by Holly Hart
My arms circle Sofia’s back. I pull her into my body. My lips graze her’s and my tongue darts out to lick her lower lip. Sofia’s breath tickles my face, and she lets out a little moan. Her hands climb their way up my body, and rest on my chest.
“Kieran,” Sofia pants, pushing me away, “stop.”
I do as she asks, but only because I have to. If Sofia hadn’t forced me to stop, I might have kept my lips pressed against hers forever.
I glance down at my watch. I need to hide from Sofia’s gaze. I can’t tell what’s going on behind her dark orbs, and it scares the hell out of me. “Crap,” I mutter, “I’ve got to go. Declan’s back, and he’s going to want to hear from me.”
I walk to the door. I can feel the heat of Sofia’s eyes burning a hole in my back. My hand closes around the door handle, but she still doesn’t say a thing. I’m steeling myself to leave and deal with the consequences later, when I hear the patter of footsteps against the carpeted floor.
“Kieran, wait,” Sofia whispers. I look down to see her hand on my hip. I look up, and her lips are grazing my cheek. She kisses me there, and my skin tingles. “Be safe, okay?”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice. Then I leave, wondering what the hell just happened, and what I’ve got myself into.
“Yer looking tanned,” I grin. I’m at Declan’s concrete and glass apartment, near the old docks. Declan flashes me a smile in response, but he looks tired. I’m figuring it isn’t because of the long flight.
“Looks like t’ party is over, now, doesn’t it,” he sighs. “What the hell happened when I was away?”
“Nothing good,” I shrug. “Feels like the world started t’fall apart. You know what happened at the pub?”
Declan’s teeth pull back into a snarl. He’s heard, all right. And he doesn’t look happy about it. I figure that when he finds out who was responsible, they are going to have a very bad day. “Damn right I did. T’ cheek of it. That was da’s favorite place, ‘fore he passed. It’s not an attack on a building; it’s a strike against the family.”
Declan’s jaw is set firm. I know he won’t rest until he finds out who did it. I’m all for that. If he sends me out onto the street to crack skulls together, I’ll do it with a smile.
“And you heard about Danny Murphy?” I ask – again knowing the answer. Declan knows everything that happens in his organization. It doesn’t matter where he is in the world. He’s got his finger on the pulse.
“Ye handled that well, brother,” Declan nods. “But we got problems, and it’s pretty clear t’ me that the Morellos are behind them. And that’s not the only thing –.”
I grimace. This is exactly the kind of position I didn’t want to put myself in – stuck between my brother and the girl I’m screwing. I glance up, startled out of my reflection. “It isn’t?”
I don’t know what Declan’s talking about.
He shakes his head, and leans against a squat wooden desk. “A certain detective paid me a visit today. Someone must’a squealed that I was back in town.”
“That rat bastard,” I snarl. “What the hell did he want?”
Detective Mackey picked me up more than once when I was a kid. I din’t never do nothing wrong – least not back then. But that wasn’t the point. He was sending a message to the family that nothing and no one was off limits. I’d bet that this time is no different.
Declan cracks his knuckles. He’s seething with rage, I can tell that without looking. “He came to my home,” Declan growls, slapping his palm against the desk, “my God damn home – ye believe it?”
I stay silent, because I know that’s what Declan wants. He’s just blowing off steam. Hell, if Declan gave me the word, I’d put two in the chest and one in the skull of that particular member of Boston’s finest. I don’t believe for a second that Mackey is on the straight and narrow like he claims he is. He’s crooked – the cops all are. I just haven’t figured out what angle he’s playing yet.
“He can threaten me all he damn well wants,” Declan snarls, “but I ain’t bending.” Declan looks up at me. “Still – we gotta play this smart, brother. If t’ cops are sniffing around, we can’t afford to give them t’ slightest sniff of smoke.”
I nod. “I’m with ye.”
“I know ye are, Kieran. Tha’s not what worries me,” he says, shooting me a grin. “If ye ain’t by my side, then I got bigger problems than some bent cop riding my arse…”
“What was he asking?”
Declan glances around the room, then jerks his head at the balcony. I follow him out without a word. The chances of Declan’s place being bugged are one in a million. Least, they should be, with the money we pay the firm that sweeps this place. Still, we’re better safe than sorry.
Declan pulls the French doors open. The wind down here, this close to the sea, whips and cracks too fast for any recording device to work.
“About,” his nose wrinkles, “the unpleasantness wi’ Casey.” Declan speaks mildly, but I know inside he’s still burning with rage.
I nod. I know exactly what he’s talking about. Vince Amari, Mickey Morello’s one-time caporegime – his most trusted adviser – kidnapped Declan’s girl, and almost killed her. Hell, he’d have done much worse than that if Declan hadn’t arrived in time to save her.
“They ever find a body?” I grunt. I share Declan’s hatred of Vince. He’s my brother, so it’s natural. But it’s only now that I’m spending time with Sofia – maybe beginning to care about her – that I realize how damn terrified he must’ve been when Casey got taken.
Declan shakes his head. His fingers go white gripping the balcony railing. “A few scraps, maybe; nothing that links me back there. I burned that piece o’ shit house to the ground.”
A thought strikes me. I pause, frowning. “Ye think it’s a message? From Mickey or someone ye pissed off?”
Declan nods. His face is black and murderous. “Tha’s exactly what I think. But I can’t prove it.”
I clench my jaw together. This is a crappy situation. I believe Sofia. I looked into her eyes – I know she’s not lying to me. She had nothing to do with the attack on the pub. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was concerned for me. But still, the evidence that the Morellos are up to something is piling up fast.
“Wha’ do you want me to do, brother?” I grunt. “I can bash some heads in, all quiet like.” I shrug. “Maybe someone will squeal.”
Declan shakes his head, grimacing. “I wish. Ye need to hold off. This whole situation is fucked. With Mackey sniffing around, the last thing we need is a turf war.”
A flash of anger burns through me. I kick the balcony railing. “Fuck,” I spit. “You’re right. If bodies start turning up, then we’ve got bigger problems than a city cop: that’ll bring the feds, Dec.”
Declan nods. He turns to me and squeezes my shoulder. It’s oddly intense. His eyes flicker, and so do his cheek muscles. I get the sense that my brother is fighting a battle inside his own head – about whether or not he should tell me something.
I don’t pry. I would – and do – trust Declan with my life. When you know that about a man, you’ll wait for pretty much anything else.
“I might,” Declan says quietly, “ask you to do something for me.”
“Oh?”
“You might not like it. Hell, you might never have to go ahead with it – but it would be for the good of the family.”
I’m dying to know what Declan is talking about; but I don’t ask. I squeeze my face into a smile. “Ye’d better hold off telling us, then,” I grin. “I never was any good at keeping a secret.”
Declan grimaces. I can tell that whatever he’s holding onto, he doesn’t like it one little bit.
“But you’ll do it?” He asks. It seems important that Declan gets an answer.
I nod. “I trust you, Declan.”
10
Sofia
“Lucio,” I yell, throwing my arm in the air and waving it like a mad woman to attract th
e old man’s attention. “Over here.”
Lucio tucks his folded umbrella underneath the arm carrying his briefcase, and joins me at the coffee shop on the edge of Boston Common. He pulls a pair of black leather gloves off his hands, cups them around his mouth, and blows warm air against his fingers to warm them up.
“You’re looking pale, Sofia,” the old advisor tells me. He speaks in an almost reproving, worried tone.
I punch him in the arm; it’s so light, it’s just a kiss of affection. “What kind of way is that to talk about a lady, Lucio?” I ask, tucking a ten dollar bill underneath my empty coffee cup. I wait for the waiter, and stand up. “Walk with me.”
“This is becoming a habit, Miss –,” Lucio pauses to correct himself, “Sofia; a nice one, but nevertheless, a habit.”
I glance around the empty park. It’s early in the morning, and the only people in sight are people walking their dogs, and the odd homeless person asleep on a park bench. If any of Mickey’s men are following me, I would already know about it. They aren’t known for their subtlety. Lucio tracks my gaze.
“A good habit,” I reply. “I find it’s better to be cautious, don’t you?”
Lucio nods. “That’s a rule your father drilled into me over the course of many long years. It’s a shame your brother doesn’t feel quite the same way.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to glance at it, even though I know exactly what I’m going to see. Kieran has been chasing me for a week now: ever since we last met at the Ritz. He never sends a text more than once a day, but he does text once every day. Like clockwork, the number of a different burner phone flashes up on my screen every morning.
Like clockwork, I ignore it: every day. That’s a road I’m not ready to take. Not just yet.
I like the attention, but still – something’s stopping me from replying to him. I kid myself into thinking that I'm waiting until I have something to say about the attack on the Byrne family’s pub. The truth is murkier. I keep thinking about that kiss. Not the one he planted on my lips, but the one that happened a few seconds later – when I returned it.
I barely grazed Kieran’s cheek, but, somehow, that feels even more intimate. I keep thinking about that moment, and it scares me.
“Someone special?” Lucio smiles as he stares at me.
I flatten my face immediately, squashing all emotion. “You know me better than that, don’t you Lucio?” I say, dismissing the idea out of hand. I always forget how sharp the old man is. Old age has done nothing to dim the bright intelligence that burns behind his eyes.
“So you say.”
I glance sideways at Lucio, but he’s looking studiously off into the distance, resting both hands on the handle of his umbrella. The tip rests against the frozen ground.
“This is as good a spot as any,” I say, my voice gruff and businesslike. It’s clear that I’m changing the topic. “Tell me what you’ve found.”
Lucio’s face creases with disappointment. The frown further excavates the deep furrows on Lucio’s face: crevices in his skin plowed through long, hard years of stress. I feel a twinge of guilt over rebuffing the old man’s interest in my private life.
But I am a Morello. Lucio, for all his charms, is not.
So my private life is supposed to be just that: private.
“Very well, Miss Morello: as you say.” Lucio sighs.
I ignore Lucio’s barely concealed nod to the reminder I just gave him about our positions in life’s pyramid. Being at the top isn’t easy. It might seem that way, but only to the uninitiated. The reality isn’t just champagne and nice weddings; it’s constant fear that someone’s coming to take your spot. It’s the loneliness – the deep, abiding loneliness – of being in command.
In order to lead, you need to separate yourself from your emotions. You need to maintain a distance between yourself and your employees – like I just did with Lucio. A leader’s life isn’t easy.
Your brother,” Lucio – ever the professional – continues without a beat, “is up to something.”
“Thank you, old friend,” I grin with wry amusement, “for stating the obvious. But if I’d wanted analysis like that, I’d have asked Tony Bianchi for help…”
“Sofia,” Lucio chides me, “your father would have told you to always examine your assumptions. In this case – of course – you were right. Your brother is scheming. But your gut won’t always carry the day. It is better to avoid throwing the first punch than to beg forgiveness for your mistake. Your soldiers will forgive your errors: but only honest ones.”
I dip my head in apology. “You’re right, of course Lucio. I’ll keep quiet.” I grin, and zip my mouth shut to show him there are no hard feelings. The difference between my brother and me isn’t so great. If there’s anything to it, it’s my willingness to listen to advice. In this case, as I’ve come to expect from Lucio Ricci, it’s good advice.
“The details, alas, my girl,” Lucio sighs, spreading his arms wide, “are still unclear –.”
My heart sinks with disappointment. I have to hide a twinge of irritation. Why did Lucio call me here, if he had nothing to say?
“But the broad strokes of Michael’s plan are clear. Do you know of a Detective Mackey?”
I nod, buoyed by the fact that Lucio is still talking. “By reputation: he’s hard, but straight, no? Surely he isn’t working with my brother?”
“Honesty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?” Lucio asks again, spreading his hands wide like a traveling priest.
“Lucio…” I chide, hardening my tone with warning. “If you have a point, get to it.”
I wrinkle my nose, looking around. I just caught the most awful smell: like rotting trash cans in mid-summer. Lucio raises an eyebrow in my direction, but wisely chooses to stay silent.
“I apologize. Your father had a taste for the theatrical…”
“You’ll find, Lucio,” I say, biting down on a wave of nausea that threatens to double me over, “that I am not my father.”
“No,” Lucio smiles, “and that’s a very good thing, young lady. You are much better looking than your old man. What I meant to say is that Detective Mackey, in his own eyes, is honest.”
“But you just said that he’s scheming with my brother,” I protest, still not understanding.
“I did,” Lucio nods. “But Michael isn’t paying him off.”
“Then what –?” I grumble, still fighting the nausea.
“What does your brother want?” Lucio asks. “He’s the same as any man – he wants power. Ambition is the curse of many a man, and Detective Mackey is no different. He has spent his entire career failing to bring down Boston’s families –.”
Lucio is too polite to qualify what he means. I grin, doing it for him.
“You can speak plainly with me, Lucio. I know my family’s business. We’re criminals: the Mob; Mafiosi.”
The old man inclines his head. “As you please; it changes little. The detective has spent more than a decade failing to get anything done. His department is a backwater. Perhaps he is a laughingstock amongst his colleagues.”
“But what does that have to do with my brother?” I ask, still not getting it.
“Simple,” Lucio smiles indulgently. He reminds me more of a math professor at college than a long-serving mafia caporegime. I guess that’s why my father liked him so much. “Mickey offered him the one thing he simply could not refuse –.”
“A case to crack,” I groan, tipping my head back. “Of course; that’s –.”
It’s Lucio’s turn to interrupt me. “Smart,” he nods gravely; “Truth be told, I didn’t believe Michael had it in him.”
“So he plans to serve the Byrnes up on a silver platter,” I say, working through Mickey’s plan in my own head. “It might work.”
“Might,” Lucio echoes, “is the operative word. It’s a risk: a huge risk. There are five Byrne Brothers. He might bring down one, perhaps two – but all five? I think not. Even if he did, t
he family blood runs deep. There must be a dozen cousins: more perhaps. None would give up without a fight.”
“If they get wind of this,” I mutter, massaging my temples with frustration at my brother’s rash plan, “they’ll rip this city apart; and they’d be right to do so. This is a different kind of betrayal. It’s –.”
“Dishonorable,” Lucio mutters gravely. I can tell how much Mickey’s plan galls him. The old man is old-school. In his day, there was one rule that no mobster broke: never trust a cop. Mickey’s plan must be turning his stomach …
… just as it is mine.
I shut my eyes. The nausea is almost overwhelming now. I’m too hot in my winter coat. I start to unbutton it, but it doesn’t help. The heat builds, and builds; I no longer feel the cool winter air on my face.
“Are you well, my dear?” Lucio asks. I don’t have the energy to answer him. I’m using everything I have to avoid –.
Throwing up.
But it’s too late. I sprint to the side of the path, hand clapped over my mouth, stomach heaving. I couldn’t hold it any longer. A thin, reedy stream of vomit escapes my mouth – stained black by the espresso I drank not twenty minutes before.
I stand, coughing, my hands resting on my knees. Lucio rushes over.
“Sofia – are you –?”
“Water,” I hiss, sticking out my hand. My mouth feels disgusting – but strangely, I feel much, much better.
I hear Lucio fumbling in his briefcase, and a second later the old man presses a small bottle of lukewarm water into my hand. I wash my mouth out with the contents, and spit the debris onto the frozen grass.
I lever myself to an upright position. Lucio’s brown eyes are wide with concern – and if I’m not mistaken, a little bit of intrigue. I’m too tired to try and figure out why. I hand him the water bottle back – or try to, but he shakes his head smiling.
“Thank you, my dear, but I’ll let you hang on to that,” Lucio chuckles. “What brought that on?” He asks while his beady eyes light with interest.
