by A. Zavarelli
“I’d expect nothing less.”
Silence falls between us as he gives some thought to the matter.
“Ye can go tomorrow.”
“Tonight,” I insist.
His eyes appraise me, weighing my motivations.
“The funeral is today,” I point out. “We won’t be expected. Already, they’ve made arrangements to change the location of a shipment on Saturday. They’re preparing for the obvious.”
Niall drums his fingers against the flask and then nods. “Let the Russians have it for their troubles. A token of our appreciation.”
My fist crushes the medal in my palm with the force of adrenaline pumping through my veins. Bloodlust. Revenge.
I’ve a taste for it tonight.
Niall glances at his watch and then stands up. “Well if ye’re going this evening, you best get on with it then.”
Together, we walk out the front doors. Before we part ways, he slaps me on the shoulder and squeezes.
“Ye’ve lost your grand-da,” he says. “But know that you’ll always be considered me son.”
***
“So this is the place, hey?” Rory stares up at the weathered house from our position on the footpath. “Figures the cunts would live here.”
Not a one of us feels remorse for what comes next. This Armenian gang is only growing in number with each passing day, intent on staking their claim. They’ve stepped on toes. Our toes, to be precise, and the Russians as well. But it isn’t just us. I hear the Italians have been taking issue with them too.
Stepping on toes is one thing. Shooting up the deli where my grand-da was meeting with the Russians? Entirely another. There’s only one price to be paid for such an act.
Ronan takes his rightful spot at my side, and the rest of the lads follow suit.
“How’d ye like to do this, then?” asks Ronan.
“Yeah, boss,” mimics Sean. “How’d you want to do this?”
We walk up onto the porch. I haven’t any instructions for them except one.
“Kill them all.”
Chapter Two
Mackenzie
Leaning forward for balance, I curl my knees in to rest on the back of my arms.
Crow pose.
It’s a simple posture. A two-step process, broken into the most basic of arm balances. And yet it took me forever to master. If I were the type to mentally dissect and examine the reasons behind this- which I’m not- it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out.
The crow symbolizes many things in different cultures. Magic, transcendence, destiny, intellectual awakening. A physical representation of the space between heaven and earth. The interpretations are vast and far reaching. But when the magic and lore have been stripped away, all that’s left is reality. For me, only one interpretation comes to mind. At its most basic, and especially to me, the crow symbolizes death.
My eyes fall shut as I straighten my arms and exhale, sending my legs up into a perfect handstand. Three deep breaths. In through my nose, out through my mouth. My balance has never been better. Coordination is on point. Core strength? Rock solid. I could probably hold this pose for a couple hours if I really wanted to. But before I even get a chance to gloat, Scarlett smacks her gum from across the room.
“You’re losing focus, Mack.”
I smirk and melt into Scorpion pose without a response. She knows damn well I’m as focused as I’ve ever been, but she’d rather die than admit it. Scarlett doesn’t want me to go on my insane pilgrimage. Over the last few months she’s resorted to some pretty creative speeches as testament to that, so the fact that we’re back to this old ploy tells me this is her last ditch effort. It would be sweet if she didn’t look so defeated.
Dressed in the second skin she calls a black dress and tall red heels, there’s no doubt where she’s off to tonight. Out of ten, Scarlett’s a fifteen. A drop dead knockout. It’s too bad she doesn’t even know it. Her brunette hair is teased to perfection as always, her hazel eyes lined with Kohl, and her cute little glitter clutch is no doubt chock full of condoms.
Scarlett’s a call girl, and another friend I picked up on the street. It just so happened to be her dark alley that two guys pushed me and Tal into one night. I was thirteen at the time, and hard as bricks for my age, but not tough enough to take on two guys. Scarlett was four years older, and a hell of a lot wiser, and also… she carried a knife. She saved me that night, much as it pains me to admit it.
We aren’t as close as Tal and I were, but we’re about as close as two people like us can be I suppose. She’s just another run of the mill kid who fell through the system’s cracks with a story that managed to thaw even my cold heart. If there’s anyone who knows what makes a man tick, it’s Scarlett.
Easing back onto the floor, my gaze finds hers as I stretch out my legs. “The day I lose focus is the day that I die.”
Those were my father’s words, and they’ve never been truer. He lost focus when he got involved with the Russians, and now he’s six feet under. I don’t want to believe I’m destined to the same fate, and yet this world keeps pulling me back in.
“You want to know what I think, babe?” Scarlett crosses her legs and smooths out a wrinkle in her dress.
“Nope.” I roll my neck from side to side until it cracks. “I don’t.”
She continues on anyway. Our usual routine.
“I think you should take all of that money you saved up, give it to that private investigator of yours, and focus on things you can control. Like going to college or doing something with your life.”
“Hmmph.” I snort. “Says you. How come I can do that, but you can’t, Scarlett?”
She’s quiet for a moment, her pretty face falling with defeat.
“You don’t have to do this,” she insists.
“And you don’t have to go out tonight and sell your body,” I retort.
She sighs and finishes for me. “And yet we both will.”
“It is what it is, Scarlett. We’re fucked up. But Talia…”
I don’t finish that thought. There’s no need to. We both know that Talia was the most fucked up out of all of us. She never stood a chance. Even now, speaking her name makes my chest constrict with grief. Scarlett can see it, but doesn’t make a big production of it. She knows me better than that.
“Let me help you,” she offers.
It’s not often I feel warmth in my cold, dead heart. But as my eyes rove over Scarlett’s tiny form on the sofa, I do. Beneath her barbed wire armor lies a heart of gold. She’s far too good to be hanging out with the likes of me, and yet here she is.
“I need you to stay out of it,” I tell her. “You know that.”
What little light that remains in her eyes dims, but it’s for her protection. Scarlett has self-destructive tendencies. She likes to be reckless. It’s her own fucked up way of coping with the things that happened to her. But I do not and will not condone that behavior for her.
Myself, however, is a different story. We both know this is my last day in Southie. Tomorrow I’m moving to a shitty motel in Roxbury and beginning a new chapter of my life. One in a world I may not make it out of alive. If Talia’s track record is anything to go by, then there’s every chance I won’t be. I refuse to bring anyone else into this mess, so as agreed upon previously, she won’t be kept in the loop.
I’m going to miss the hell out of her.
She’s the closest thing to family I’ve got left. I never had any real siblings, and my mother died before I was even out of diapers. Cancer.
But my father though?
He was a fucking legend.
Jack ‘the hammerfist’ Wilder. The reigning champion in Boston’s seedy underworld of boxing. Until he wasn’t. When the Russians couldn’t beat him with their fists, they beat him with a blunt knife in a dark alley.
I think my dad always knew he wasn’t long for this world. He only sped up the process by getting involved with the mo
To me it was priceless. I learned to be scrappy, and never to apologize for shit. He showed me that I didn’t have to be the biggest or the toughest, I just needed to know how to hit where it hurts. And the Russians hit me where it hurts when they took him from me.
There was nothing I could do about it at the tender age of thirteen. But there’s plenty I can do about Talia. Pricks like the Russians and these Irish gangsters who run Slainte think they can do whatever the hell they want without consequence. That might be true in most cases, but they haven’t met the likes of me.
I’m the daughter of Jack Wilder. A third generation Irish-American with champion’s blood running through my veins. I was raised on the streets of Southie, and I’m not afraid of anyone. I’ll take on every single one of those motherfuckers and I’ll do it with a smile on my face. And when it’s all over, they will rue the day they ever met or fucked with Talia Parker.
More than likely sensing my train of thought, Scarlett shoots me a knowing glance.
“Do you want to take my lucky knife, just in case?”
“Naw.” I grin at her. “You need that for your clients. My body is a deadly weapon.”
My sense of humor doesn’t even faze Scarlett in the slightest. “It isn’t as easy as you think, Mack. I’ll tell you that much. Don’t forget what it’s like when you’re outnumbered.”
I hop up off my mat and windmill my arms.
I know she’s right, but I’m not going to let her see it. Scarlett’s been selling her body for years. Her soul jumped ship a long time ago. She would know better than anyone what it’s like to be outnumbered. The horror is still written in her eyes. And yet she continues to put herself at risk every day. I made peace with her decisions a long time ago. You can’t change a leopard’s spots. Broken people can only fix themselves.
As for me, I’m painfully aware that I can’t rewrite history. Whatever happened to Talia is done. I can’t change that either. But I will get my answers. I’m going to get Agent Cameron her proof, and I’ll march back in there and slap it on her sad desk with a smile on my face and brighten her whole fucking year.
Scarlett watches me stretch with feigned indifference. She has the same dull look on her face every day I do my three-hour practice. But even she can’t hide the small glint of pride in her eyes at how far I’ve come.
The last six months have been entirely dedicated to this. A combination of martial arts, yoga and pilates helps me stay strong and focused without building too much muscle tone. Scarlett says I can use this to my advantage because at five-foot-two I’m about as intimidating as a kitten. People underestimate me, and I plan to use and abuse that in every way possible.
“You’re going to kick ass,” she says.
“I always do.” I blow her a kiss and head to the fridge to grab a bottle of water.
“Just… be careful, okay?”
I pause when I hear the slight tremor in her voice. It makes a little ball of emotion form in my throat. I promptly choke it back down.
“How much longer do you have?” I ask her.
“An hour,” she says. “Enough time to quiz you on all the different ways to bring a man to his knees. Theoretically, of course.”
She says it like I’m going to fail, so I rub my hands together and shoot her an evil grin.
“Bring it on, Scarlett. Bring it on.”
Chapter Three
Mackenzie
Boston is a cultural melting pot. One steeped in a rich history of corruption, oppression, and bloodshed. This city was built off the back of immigrants. Immigrants like my great grandfather.
When he and his brothers left Ireland to escape British rule, they dreamt of a better life. Unbeknownst to them they were coming to a society that deemed them scum the moment they stepped off the boat.
But as everyone knows, the Irish are known for their fighting spirit, and they didn’t give up so easily. Back then, everybody was fighting for a piece of the pie. Alliances were formed and turf wars waged. Turns out, not a lot has changed over time. The corruption is better hidden, but the alliances still breathe. Sure, the gangs have had their rise and falls. The Italians, the Irish, the Russians… they’ve all been burnt to the ground and resurrected more times than I can count. That’s the thing about organized crime, it never really goes away. When one powerhouse falls, there will always be other players ready to step up and take the reins. They all want to run this town.
It’s a carefully balanced act. They each have their alliances, their territories. You don’t step on my toes, I won’t step on yours. In modern day Boston, there are still many players in the game. Big and small fish. But it’s the Russians and the Irish that make up one of the powerhouses now. You see, the Irish learned a thing or two from history. While the lone wolf act was cool back in the day, it also wasn’t smart. The Italians had an entire hierarchy that worked for a reason. You’ve got my back, I’ve got yours. La familia isn’t just for show. You mess with one guy, you mess with the whole damn family.
And that’s exactly how things work in the MacKenna Syndicate. Direct descendants of the Bedford Row Bandits, they come out of the womb with bloodlust stamped in their DNA. Except, unlike their predecessors, they’ve evolved to the times. They have bosses and underbosses and captains just like every other modern organized crime syndicate. And they also have cops, senators, judges and a long list of others on their payroll. Oh and one other thing. An iron-clad agreement with one of the biggest factions of the Russian bratva in this city.
My point with all of this? You don’t want to fuck with this crew.
And yet, that’s exactly what I plan to do. I’m about to walk straight into the seedy underbelly of one of the city’s largest criminal organizations and poke my nose where it doesn’t belong.
If it were anyone else, I might be able to sit back and pretend someone else gave a fuck. But it’s not anyone else, it’s Talia. She’s been by my side since I met her in foster care nine years ago. There’s a bond between orphans that just can’t be replicated. Sharing that experience of having nobody else in the world to rely on. Talia and I came to rely on each other. Until the state separated us and sent her somewhere else.
When she told me that her new foster dad was molesting her, I promptly went over there and smashed his nuts in with a baseball bat. After that, things got a lot sketchier. It wasn’t easy being a couple young kids on the streets of South Boston. But just like my grandpappy did when he arrived here, we found others like us and formed a union. Us against the world.
The state tracked us down eventually, and we ended up in a group home together, but it was touch and go for a few years there. Thanks to Scarlett and a few other kind souls, I never once had to sell my body. I am however an excellent lock picker and made more than a few bucks in some back alley fights. Talia, though… she didn’t have the same durability as I did. She was soft and sensitive and still believed the world to be a good place. It only made it that much more important for me to protect her.
And during our years on the streets, I did. But when we got older and moved into our first apartment together, things changed. As it turns out, there aren’t a whole lot of opportunities for girls like us. Talia wanted to get a job to pull her fair share of the rent, and for her that meant dabbling in underground clubs. Then she started hanging out with bad men, letting them use her.
I didn’t know how to stop her downward spiral. We weren’t kids anymore, and Talia had a whole host of problems I didn’t know how to fix. Before I even got a chance to try, she went missing. Right after she got a job working for the Irish.
Coincidence? I don’t believe in them.
Maybe the Irish are responsible for her, maybe they aren’t. Either way, this is what I know. I know that the Russians hang out in their club. And I know that one of those Russians took a very strong interest in her.
I couldn’t get a name out of her. She thought I was too jaded and was just trying to rain on her parade with my warnings. I didn’t want to be right. God knows I never wanted to be right.
Now the only thing I can do is find out who he is. That’s what I keep telling myself as I glance in the mirror and take a deep breath. My fingers sweep over the heart-shaped pendant resting between my collar bones before I remove it completely and hold it in the palm of my hand.
“I’m doing this for you, Tal,” I whisper. “Whatever it takes.”
The tightness in my chest is almost too much right now. My motivation has never been clearer and I don’t need the pendant to remember that. I stash it with my other belongings and focus on grounding myself.
My dad was a boxing champion. The scrappiest, toughest, baddest dude to ever grace the streets of Boston. His father before that? The same. Now it’s up to me to continue the legacy. I might be a girl, but that means jack shit in my family. We’re Irish. This shit is in our DNA. We love to fight. We love to brawl. And we love to have an audience for it. I know I’m a damn good fighter, but I’d be lying if I said I still wasn’t a little bit nervous.
Those men out there? They’re fucking animals, every last one of them. They won’t take it easy on me because I’m a woman. It wasn’t easy for me to sweet talk Johnny into letting me do this. He wouldn’t have if he didn’t believe I could handle it. But Johnny knew my father, and he’d seen that his blood ran true in my veins. I’d proven myself again and again in his gym over the last six months. And it’s all led up to this moment.
One no holds barred fight with Boston underground’s biggest and baddest competitors. The first and most important step in my plan. There isn’t a fight that goes by the Irish and Russians don’t place bets on. It’s in their blood to love this sport.
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