Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  “I fucked up,” he says. “They’ve been watching me, and I came to your apartment. They must have had someone following me. I got the text tonight, and I went looking for you. And then I saw you at the club…”

  His words die off, and I understand now why his reaction was so crazy. He probably thought I was dead. And then he saw me up on stage and snapped.

  “Oh,” I reply. “Well it doesn’t matter. Because I’m leaving tomorrow, so they won’t know where I’m going.”

  “Sasha,” Ronan cuts me off, his voice agonized. “I can’t allow ye to leave. They know your name. Your face. This isn’t just someone I’ve pissed off. It’s one of the blokes who worked for the Russians. Andrei, his name is. But he’s better known as the butcher. I botched up the job I was meant to do, and now he’s going to come after you to get back at me.”

  “I don’t understand,” I clip out, even though I do. I understand perfectly well.

  “Ye’re not leaving.” He says through the door. “Ye’re going to stay right here with me.”

  His footsteps move down the hall, away from me, and I slam my hand against the wood.

  “This is called kidnapping, you know!”

  25

  SASHA

  ACCEPTING MY FATE, I slip out of my jeans and sweatshirt and raid Ronan’s drawers for a tee shirt to sleep in. He does have them, which surprises me for some reason. Track pants too. I open up his other drawers out of curiosity and find several stacks of the same pairs of black briefs.

  Even though he just locked me in his room and I’m annoyed at his fucked up methods of trying to protect me, I can’t help imagining what he would look like in the briefs. I’ve never seen him naked. I’ve only ever been graced with a small glimpse of his powerful body. His chest and his arms, which were littered in scars and battle wounds that seemed worse than I expected.

  I know what Ronan’s job in the mafia is. I know that they call him the Reaper. And the day that I snuck down in the basement, I knew he was down there with Donny. But I needed confirmation. I needed to know for certain that he was going to be the one to kill Donny. Because a sick and twisted part of me wanted that. Wanted Ronan to be the one to exact vengeance on the piece of shit who treated me like a dog. Like a worthless whore who was only good for opening her mouth and getting him off whenever it suited him.

  I knew Ronan would make him suffer for what he did. And I got off on the idea of it. Of the man who threatened both of us being wiped from existence. But what about the other men Ronan kills? I think about them often. Who they are, and if they’re just as bad too.

  I want to believe that they are. To justify what he does. I know Ronan has rage inside. I’ve seen it first hand when he killed Blaine. But even then, it was justified. And when I look at him, all I see is the calm. He’s my anchor in the stormy sea. The one that keeps me from being pulled away into the chaos.

  But Ronan needs an anchor too. Whatever caused those scars on his body, whatever caused him to be the way he is… so guarded, so untrusting, so quiet… it makes me question my own humanity. Because if I was faced with the men who did that to him, I would want to kill them too.

  With a sigh I shut his dresser drawers and crawl into his bed. The sheets are stiff and not very comfortable. Shocker, I know. But they smell like him, and that makes me feel safe. I wonder what he’s doing. Where he’s sleeping. But these are dangerous thoughts to have. Because I can’t get pulled back in.

  This situation is only temporary.

  That’s what I keep telling myself as I curl up and bury my face into his pillow. I can’t be angry at him though. My kidnapper and my protector are one in the same. He’s trying to take care of me in the only way he knows how. And it’s oddly fucked up.

  Come morning, I will try to have a rational conversation with him. But until then, I allow myself to fall asleep in the sanctuary of his bedroom.

  I stretch out on Ronan’s bed and yawn.

  The bed itself isn’t very comfortable, but I slept better than I have in a long time. I can smell coffee brewing from somewhere inside the house, and I suspect he’ll be in soon.

  I pad across the room and decide to raid his drawers again since I don’t see any of my stuff in the room yet. I pull open the drawer that had his track pants and grab a pair off the top. But then I feel something beneath them that catches my attention.

  I flip through the rest of the cloth until I find a cardboard box hidden beneath. Pulling it out, my curiosity is riled. I bring it back to the bed with me and open it up. And my breath completely flees with what I find there.

  The first thing I recognize is an earring I thought I’d lost forever. It’s old and just a plain jane sterling silver braided hoop, but it’s one of my favorites. I used to wear them all the time.

  I slide my finger over the grooves and set it aside, digging through the rest of the contents. There are handwritten notes in there. Notes I left for the other dancers. Even a few I’d left in Lachlan’s office regarding the schedule. They are nothing of significance, but Ronan kept them for some reason.

  As I dig deeper, I find a napkin with my lipstick print on it. Another thing he must have retrieved from the club. One of my tank tops. Photographs of me from my apartment. Even a couple pairs of my lace panties. One pair in particular, I remember well. They are the same panties I was wearing when he killed Blaine and took me for the first time.

  I’m still staring at all of it in shock when the door cracks open, followed by a sharp intake of breath. There’s a pause, and then Ronan stalks over and starts shoving everything back into the box with his cheeks flushing a furious shade of pink.

  He reaches for the earring, and I snatch it away.

  “That’s mine,” I tell him.

  He isn’t looking at me. I’ve never seen him so embarrassed. So stiff.

  “Ronan,” I call out to him, and finally his eyes snap down to mine. “Why do you have all this stuff?”

  He doesn’t answer me. I want to hear him say it. He reaches for the earring again and I close my fingers around it.

  “I like this earring,” I protest. “I thought I lost it.”

  He stares at me like I just took away his favorite toy. And then with a huff, he takes the box to his closet and shoves it up onto the highest shelf where I can’t reach and into the dark shadows. I’m staring at his back while I choose my next words carefully.

  “I’m right here,” I tell him. “Why do you need the earring when you have me?”

  He turns around slowly and glances at me from across the room. And then his eyes move to the door. He’s probably thinking about bolting and locking me in again. But I’m not about to let that happen. So I go to him.

  One terrifying step at a time. Logic be damned.

  When I reach him, I grab the lapels of his suit and smooth my hands over his chest. I wrap my arms around him, and he tenses.

  “What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously.

  “Hugging you.”

  He just stands there, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. His hair is disheveled for the first time since I’ve known him. He’s flustered. His breathing accelerated. And his eyes are darting over me, trying to anticipate my next move.

  “Is this okay?”

  He clears his throat. “It feels… okay?”

  I drag my hands up and over his broad shoulders to the warm skin of his neck.

  “Do you like me touching you, Ronan?” I ask. “Because sometimes I can’t tell.”

  “Aye,” he answers, his voice husky. “I like it very much.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful.

  “When you touch me, it feels different,” he adds. “Nice.”

  The gravity of that simple statement knocks me off balance.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever touched you in a nice way before?”

  There are no words in response. But his body and his eyes tell me everything I need to know. Ronan Fitzpatrick is an iceberg. He only shows the world the smallest and safest parts
of himself. But inside, underneath, is a wealth of hidden discoveries. I want to know them all.

  I cling to him and lay my head against his chest. After a while, he seems to get the simple concept of a hug. His hands wrap around my waist and rest on my back. And even though it’s the most awkward hug I’ve ever had, it’s also the best.

  “You don’t have to keep me locked in the room,” I tell him. “I won’t leave until you say it’s okay, Ronan. Because I trust you. I trust that you’ll protect me.”

  He makes a small grunt of approval. But I’m honestly not sure he even heard me. Because he’s staring at the place where my breasts are pressed against his chest. He likes that. Judging by the bulge digging into my stomach, he likes it a lot.

  Knowing the way that Ronan is, I anticipate it’s only a matter of time before he’s throwing me down and fucking me again. But before things can even get that far, I reach for his hand and pull him back to the bed.

  I tell him to sit down. After a moment’s hesitation, he does. And when I drop down on my knees before him, I have his undivided attention. My palms rest on his thighs, massaging the solid muscle beneath before I go any further. His pulse drums against my fingertips, betraying how much he likes this too.

  “We don’t have a condom,” I remind him.

  My palms are slowly creeping up his legs while I speak, keeping his attention focused on how he feels instead of the words. When I reach the bulge straining against the zipper of his trousers, I palm him through the material and then tug. He makes another sound in his throat, and his eyes flutter shut.

  I pull his cock free from his briefs, toying with it while I work up the nerve for my next question. He looks huge in my hands. Pure male perfection. And the thing is, he doesn’t even know it. He just wants me. My touch. My hands on his body.

  I let that go to my head a little. Because goddamn this man. He’s hot as fucking hell. That’s a fact. But if he tells me he’s only ever been with me, I might go off the deep end completely. I need to know. I need to know just how much his dark obsession burns for me. Because I don’t think I could ever let anyone else have him. He’s mine, already. But the words… the words make it real. Make it true.

  I swirl my thumb over the head of his cock and squeeze, milking the moisture that’s already leaking out of him. His eyes are open now. Heavy and dark as they watch me taste him.

  “Has anyone ever touched you like this before?” I ask.

  His answer is a rough murmur.

  “No.”

  I wrap my hand around his thick base and give it a couple more pulls, making his balls draw up against his body.

  “Has anyone else got to have you, Ronan?” I ask. “Have you ever fucked anyone the way you fuck me?”

  The resulting jerk of his hips makes me think he secretly likes my filthy mouth.

  “No,” he grunts. “Only you, Sasha.”

  A torrid fever builds inside of me, charging my blood with manic possession. Jesus. I nearly come just thinking about it.

  This man is the walking definition of masculinity. Virility. If his crew were a wolf pack, he'd be the strong and silent Alpha. And yet I'm the only one who’s ever touched this God among mortals. Me. A girl from the Dot with nothing to offer but my broken self.

  “Good.” My voice is hoarse, drunk on the knowledge of my claim. “Because if you ever touch anyone else, I’ll murder them.”

  His eyes snap to mine, dark and hot like melted chocolate. They reflect my own right now. The way that I feel. Only, Ronan takes it a step further when a small boyish grin cracks across his face. I’m pretty sure I hear angel’s singing, because holy shit that’s a beautiful sight. It doesn’t last long though, because as soon as I drag him back into my mouth, his head tips back and his eyes fall shut.

  “Do you know what, Ronan?” I ask.

  He’s having trouble concentrating with his cock in my hand. But I tell him anyway.

  “You deserve to feel good. And the fact that you never have is a fucking tragedy. I'm going to rectify that. Here and now.”

  His cock pulses in my palm, branding my skin with his heat as I suck him hard and deep, then soft and teasing.

  “Tell me which way you like,” I urge.

  He hesitates. So I keep talking.

  “Do you like me on my knees for you?”

  “Aye,” he answers in a husky voice. “Very much.”

  “Show me what else you like, Ronan.”

  He grabs the back of my head and surprises me when he thrusts up into my mouth roughly, the same way he did last night. Not only do I let him, but I get off on it. I reach down and cup his balls, and he makes another sound in his throat. God, I love the sound of Ronan coming undone for me.

  He face fucks me with erratic thrusts, the head of his cock gnashing against my teeth and the back of my throat. This brand of roughness suits his personality. The way he dominates me. He takes me when he wants, without asking. Because Ronan can’t help himself. He’s starving for this. Has been starving for it for years. I see that now.

  He pushes me all the way down on his cock and then explodes into my mouth. He isn’t polite and doesn’t ask if I want to swallow. He’s an animal. So unpolished and not at all suave. But he’s mine. My caveman.

  When he pulls away though, uncertainty creeps across his face. The wheels are turning in his head again. Wondering. Thinking. Worrying. I won’t let him get locked inside those thoughts. Those thoughts keep him away from me.

  So I smile up at him and tuck him into his pants before zipping him back up. And then I move up and sit beside him on the bed, brushing my leg against his.

  “So,” I say lightly. “What are we going to do today, kidnapper?”

  26

  RONAN

  WHEN I SPOT the church on the hillside in the distance, a weak sound tears from my chest. It must be a sign. A sign that I am to stop running and bear punishment for what I have done. Alex spoke of this place. He told me how much he liked coming to the church. How they would help people. He told me it didn’t matter what you had done, they would help you.

  I hope they will help me too.

  I’ve been running for days around this countryside. Weak with hunger and sick from drinking out of dirty puddles. I thought I could find someone to help me. That there was a life that still existed beyond the compound, like Alex talked about.

  But the only thing I’ve managed to find is this church.

  I stare up at the brick building and compare it to the church that Alex described. It does not look the same, but I can read the words and they clearly say it’s a church. Something inside of me tells me to keep going.

  But I’ve no choice.

  My body is too weak to fight anymore. I’m filled with feelings I don’t understand. I crawl up the steps and collapse near the door. I try to raise my fist to knock, or call out, but I cannot even manage that.

  My head lolls back against the cold stone beneath me, and blackness takes over.

  The priest is quiet as he sits across from me, examining me. He does not dress like the men at the compound. He does not look like a soldier. I’ve been here for weeks now. He’s given me a bed, and warm meals, and has not pushed me to talk. He’s been kind to me.

  When he first asked me questions, I couldn’t bring myself to answer him. My shame was too great. But I feel like I’m ready to speak now. And I think that maybe he can help me after all. I scratch at a worn line in the wooden table and open my lips for the first time since I left the compound. My voice sounds strange to my own ears when it leaves my throat.

  “I’ve done something bad,” I tell the priest. “And I know I must pay for it.”

  He is quiet for a long pause, and when I look up at him, he does not seem surprised by my confession. He’s watching me closely, the same way Farrell used to do sometimes. It makes me uncomfortable again, but I don’t let onto it.

  “Tell me what you have done,” he says.

  I tell him. I tell him everything. Every awful
thought I’ve ever had. I speak of the compound and the soldiers and my training. How I’ve come to enjoy the pain that was meant to provide punishment. How I don’t understand my own thoughts at times, and my mind so often betrays me.

  I admit that I took Farrell’s life, even though he was my superior. We aren’t supposed to kill our superiors. But I enjoyed it. I liked the way his blood painted the floor when I was finished. I speak of my confusion. Because I am a killer, and that was all I was ever meant to be. So maybe I’m not wrong. But I feel I should be punished for what I did to Farrell, and the priest agrees.

  “Aye, lad. There is punishment for sins such as these. Severe punishment. There is only one way that you can save your soul now.”

  I blink up at him and listen carefully. I don’t know what a soul is, but it sounds serious. I want him to help me, and I believe he can. That’s what Alex told me. These places help people.

  “Anything,” I tell him. “Tell me what I must do. I am ready.”

  “It will be uncomfortable,” he says. “You will not like it. I will not enjoy doing it either. But I must. In order to save your soul.”

  “I am ready,” I tell him again. “I am ready for you to show me.”

  The priest has a grim expression on his face when he leads me to the back. It reminds me of the compound. Of Farrell. He was always looking at me. Watching me. It made me uneasy, the same way the priest is looking at me now.

  “Pull down your trousers, lad,” he says.

  I recall my punishments at the compound. How Coyne and Farrell would take my clothes and use the cattle prod before they sprayed me with cold water. I didn’t like being naked, but I got used to it. I think that maybe the priest is going to do the same.

  I remove my trousers and cup my groin.

  The priest frowns and then points at the bed. I sit down and look around the room. I don’t see what he’s going to hurt me with, and when he sits down beside me too, I’m even more confused. He pulls up his robes and then undoes his trousers too.