Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

At least I wasn’t. Until Talia. Now, I don’t care. I’ll sing like a canary if it puts these guys away. Fuck what anybody else says.

  “Jaysus, woman,” he sighs. “Ye clean up your fecking mouth before I do it for you. You want to work for me ye better start acting like a lady.”

  “I am a goddamn lady.” I grin.

  He shakes his head. I really like pushing his buttons, and I don’t know why. This is probably not going to end so well.

  “One more thing,” he says as we pull up to the club.

  I swivel in my seat and meet his intense gaze with questioning eyes. The hand at his side is tapping more insistently now, and the next words out of his mouth tell me exactly why.

  “I’d rather not have to kill you.”

  Here it is. The reality of the situation I’m in. I heed his warning for exactly what it is. I simply nod, and this time, there’s no grin on my face. I can tell by his tone he’s dead serious.

  “Don’t give me a reason to, butterfly.”

  “I won’t,” I choke out. Another lie.

  Without another word, he gets out of the car and escorts me into the building. We walk straight past the bouncers and into the back, where he points at another girl warming up on stage.

  “That’s Sasha,” he says. “She’ll help you get settled in.”

  I nod and turn to go when he grabs me by the arm with a firm grip. “Remember what I said, Mack. Appetizer only.”

  8

  MACKENZIE

  SASHA IS the female embodiment of natural beauty. She’s petite with soft curves and a body that I’m sure most men have a hard time looking away from. Her hair is a natural dark and her eyes blue like my own. Except where I’m hard, she’s sweet and soft spoken. She reminds me a little of Talia that way, and she actually turns out to be pretty nice. She grew up in Dot so she’s like a neighbor to me. Instantly, that makes us friends of course. We take care of our own in these parts of Boston.

  In the twenty minutes I spend warming up with her, I learn that she is twenty-three and has been a dancer for the past two years. She doesn’t say anything about who got her into the club or divulge any obvious fear about working for the Irish mafia. Not that I expect her to blab right away, but I decide that maybe if I wear her down a little later she’ll give something up.

  In the meantime, I put on my best smile and try to act my age for once. When the other dancers file into the dressing room, I quickly realize that this might not be as breezy as I anticipated. Scarlett warned me how competitive this industry is, and that most of the clubs are just like being back in high school. Between the dirty looks and catty comments, it’s quite obvious I’m considered enemy number one at the moment. This isn’t helping my chances of getting any information from the girls, but I try not to let it get to me. My main concern is getting close to the Russians. I need to know firsthand what happens to the women that entertain them.

  I retouch my makeup with Sasha while some of the other girls chatter around us. When a tall brunette with bronzed skin and a statuesque body starts running her mouth, I try to ignore her. I’ve been around the block enough times to know how these games work. At first, it’s just little comments. She says something about me not paying house fees. Then something else about me not doing lap dances, because I think I’m better than them. But when her words fail to provoke an external reaction from me, she moves on to the big guns. She props her hip against the vanity and eyes me with disdain.

  “Would you get a look at her?” she snaps her gum. “Exotic dancer my ass. She’s probably been giving hummers in back alleys for five dollars.”

  A couple of the other girls snicker, and Sasha clears her throat. “Mandy…”

  Mandy doesn’t stop. In fact, she takes things up a notch. By calling me the worst thing one girl can call another. “Is Lachlan on crack or what? Hiring this fricken’ slam pig.”

  Oh, hell no. She did not just call me a fricken’ slam pig. I’m up and in her face before I can stop myself.

  “What the fuck did you just say?”

  “You heard me.” She grins and draws out the words with dramatic hand gestures. “You’re a skeezah.”

  “Jesus, Mandy.” One of the other girls tries to pull her away. “Are you off your head? That’s the girl that took Donovan out at the fights.”

  “You think I give a shit?” Mandy spits. “Get a look at her. What’s she gonna’ do to me? Huh?”

  “I’m gonna’ murder you if you keep runnin’ your mouth.”

  Before I get a chance to carry through on it, Sasha tugs me away and takes me across the room to cool my jets. I’ve always been a hot-head, but I have to be. On the streets, you can’t take shit from no one. And if this were any other place, I would have held my ground. But I need this stupid job, and like it or not, I need these girls to trust me.

  “Don’t worry about them honey,” Sasha says.

  “Frigging slam pig,” I mutter. “She’s the slam pig.”

  “They’re just jealous because word got around that you’re Lachlan’s girl,” Sasha explains.

  “That’s not true,” I deny vehemently. “And besides, I’m pretty sure he hates my guts.”

  She raises her delicate brows and leans a little closer, talking in a whisper. “He told all of his crew there’s a strict hands-off policy in effect for you. These guys won’t even look at you now. Why else would he do that unless he wants you for himself?”

  I know exactly why. Because he doesn’t trust me. These guys are territorial of their women by nature, but I really don’t think that’s what’s going on here. They are also protective as hell of their brethren.

  I glance back at the other dancers, who are all stealing little glances my way. “So that’s why they’re all pissy with me?”

  “Yep.” Sasha nods. “Some of these girls have been pulling out all the stops to get what you just did in like five minutes.”

  “It wasn’t five minutes,” I argue. “And I didn’t even do anything.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, honey.” She holds up her hands. “I’m just sayin’. You should probably watch out for Mandy. She’s got it bad for him and she can be a real bitch.”

  “Good to know.” I glance across the room and find the woman in question. My inner tiger opens her claws when she tosses me another glance and gives me a phony smile. I can already tell she’s not going to make this easy for me. Little does she know I’d be glad to let her have Lachlan so I can focus on what I need to do.

  At least that’s what I tell myself as I stand up and make my way to the stage entrance. It’s just a game. And Lachlan is nothing to me. Nothing at all.

  For my two song set, I’ve chosen Closer by Nine Inch Nails followed up with Manson’s Heart Shaped Glasses. Lachlan might have only given me two songs, but he didn’t say anything about the length of music. And the more stage time I get, the better. He might be trying to stack the odds against me, but at the end of the day, men are still men.

  I’m wearing a leather studded monokini and knee high black boots as I step onto stage. The VIP area has only about ten patrons total, and it’s a much more intimate setting than I was expecting. Tonight there also a few Russians in the audience just as I had hoped. They are pretty easy to pick out because of their tattoos. Not to mention they don’t dress like the Irish. I’ll be watching all of them with laser focus during my performance.

  During my twelve minutes of stage time, I pull out all of my best tricks and give it my all knowing the pressure is on. I need to catch these guys interest and let the other dancers know that I’m not going anywhere. There are a few girls working the crowd and flirting with the men, but nothing really seedy going on yet, as far as I can tell. These guys all look like typical club patrons, but I know there are darker things lurking beneath the façade. I’ll have to get closer to them to find out exactly what those things are.

  Throughout my performance, nobody hassles me about taking off my outfit. I guess Sasha’s prediction was correct. Not that I w
ant other dudes grabbing all over my body, but it’s going to make narrowing down my suspect pool that much harder. Thank you very much Lachlan Crow. On the upside, I’ve still managed to rake in the tips by the time I finish. The emcee helps me collect them before I head backstage.

  I don’t even make it fully behind the curtain before a strong pair of arms grab me and pin me up against the wall. Even in the dark, I can feel his penetrating eyes on me.

  “Butterfly,” he growls into my ear.

  He sounds kind of pissed, but I’m not entirely sure. Because he’s doing that thing again. Getting really close… all up in my bubble, and I don’t know how to handle it.

  “I’m all sweaty,” I squeak.

  He burrows his face in my hair, inhaling deeply… and shocking the hell out of me. “Do ye fancy being up on stage?”

  His tone is frustrated. By the way he’s caging me in with his body and the tension radiating off of his own, I know this is a trick question. I’m wading in dangerous waters here, because it seems I’ve managed to provoke the beast somehow.

  “I like making money,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

  “Does it make ye wet?” he accuses. “Dancing for the lads out there?”

  “What?”

  I am all sorts of confused. He’s told me he doesn’t want me here. He’s told me he doesn’t trust me. But right here and now, his body tells me something else. At this point I have no idea if he’s going to maul me or make love to me.

  His hands are sliding all over my body, but I doubt he even realizes he’s doing it. His grip is rough, possessive, and his breath hot on my neck. I’m trying to think of a response, but when he rubs his palm between my legs, all thought flees. One little slip of fabric, and he could see for himself. The friction of his fingers against the fabric down there is doing crazy things to me.

  “Lachlan, I…”

  “Jaysus Christ.” He takes a step back and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to work.”

  “What do you mean?” I demand. “I did a good job out there. Did you see all my tips?”

  “I know ye did a good job.” He paces the floor and glares at me. “Too good a job, sweetheart. I don’t like it. What the fuck?”

  It’s clear he’s questioning his logic just as much as I am. It looks like he can’t decide whether to strangle me or take me right here and now. Nobody has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me at this moment. Like I’m his possession. Like if anyone else were to touch me, he’d break both their legs and an arm for good measure. It shouldn’t make me feel anything, but it does. And the worst part is, this is the last thing I need. I need to be working on the Russians to get my information, at least for a little while.

  “You’ve already agreed to let me dance,” I say half-heartedly. “And I’m not going to sacrifice a good source of income just because you want to have a roll in the hay with me.”

  His eyes fly to mine, and he laughs, one of those dark and deadly laughs of his. It makes my stomach clench.

  “Ye’re pretty cocksure, aren’t you sweetheart?”

  I just shrug. We both know he wants me, what’s the point in denying it? I’m guessing a man like Lachlan appreciates my honesty. Appreciates that I’m not giggling and laughing at his every word like some of the other women. Besides, I obviously can’t get as much past him as I was hoping, so bluntness can only help the situation.

  He stalks into my space again. So close I have to crane my neck just to look up at him and my back is pressed flat against the wall.

  “Ye’re right,” he says in a tight voice. “I’ve no trust for you, but I want ye just the same, Mack.”

  I don’t speak, but I don’t need to. His eyes roam over my face, taking in every last detail like he’s proving something to himself. My pupils are probably dilated, sure. A biological reaction. Nothing more. And my chest is rising a little faster than normal. I just got done dancing, of course. The pulse that’s jumping in my throat? He especially likes that, I can see it in his eyes. But that’s nothing. I’m tired, hot, and I just need to get the hell out of here. Away from his overbearing presence and this stifling atmosphere.

  “I don’t want ye to dance anymore,” he says. “I’ll find something else for you to do.”

  “Like hell you will,” I argue. “I don’t want to do anything else. I just want to dance.”

  Darkness seeps into his eyes like a deadly fog, obliterating any traces of gray. He isn’t used to women talking back to him, probably. Or anybody for that matter. I don’t care. He needs to learn that I’m not going to bow to his whims, regardless of his reputation and how threatening he can be. That’s probably what happened to Talia. She was naturally meek, submissive, a people pleaser. Someone with bad intentions could see that and easily take advantage of her.

  “We’ll sort this out later.” Lachlan pulls away abruptly and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I have business to tend to. Get dressed and head out to the front bar. The lad named Ronan will take ye home.”

  “I don’t need a lift home,” I argue.

  “That one is not up for discussion,” he says as he heads for the door. “Good night, Mackenzie.”

  9

  MACKENZIE

  IGNORING LACHLAN’S INSTRUCTIONS, I make my way into the pit. I figure I probably have at least ten minutes before one of the men comes looking for me.

  I circle the room, keeping a close eye on the Russians and eavesdropping on their conversations. Unfortunately for me, they love to speak in their native tongue, so it doesn’t give me much to go on. But watching them, getting to know their mannerisms and seeing how they respond to the other dancers is a good place to start. One of them is getting a little too grabby for my liking, even though the dancer is playing it down with flirtatious giggles.

  I walk past the table and bump it on purpose, spilling the drink that rests there.

  “Oh no,” I gasp. “I’m so sorry.”

  The guy looks up at me and I smile apologetically. “It’s my first night.”

  He pulls a handkerchief from his suit pocket and starts dabbing at the liquid while he mutters something under his breath. The other dancer who I’m pretty sure is named Kaya, glares at me. She gestures across the room, and before I even get a chance to have a conversation with the guy, one of the Irish goons appears from the shadows.

  He crosses his arms and looks down at the Russian, rattling off a stream of words I don’t understand. Except for the one I do.

  Lachlan.

  The Russian glares at me and shoos me away with his hand as the Irish guy grabs my arm and escorts me to the back.

  He releases me with a glare and points to the dressing room. “Ye have no business being in the lounge area,” he says. “If that were any other lad, he’d be downstairs waiting to have some of his appendages removed by now.”

  I glare right back and cross my arms. “It was an accident. I bumped his frigging table. It’s not like I was trying to get in his pants.”

  “Doesn’t matter what the fuck ye were doing,” he says. “I’ll be telling Lachlan about it.”

  “You go right ahead,” I insist.

  “Get ready,” he says. “You’re due to leave. Now.”

  He leaves, and I get dressed. I know I should go out front, but I just take the opportunity to peek through the curtain and watch some of the other girls do their dance sets. My suspicions were correct. The guys are all over them, trying to play grabass while they work the stage. Most of them don’t seem to mind. But when Sasha goes up on stage, they go unnaturally silent and keep their hands to themselves again. After she collects her tips, she comes back stage to touch up her makeup before she tries to set off again.

  I snag her by the arm and stop her before she goes.

  “How many sets do you do?” I ask.

  “I do three a night,” she says.

  “And that’s it, right?” I press. “It’s just working the stage, and lap dances. Nothing else?”

  She gi
ves me a sad little laugh and shakes her head. “No lap dances for you, honey. Lachlan thinks you belong to him I guess. Do you think he wants other guys rubbing all up on you?”

  A weird look passes over her face as she says it, and I have to think there’s more than what she’s telling me.

  “Oh.” I frown. I still don’t get it. Is this because he doesn’t trust me or because he wants me? And either way, what does it matter?

  “So you do lap dances then?” I ask.

  Sasha hems and haws and looks around the dressing room before she cracks. “Well, no. Not technically. I don’t know why, but one day Lachlan just told me I wasn’t supposed to do them anymore. I didn’t ask why.”

  Of course not. I nearly roll my eyes. Who would second guess Lachlan’s orders. Still it confuses me. Does he have a thing for Sasha too? And why does the thought of that even make me feel uptight?

  Sensing my train of thought, she shakes her head.

  “It’s not that,” she says quietly and then bites her lip. “I think it’s just out of respect for my ex, but I don’t know for sure. Either way, I don’t really care. I just count myself lucky.”

  “That’s why the other girls don’t like you either,” I observe.

  She gives me a meek nod. “They think I act above my station. But I’m just another dancer. I doubt the men out there can even tell us apart.”

  I want to ask her more while she’s in a giving mood, but then another man walks into the room, and Sasha goes tense and quiet. His gaze is practically glacial as he glances in her direction, and his body reflects the same stance. If I wasn’t paying such close attention, I would assume he hates her. But I am paying close attention, so instead, I notice the very brief flick of his eyes over her body and the way his pupils dilate before he moves his attention to me.

  I don’t even have to ask to know this is my handler. Ronan Fitzpatrick. I’ve heard a few things about him too. He’s Lachlan’s soldier and confidante. Also migrated from Belfast around the same time which would imply to me that they are old chums. I hate to admit it, but he’s another handsome Irish bastard. He looks different from the others though. He’s impeccably dressed in a sharp suit and wears black- framed glasses. His posture is unnaturally stiff, and he has an impenetrable wall of cool civility surrounding him.