SAINT (Boston Underworld Book 4)

by A. Zavarelli

“How chivalrous of you.”

  “I know it doesn’t matter,” he says. “But it fucked me up, Ten. It fucked me up so bad. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wondering where you were. Wondering if you were alright. I knew you weren’t dead, but they didn’t. And I always thought you’d come back for us.”

  “Well, here I am. Sorry to be so predictable.”

  “You want to hurt me,” he says. “I get it. And I don’t blame you.”

  “Hurt implies short term suffering. I’m sorry to say that you’re wrong.”

  He nods, and there isn’t even an ounce of fight in him when he looks up at me.

  “I was the one who filled up the bottle that second time. The water. I just wanted you to pass out so you wouldn’t remember. But I gave you too much.”

  “Water under the bridge,” I say. “I didn’t come here to rehash what you did or didn’t do. I know. I know everything. And I remember it too. I don’t need you to tell me how it went down.”

  He nods.

  Neither of us moves. Until he waves the needle in his hand in question.

  “Do you mind? One last time.”

  I don’t know him at all.

  How did we become these people?

  This addict who accepts death without question, his only request to have one last bump. And me, the society princess turned cold and calculating bitch sitting across from him.

  I nod at him to go ahead.

  I didn’t come here with a plan, really.

  There was a part of me that knew Trip wouldn’t fight.

  He’s always been a coward at heart. Too soft to go against what the other boys wanted. Too afraid to tell me he liked me all those years ago.

  He searches for a vein in his arm with his fingers but never takes his eyes off me.

  “You’re really beautiful,” he says. “Even more than I remember.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” I tell him. “All of my ugly is on the inside.”

  He pushes the needle into his arm with a sigh and leans back into the couch, stretching out his legs as he stares up at the ceiling.

  “I don’t believe that,” he says. “You were always too good for us.”

  The needle hangs out of his arm, his words already slurring together.

  “For what it’s worth. I really am sorry, Ten.”

  He depresses the needle again, this time injecting the entire contents of the murky liquid into his vein.

  I am not stupid. And Trip isn’t either.

  It’s a lethal dose.

  “Trip?”

  I move over next to him, and his eyes flicker open just for a brief moment.

  “Always was a coward.”

  His head lulls to the side, his face gray and clammy when he slips into unconsciousness. There is a gurgling sound in his throat and then choking.

  I reach for him, and I don’t know if I can watch this.

  But it’s over as quickly as it began.

  His body falls into stillness, and he is gone.

  I fall back into the couch beside him and stay there for a long time.

  And I grieve.

  I grieve what we both became. I grieve the unfairness of life and the hard choices.

  When it’s all done, I wipe my eyes.

  And I leave.

  Twenty-Six

  Scarlett

  Terror made me cruel- Emily Brontë

  I bump into Whiskey on the way back to the apartment. He’s being his usual self, carrying on about something that’s upset him.

  “I get it,” I tell him. “I didn’t listen to you, and I should have. You tried to warn me.”

  He swishes his tail and spins in a circle, and I have no idea what that means.

  But when I bend down to give him a pat on the head, there is blood matted into his fur. I swallow and scratch between his ears while I search his feline eyes for clues.

  He trots a few steps ahead of me and then turns back to see if I’m following.

  I retrieve my knife and follow him to Mrs. Rogers door. It’s cracked, and there’s a distinct metallic smell permeating into the hall.

  And this is that part you see in every horror movie.

  Mrs. Rogers can’t be dead. She’s just an old lady, and she doesn’t hate anybody. Except for maybe me because sometimes I steal her cat.

  I shoo Whiskey away and push open the door with my foot.

  There is blood spattered across the kitchen floor.

  And there, in her recliner as usual, is Mrs. Rogers. With a steak knife lodged into her throat.

  Hot tears spill over my cheeks, but I don’t make a sound.

  He came here.

  I know it in my bones. Alexander came here after my apartment and did this.

  There’s a first aid kit torn apart on the counter. Cut strips of cloth and towels and blood everywhere.

  I’m trying to make sense of it when the door clicks shut behind me. And when I turn, there is a man I don’t know, giving me an equally bewildered and annoyed expression.

  He brings a phone to his ear with a leather-gloved hand and speaks.

  “Small problem. There’s a woman here.”

  I can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but it could only be one person.

  The man in front of me rakes his eyes over my body and describes me in a clinical way. A nonhuman way. People do this when they need to disconnect from a situation. When they see the person in front of them as a potential threat.

  The knife is still in my hand, clutched at my side, and he doesn’t know I have it.

  The person on the other line speaks, and the guy listens.

  He’s a foot soldier. And he has his instructions now.

  He hangs up and moves to pocket the phone. His next move will be for the gun tucked into his side, maybe. Either that, or he will try to strangle me. The more likely scenario since it’s quieter and not as messy.

  But he won’t do either if he doesn’t get the opportunity.

  I launch myself at him and plunge the knife into his gut.

  He grunts and stumbles back, and we are both reaching for his gun. He’s in shock, and I’m faster.

  In the seconds it takes him to comprehend his loss, I have it pressed to his temple. And what do you know, it’s a fucking Glock, and thank you, Rory Brodrick for imparting your knowledge.

  “On the couch,” I say. “Now.”

  He doesn’t argue. And I’m not here to dick around. I don’t know this guy, and technically he hasn’t done anything to me. So the minute he falls onto the couch, I scramble out the front door and make a beeline down the hallway.

  When I spot Whiskey, I scoop him up into my arms as well.

  He cries, and I nod.

  “I know. Rory’s going to kill me.”

  “Scarlett.”

  Rory finds me in his bed, wrapped up inside of his blankets burrito style.

  He sits down beside me, but doesn’t touch me.

  Whiskey chooses this precise moment to let himself be heard with a faint meow next to my pillow.

  “What the bleeding hell is that?” Rory asks.

  “I brought you a present.”

  He’s quiet, so I reach out to touch his hand. It’s warm and strong and solid… and tense. I ran out on him last night and I’m certain a part of him would just like to be done with this whole mess already.

  The only way I know to get what I want is manipulation.

  It isn’t fair to him.

  So maybe for once, I’ll try honesty instead.

  “I did it,” I whisper. “I tarnished my soul.”

  “Scarlett.”

  He doesn’t want to believe it. He’s shaking his head, and he doesn’t want me to be bad, but I am. And still, he climbs in beside me and I let him into my blanket fort and he holds me.

  He has too many clothes on, and I want the thing only Rory can give me. I yank on his zipper and tug at his hem.

  “No.”

  He stills my hands, and he doesn’t get it. My che
st is full of TNT. I’m about to blow.

  “I need to feel you,” I insist. “I just need to feel your skin against mine.”

  Rory can’t say no to me. Even when he tries, it’s only delaying the inevitable.

  He pulls his shirt over his head and wraps his fortress of a body around mine. Our legs tangle together, and I want him inside of me.

  Inside of the place that nobody else has ever reached before.

  “I know you’re tired of me,” I tell him. “But don’t give up on me.”

  “Tell me why,” he says. “Give me a reason, Scarlett.”

  “Because I need you here for me,” I admit. “For when I finish the rest.”

  It’s selfish, but honest. And Rory doesn’t try to talk me out of it. It’s a red flag if I ever saw one, because even if Rory is soft to me… he isn’t weak.

  “I don’t want you involved,” I explain. “And I know it isn’t fair to ask this of you, but you need to trust that this is for the best. That I know what I’m doing.”

  “Tell me what happened, Scarlett.”

  “I did it,” I repeat, because he still doesn’t believe me. “I killed someone. And that’s all you need to know.”

  His lips find my throat, and then my ear. His fingers drag down my back to squeeze my ass and pull me against him, his heart beating in tandem next to mine.

  “Let me take care of you,” he says. “Let someone else do the hard things, baby doll. You aren’t alone anymore.”

  He doesn’t get it.

  He’s already given me more than I could ask for. A soft place in my hard world. Rory is the only thing that reminds me I’m alive, sometimes. The only thing that feels real.

  “I’m trying to be patient,” he murmurs into my neck. “But don’t hate me when that patience runs out.”

  I pull on his biceps and drag him on top of me.

  Rory wants control.

  He will get it. Right now.

  He settles between my legs, and he is heavy, but it doesn’t feel suffocating.

  My fingers move over his back, solid and muscular and warm.

  My body is completely open to him. Relaxed and his to take from at his leisure. He rocks his hips forward and grinds himself against my panties, testing me.

  “Are ye sure about this?”

  I drag my fingers up his neck and pull his face to mine.

  “Fuck me like you love me,” I whisper. “Just for tonight.”

  Rory stills above me, and there are words on his lips. Words I am afraid to hear. Rejection, confession… either way I won’t handle it well. I stop them from spilling out by smashing my lips onto his.

  He’s on me then.

  His tongue sweeping into my mouth with a groan while he tastes me. His hand cupping the back of my head and holding me in place while his other hand delves into my panties.

  His fingers move inside of me.

  He sets the pace slow, and it remains that way until I come. There’s some shuffling on the bed as he removes his jeans and my underthings, and then it’s our naked bodies, pressed together in the darkness.

  His mouth is on me when he pushes inside. He is reverent, full of worship, kissing me everywhere. It’s slow, at first.

  And we try it like that.

  But Rory knows me.

  He knows that if I were ever going to be loved, it would need to be hard.

  He loves me hard right now.

  When my fingers dig into his back, his teeth graze my throat and he slides my leg up to wrap it around his waist.

  His next thrust is deeper. Harder.

  I reach down and squeeze his ass and arch into him.

  He whispers in my ear.

  “Ye’re the only woman I’ve ever fucked this way.”

  “What way?”

  “Raw,” he groans.

  And I growl in response. We are animals, consumed by this primal heat between us. Instinct takes over.

  Hands grope and squeeze and clutch while our lips and teeth clash against each other. We can’t get enough. The frenzy is all that exists. To get closer. Deeper. Harder.

  More, more, more.

  We are greedy. And when we come, it is explosive.

  When he collapses beside me and buries his face in my chest, he doesn’t say the three little words I dread so much. He says only two.

  “Thank you.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Rory

  “Hey, hot stuff,” Mack greets me with a slap on the ass.

  I glance across the room at her husband- my boss- and his attention is otherwise distracted, thank fuck.

  “Are ye trying to get me fingers cut off?” I ask her.

  “Oh please,” she says. “Lach knows better than to try to put a leash on me by now.”

  “Aye.” I take Keeva off Mack’s hip to give her a cuddle. “I suppose so.”

  “Who are you fighting tonight?” she asks.

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody?”

  “I’ve some other business to attend to,” I say. “With Alexei.”

  Mack is quiet, but observant. The woman is too bloody smart for her own good, and I haven’t a clue how Crow keeps up with her.

  “She won’t like that,” Mack tells me.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Don’t go digging around in her past,” she insists. “She needs to tell you herself.”

  I keep myself occupied with the baby, but Mack is still after it.

  “Scarlett will turn on you so fast you won’t even see it coming,” she says. “It isn’t easy for her to let people in, Rory. And she will see it as a betrayal if you go behind her back.”

  “She’s already told me a few things,” I admit. “I just need some names.”

  She stares at me, and I don’t like it.

  I’ve been patient. I’ve let a lot of things slide with Scarlett that I wouldn’t have if it were anybody else.

  And everybody’s on my arse about what they think is best.

  Just this morning, Crow was bitching and moaning about me taking too long to get to the club when he needed me. He’s all bent out of shape because I set up this meeting with Alexei in the first place.

  But he did the same for Mack when he was in my position.

  And she’s done the same for her friend Talia when the situation warranted it. Yet here they both are, calling the kettle black. Leaving Scarlett to her own devices and hoping she doesn’t get murdered by one of these pricks is not an option. And if they can’t see it that way, then it’s their issue.

  I hand Mack the baby and she frowns.

  “I mean it, Rory,” she yells as I retreat. “If you do this, you’re signing the death certificate on this relationship. That’s a fact.”

  The door closes with a slam behind me, and Crow rings me a minute later.

  I ignore it and get into my car.

  “Drink?” Alexei asks as I take a seat in his office.

  “No thanks, mate.”

  He nods and gets down to business, which is what I like about the bloke.

  If there’s someone that needs being found, Alexei will do it. He can do just about anything on a computer, the extent of which I probably don’t even want to know.

  And while he’s not technically part of our syndicate, he’s an ally. So, he helps us from time to time in exchange for our assistance when he needs it.

  He has the file on Scarlett already, sliding it across the desk and leaving me to it.

  The level of detail is more than I was prepared for.

  Every part of Tenly Albright’s life is chronicled in these papers. Important milestones. Report cards. Photographs and news articles.

  They are all right here in my hands.

  I am hungry for these details. And it doesn’t feel wrong, like Mack said. I want to know these parts of her, no matter how ancient.

  It comes as no surprise that the girl was a genius, even twelve years ago. But she certainly doesn’t look like the shy, somewhat awkward girl in the family ph
otos. The girl dressed in ball gowns and school uniforms.

  She’s not smiling in any of the photos. And there’s a sadness on her face that she doesn’t wear openly anymore, but it still exists inside of her.

  I want to know her thoughts as she poses next to her friends and a family that looks so different from her. She doesn’t belong in that world, and she never did.

  I am possessive of her now. And a very selfish part of me likes knowing how much she hates that world and everyone in it.

  Because she’s in my world now. In my bed and my car and my thoughts and on my lips.

  They don’t even know she’s alive.

  The missing persons case is still open, unresolved.

  But the news articles have been scarce over the last five years. The occasional anniversary post and photo of Tenly, asking if anyone has seen her.

  They have all moved on from her. Left her memory to diminish over time.

  It’s no wonder she goes it alone.

  To be so easily forgotten by everyone you once knew. Forsaken by your own family. I ache for her, and I touch her face in the photos. Wishing I could turn back time. Wishing that I could save her.

  I can’t change the past.

  But I can make it right now.

  The thing I really want isn’t in this file, and when I look up at Alexei, he knows it.

  “She never reported it,” he tells me. “So finding the names will not be easy. But I’ve printed off the most likely candidates, given what you’ve told me.”

  His report has well over fifty names on it.

  “Are ye bloody kidding me with this?” I ask. “Is there not another way?”

  “There is,” he says. “But I suppose it depends on how badly you’d like this to stay quiet.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Rory

  I haven’t spent a whole load of time in New York.

  Boston is generally where I conduct business and spend my free time, other than the occasional ticket back to Ireland to see mammy every couple of years.

  It only stands to reason that Scarlett dragged me up here to set into motion the events with Ethan that night. I wonder how many other trips she’s made that didn’t include me.