tried with her. I’ve tried to help her. To stop her from being reckless. I’ve invested time and energy into her that I’ve never done with any other woman.