SAINT (Boston Underworld Book 4)

by A. Zavarelli

  He’s just got no idea, it’s actually the worst idea ever.

  Nine

  Rory

  Scarlett’s tucked into my bed and Conor is here to look after her, so I head to the gym to meet up with the lads.

  Crow and Mick are already in the ring, sparring while the other lads gab from the sidelines like a bunch of women.

  I peel off my shirt and toss it aside before stepping into the opposite corner of the ring and cracking my neck.

  “Anyone up for being loafed in the head this fine morning?”

  “Someone’s awfully cheerful today,” Mick remarks. “Who put a smile on your dial?”

  “A gentleman never kisses and tells.” I wink at him and Reaper joins me to throw some punches.

  He never used to be much for sparring, since he generally lacks the self-control to stop until someone’s dead, but he’s a lot calmer now that he’s taken up with his missus. He’s one of the best lads I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

  We don’t really go after it too hard this morning. Just some light sparring. Most of the lads are still nursing a hangover from last night’s shenanigans.

  When I leave them to it, Crow follows me out the door to have a word with me before I head off.

  “I could do with an extra man at the club for the drop tonight. Mack’s got it into her head that I need to be home early. So, can ye do it?”

  “I’m planning to take my own missus out tonight,” I tell him. “Can’t Conor do it?”

  Crow shifts his gaze to the street, his eyes moving up and down out of habit. But I know by the look on his face he’s got something to say. And I also have a feeling I’m not going to like it.

  “Ye’re taking up with Scarlett now, is that it?”

  “So what if I am?”

  Crow might be the boss, but he sure as shite isn’t going to tell me who I can and can’t take up with.

  “The thing is,” he says, “ye have to know she’s fecked in the head, Rory.”

  I shrug. “Only makes it more fun. Ye know the crazy ones are wild.”

  “This isn’t a bleeding joke.”

  His face is solemn, and I don’t imagine he intends to let it go. I never take things too seriously anymore, and sometimes, that’s a problem for Crow. He’s as serious as they come.

  “I know she’s Mack’s friend,” he continues. “And she seems loyal. To Mack. But to anyone else. I don’t know.”

  “What are ye getting at?”

  “Only that ye have a known weakness for women in distress, and I think she’s making a grand mockery of you at the moment.”

  “Well if that’s the case, then it’s my situation to sort out,” I tell him.

  “Does it not strike you as a wee bit odd that she’s so sweet on ye now when only two months ago she couldn’t even stand to look at ye?”

  And there it is. Crow’s honesty.

  If it were anyone else, I might lamp him in the head. Only I know Crow has my best interests at heart. It wasn’t so long ago that Mack was tricking and lying to him in search of her missing friend Talia. She came to him with bad intentions, and he didn’t trust women to begin with. She played him just as he suspected she might. And now they’re happily married with a kid and another on the way.

  So I leave it alone because nothing I say will convince him otherwise until he sees it for himself.

  “It’s nothing serious,” I tell him. “We’re just having a dose of fun together. No harm, no foul. You needn’t worry yourself about it, mate.”

  He considers me a moment before giving me a nod. He still doesn’t fancy the notion, but he’s spoken his piece and he knows my mind is made up.

  “I suppose I’ll see ye tomorrow then,” he says.

  “I suppose you will.”

  Today’s Saturday, which means I have one more thing on the agenda before I head home. Woman or not.

  Every Saturday, without fail, I stop by to visit Niall.

  He’s the former boss of the MacKenna Syndicate, forced into early retirement when his ticker started giving him trouble.

  I ring the doorbell and his wife ushers me in as usual with a warm hug and offers a cuppa and a bit of cake. Normally, I’d take her up on it, but since Scarlett is waiting for me, I decline.

  Niall’s in his office, reading. Thinner since I last saw him, and bored as shite, apparently. It pains me to see him this way. I know it pains him too. But he gestures me in with warm eyes, the same way he always does, and tells me to take a seat across from him.

  I do. Niall holds up a finger while he finishes up the page he’s on and I lean back in my chair and kick my foot up onto the opposite thigh.

  This man has been like a father to me. He changed my life and I will forever be in his debt.

  Niall taught me everything I know. From the time I was only a wee lad, working in his shop as a grocery delivery boy. And then, at the age of thirteen, when my whole world tipped upside down, he gave me a bit of solid ground to stand on.

  Out of habit, I adjust the silver watch on my wrist. The one that stopped at ten forty-three over twenty years ago.

  That was when I became a man.

  And when Niall brought me into this life.

  He taught me how to hustle. He taught me how to fight. And he taught me how to manage the anger that I couldn’t seem to get a handle on.

  And possibly the greatest thing he’s ever done for me was to never mention that night again. To never speak of the things he did for me. The thing that I did. And the reason I owe him my loyalty and my life.

  I have nothing but respect for the man. And for my brothers. Each and every one he vetted himself. I will always do battle for them.

  Niall sets down his book and adjusts his glasses, peering at me over the rims.

  “Where’s my whiskey?”

  I pull the pint out of my jacket and slide it across the desk like a drug lord, both of our eyes darting towards the door. If his missus finds out I’ve been sneaking him whiskey, she’ll have both our nuts.

  Niall cracks open the bottle without pretense and takes a swig before shoving it into his bottom desk drawer.

  “The good stuff,” he says. “Ye’re a good lad.”

  “How goes the battle?” I ask.

  “Good as can be expected, I suppose,” he answers. “The missus has got me eating all sorts of cardboard she claims to be food. Oatmeal and dry toast and the like.”

  “She’s only looking out for ye.”

  He nods and leans back in his chair, his face contemplative.

  “I spoke to your mammy this week past.”

  “Oh?” This is news to me. “I only spoke to her on Sunday, she didn’t mention it.”

  “She says she’s worried about ye,” Niall tells me. “That you’ll never settle down and give her some grandbabies. She charged me with the task of finding a good woman for ye.”

  We both have a laugh at the idea, and then I relax a little.

  “Ye needn’t worry,” I say. “I’m quite capable of finding me own ladies.”

  “Aye, ye are,” Niall answers. “Your problem is picking just the one of them to play house with.”

  I don’t know why I say the next words. Given that I only just told Crow this morning that things between me and Scarlett aren’t serious. And they aren’t. But maybe I’d like them to be. Maybe I could see them heading in that direction.

  “Well don’t tell mammy to go picking out any china patterns just yet,” I say, “but I think I’ve found a keeper.”

  He’s surprised by my admission, but there is relief in his smile.

  “She’ll be quite happy to hear that. She had herself convinced that you were so wrecked over the whole deal with your father that it put you off of marriage for life.”

  I shift in the chair and drop my gaze to his desk. Niall never mentions my father, and for good reason. It isn’t a topic that we revisit.

  Only the once.

  Only when I needed his body disposed of and Niall took
care of it. He’s never brought it up. Until now. And it isn’t a topic I’m particularly keen on.

  “The thing is, lad,” he says, “if I’ve learned anything since my ticker started giving out on me, it’s this. You’ve got to let go of the past to move on. To live in the present. And while I trust a mammy’s instincts, I’ve had the same notions about ye meself for a while now.”

  “What are ye getting at?” I ask.

  He nods to the watch on my wrist. “Isn’t it about time ye take that thing off, lad?”

  I tap the cracked glass and shake my head. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a watch.”

  “I disagree,” Niall says. “That watch- and the guilt you carry around with it- have been weighing ye down too long. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about ye Rory, it’s this. Just when ye’re about to get yourself something good, ye go and sabotage it.”

  The room falls quiet, and I can’t find the words to argue with him. Even if I did have them, I wouldn’t. I’ve always trusted Niall’s judgment. His advice. But right now, I don’t want to believe the things he’s saying are true.

  “Ye say you’ve got yourself a good woman.” Niall leans forward and plants his elbows on the desk, his eyes boring into me. “So don’t go and feck it all up the way ye always do.”

  Ten

  Scarlett

  I’m no good for you. You only get one warning.

  Rory is quiet when he gets home.

  Broody and different and surprised to see me still here.

  He shouldn’t be since he saddled Conor with the task of making sure I didn’t run off on him.

  I’d considered leaving. About every two seconds.

  I considered telling Conor and Royce and Rory and everyone else to go fuck themselves and fucking off out of this city myself. But where would I go? Boston is my home.

  And I’m done running.

  That was a one-time deal. And I have no intention of doing it again.

  Rory is observant. More than most men. He notices the tension in my body. The questions in my eyes. The doubt that always lingers there whenever he’s around.

  He stalks across the room and pulls me against him. I let him. And I let him cup my face in his hands and look into my eyes and lower his mouth to mine.

  He smells like sunshine and ocean air and he tastes like hunger.

  I’ve never been with a man of my own free will. Not once.

  No boyfriends. One night stands. No dates.

  Who has time for that?

  I wasn’t missing out on anything. I never wanted for more.

  But when Rory pulls my body against his, shielding me from the outside world, there’s a curiosity inside of me that wasn’t there before.

  Could I want him in this way? With his clean scent and his sunshine skin and his hard body. He’d have to be on the bottom, because I’m always in control. Which means I would have to do all the work, and I don’t know if I like that idea. It’s not like I’m a stranger to hard work, but there has to be a reward at the end, and I don’t know if there is one in this case.

  The contemplation of who should be on top and doing the work ends when he pulls away. It’s cold without his body wrapped around mine and I shiver and Rory pulls off his hoodie and hands it to me.

  “It’s a wee bit chilly in here,” he apologizes. “The place doesn’t have central heating yet. Still being renovated.”

  “I can see that.”

  I’ve spent all morning in his bachelor pad, picking it apart. Slabs of drywall and carpentry equipment abound and the place is dusty and a far cry from completion. The floor has been torn up and half the walls are missing. But with the space and my mind filling in the gaps, I see it differently.

  I tried to imagine it the way Rory would see it. As a family home because there are three bedrooms. He’s really going to town on the kitchen where I suppose he imagines he’ll sit down to dinner with his wife. The children will play in the parlor and there will probably be a dog and cat too.

  He will settle down here. Create a life here.

  Given that I haven’t fucked him beyond repair by the time I’m through.

  There is no residual sweetness left in my mouth from Rory’s kiss. It’s bitter now, and I’m twitchy and I hate this woman already and of course I don’t know her. But maybe it will be better if I fuck him up so bad that he never meets her because then I will get what I want even if I don’t know why I want it.

  “Are you doing the work yourself?” I ask because I need to say something and not think about this.

  “Aye.” He nods. “Mostly. The lads help out now and then. But I like the work. Gives me hands something to do.”

  “You mean when you aren’t beating the shit of someone on Thursday nights?”

  He smiles at me and it’s all dimples but I don’t smile back because I was really thinking of what else he does with those hands.

  I turn away and walk to the exposed brick wall on the far side of the space.

  “Keeping this?”

  “Now that you’ve touched it,” he replies. “How could I ever bear to part with it?”

  I toss him a look over my shoulder and catch him staring at my ass. Which is a relief.

  I was beginning to wonder.

  He keeps pulling away just when things are gaining momentum, and it’s a problem I’m not familiar with.

  “Enjoying the view?”

  “Always,” he smirks. “I’d enjoy it even better in my shower in about two minutes from now.”

  “Sorry.” I yawn. “Took one this morning while I was waiting on you. Which won’t be happening again, by the way.”

  Rory’s still stuck on the idea of me in the shower with him, and he’s breaking out the big guns now. Whipping off his tee shirt and snapping the waistband of his pants.

  He forgets who I am.

  Amateur.

  “Last chance.”

  He winks and I grin.

  “Pass. I need to go home and get some clothes, anyway.”

  “I’ll give ye a lift,” he says. “Just need ten minutes or so.”

  “Sure.”

  I give him a mock salute and plant my ass on the sofa again, tapping my fingers over my thigh.

  “Scarlett.”

  Rory’s voice is serious. And he isn’t ever serious. So I turn around, and I don’t like what I find in his eyes.

  “Don’t go disappearing on me again.”

  My smile is weak, and my reassurance is too.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Eleven

  Rory

  Scarlett is quiet on the drive over to her apartment.

  And nervous too.

  I don’t ask her about it because that will only give her a reason to back out on our date tonight. Which was her idea.

  I had no bloody notion of going all the way to New York to play some cards, but if it buys me some time with her, I’ll take it.

  She doesn’t allow me to open the car door for her and leaves me to trudge after her up the stairs. An orange cat greets her at the top and she hesitates like she wants to pet him before she glances over her shoulder and decides against it.

  Scarlett could never know it, but I see so much of myself in her.

  And I see the way I could have become, had Niall not taken me under his wing and helped me sort out my shite.

  It’s quite obvious nobody has ever done the same for Scarlett. She doesn’t accept favors, or sympathy, or even a kind word. She hates the world and everyone in it. And inside, beneath that false sweetness and lies, she is filled with rage.

  She doesn’t want anybody to know it. To see that vulnerability in her. I’m well acquainted with that feeling myself. Which is why I used to beat the ever-loving fuck out of any bloke who thought he could mouth off to me.

  I thought it made me a man, but I’d only become my own worst enemy. I’d become my father. And I couldn’t keep a lid on my rage.

  But things are different now. And so am I.
<
br />   People never take me too seriously because I’m always joking. Scarlett thinks she’s got me all figured out too.

  That’s why when she does things like this- when she won’t stop to pet the cat who wants her attention for fear of what it will reveal about her- I don’t call her out on it. But I make a note of it. I make a note of everything she does.

  And someday, we’re going to unpack this baggage she carries around.

  Just not today.

  Scarlett shoves her keys into the door and goes to town on the locks. All six of them. And if there are six on her door, I can only imagine how many there are on her heart.

  When she’s managed to open the barricade to her apartment, she lets us inside.

  My eyes settle over the chaos while Scarlett discreetly checks each room for invisible threats.

  Again, I don’t call her out on it, because I’m using the opportunity to soak up her personal space.

  The apartment is small, with only the basics for furniture. No photos, no decorations, just plain white walls and a whole load of books.

  Books on every surface. The couch. The counter. The table. They are all bookmarked in different places, and I check a couple of them when she isn’t looking to see what it is she wanted to come back to.

  There are multiple copies of the same books.

  Hamlet and The Great Gatsby.

  The second one she’s mentioned to me before.

  I haven’t a clue about books, but Scarlett is obsessed. When she comes back into the room and catches me leafing through the pages, it’s even worse than I thought.

  She snatches it from my hands, distraught at the prospect of trying to find the exact stack it came from. Her eyes are darting around the room, frantic in a way I haven’t seen before, when I point to the pile beside her on the counter. She replaces it and then notices the book still lingering in my other hand.

  “Give it back,” she snipes. “You can’t just go around touching other people’s books.”