Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  “Okay, well please don’t try,” I cut her off. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. He’s going to freak if he finds out. But he deserves to know. But then if I tell him he’s going to keep me trapped here in this life forever.”

  Mack sighs and collapses back onto the bed. “And let me guess, you want me to keep my mouth shut too?”

  “Obviously.”

  “This double agent thing is not all it’s cracked up to be,” she mutters.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she says quickly. “Listen, Sash. I don’t really know what the deal is with you and Ronan. I think I’m still in shock that he actually had sex. I mean the man is like a fucking ice cube. Does he ever warm up?”

  “He’s very… intense,” I tell her.

  Mack holds up her hands and shakes her head. “Okay never mind, that’s too weird. He’s like a brother to me or something. I can’t think of him that way. So let’s focus on the important thing which is the tiny human growing inside of you and the fact that I have no fucking clue on how to advise you in this situation.”

  “That isn’t helpful,” I groan.

  “I know,” she says. “I suck at this stuff. Is it wrong that I feel happy? Like giddy. We’re both preggers at the same time. And we’re both with guys that we probably never in a million years thought we’d end up with, but at least we’ll be going through it together.”

  I smile at her and shake my head.

  “Ronan and I aren’t really together, together.”

  “Well, regardless,” she beams. “You’re having his baby.”

  Her happiness is contagious. I’ve been so busy freaking out over it that I never really stopped to think about that simple point. My hand moves over my belly and I blink back the tears knowing that Ronan and I created this.

  It isn’t wrong. No matter how fucked up this situation is, or how badly I wanted out of this life, this baby could never be wrong. I love it already. In fact, the enormity of my sudden love for something I only just found out existed hits me hard and fast.

  “God, Mack, I’m having his baby.”

  “You are,” she agrees.

  “I love him,” I blurt. “I know it sounds crazy. But I really do. I’ve been in love with him for so long. We are so fucked up together, but I love him.”

  “Welcome to the loony bin.” Mack smiles. “Come in, sit down. Stay for a spell.”

  I half-laugh, half-cry. Mack always has a way of making me feel a little better.

  “But seriously though,” she says, “you should tell him.”

  “I can’t,” I croak. “I don’t think… I mean I don’t know if he feels the same. He barely speaks. I have to drag every little word out of him.”

  “Sash, let me tell you something. I went into Slainte thinking every single person there was sheisty as fuck. And I watched them all, Ronan included. But do you know what?”

  “What?”

  “He was so busy watching you that he never noticed anything else in that club. When you were there that was the only thing that existed to him. I know you said you wanted out of this life, and I get it, I really do. But are you running away from the life, or from him? Because you sort of seem to lump him in with all the other mob guys when we both know that’s not really the case.”

  I blink up at her and feel pressure behind my eyes. Even though Mack is sarcastic and deflective most of the time, she really is very perceptive.

  “I think he would take good care of you, Sash,” she says softly. “I think no man would ever dare look your way again if you were his. And he would never, ever hurt you. Because if he did, I would frigging murder him.”

  “I don’t know.” My thoughts are too jumbled up right now to make sense of.

  “You’re both avoiding each other, Sash. Avoiding the elephant in the room. How long has this been going on for?”

  “Years,” I answer honestly.

  “Right,” she says. “And it’s kind of ridiculous, huh?”

  “Well, when you put it like that.”

  Mack smiles and reaches over to hug me. She’s getting better at the hugging thing. “Talk to him, Sash,” she whispers. “That’s all you can do.”

  30

  SASHA

  WHEN RONAN GETS BACK, I’ve got a whole feast prepared for dinner. Conor delivered the groceries I asked for, and I didn’t have much else to do besides wash and play with Daisy.

  It turns out, Ronan doesn’t even have television or internet in his house. Just books. And after being here only one day, I can’t imagine how he handles the silence all the time. It has to get lonely. I wonder if that’s why he got Daisy. It doesn’t really make sense, him having a Corgi. So when we sit down to dinner, I decide to ask him about it.

  She’s pawing at his leg, and he’s petting her head awkwardly. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it, how unsure he is with such simple things like that. Ronan always comes off cold and well put together, but if you look closely, you can see it in the little things he does.

  “I take it you never had a dog before?” I ask him.

  He looks up at me and shakes his head. “No.”

  “So how did you end up with Daisy?”

  “She was at Donovan’s house.”

  And with that simple statement, the subject is dead in the water. I’m not new to this life. These guys aren’t in the habit of talking about men they killed. Once they’re dead and buried, that’s it. It’s like they never existed before. And judging by the way Ronan’s looking at me he prefers it that way too. But I do wonder if it’s because he killed him or because of what Donny did to me.

  The room is quiet, and I’m trying to think of something else to talk about. Ronan’s staring at the pot roast and does that thing where he sniffs it before he eats it.

  “Why do you do that?” I ask.

  He blinks up at me and his cheeks flush under my scrutiny. “I don’t like a certain sort of foods,” he says.

  “Okay…” I draw out the word, choosing my next ones carefully. “Like which sort?”

  “I don’t know.”

  If it were anybody else, I might think they were being intentionally vague. But Ronan’s answer is an honest one, and I have a feeling that most of the time his answers only make sense to him. He doesn’t understand the need to elaborate. I always took it as a sign he didn’t want people to talk to him, his being so short and blunt. But then I think about him and Crow, and how close they are. Crow always pushes him for more answers, and I’ve never seen Ronan get angry with him for it.

  So I decide to test it out myself.

  “Why don’t you know, Ronan?”

  He eats a potato and thinks about his answer before he replies.

  “Where I was reared, there was sometimes a sort of strange smell in the food. I don’t know exactly what it was. But it made us sick. So I always check, just in case.”

  “Oh.”

  The room is silent again while I gather the courage for my next question. “That was at the compound, right?”

  He sets his fork down. And I can’t read his expression. I never know what he’s thinking. But I know that I never will if I don’t work at it.

  “Lachlan said you were raised in a sort of training camp,” I add, hoping he will explain further.

  “Aye,” he answers. “I was.”

  “Would you tell me about it?” I ask softly.

  He frowns, and then, “what would ye care to know?”

  “Did your parents live there with you?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “I only met my father once. Never met my mammy.”

  There’s no emotion in his voice. It’s like he’s telling me the weather outside is cold. Or it’s Monday. It’s just a fact to him. Nothing else. And that devastates me.

  “So who raised you?”

  “A lady,” he says. “I didn’t know her name. She reared us until we were eight, and then our training began.”

  “Training for… killing, right?”

  “Aye
.” He nods. “But mostly just war. They believed a war was coming. And they were making us into soldiers.”

  “So how did you meet Lachlan?”

  “I met him in a church,” he explains. “After I left the compound. His mammy took me home and looked after me until she died.”

  This time, there is warmth reflected in his voice. Even though he doesn’t say it, it’s obvious he cared for her very much. His relationship with Lachlan becomes so much clearer with those simple words. And I find myself wishing that his mother were still alive so I could hug her and thank her for helping Ronan. For raising him to be the man that he is today.

  “Will you tell me what kind of things they made you do at the compound?”

  He’s quiet, and his eyes are dark again, shutting me out. This is a question he doesn’t want to answer. And I have to accept there are just some things I may not ever know. It’s up to him to tell me if he wants to. But I will break down his barriers, one by one.

  “You could show me,” I offer instead.

  “How do you mean?” he asks.

  I leave the plates on the table and stand up, taking his hand in mine. Ronan stares at our linked fingers for a moment before he relaxes in my grip and follows me where I lead him. To the bedroom.

  I release his hands and step in front of him, nervous.

  “I want to feel you,” I explain. “All of you, Ronan. I want to feel your skin against mine. To know you. Will you let me?”

  He’s frowning. His eyes are downcast, and I can’t get a read on him. I’m afraid he’s going to say no. So I reach up and touch his face, stirring the magic that lingers between us every time we come together. I want him to feel it too. To take comfort in the knowledge that he’s safe with me. That I would never hurt him or judge him. Because at this point, I can no longer deny that we are connected on some strange level. And I know I can’t be the only one who feels it.

  “Tell me what you’re worried about,” I say.

  “I don’t know,” he answers.

  “But you like it when I touch you?”

  “Aye,” he says.

  “Do you trust me?”

  He nods without a moment’s hesitation. I stand on my toes and brush my lips against his, giving him the softest of kisses. His body relaxes into me, and he tries to pull me closer, but I stop him.

  “I want to feel you,” I insist.

  Our gazes lock, and then finally, he nods. That mournful look is back in his eyes again, and a part of me hates that I’m making him uncomfortable. But the other part of me, the one that wants to help him see there’s nothing to worry about, wins out.

  I unbutton his suit jacket and slide my hands inside, over his broad chest. I peel it back off his shoulders and then go to work on the buttons of his undershirt. Once I’ve got that off too, I grab his hands and guide him backwards to the bed. He follows and sits down, and I kneel before him to remove his shoes and socks.

  My palms slide up his trouser clad legs, soaking in the full power of his strained muscles before I reach his belt. I unbuckle him and tug down his zipper. He’s wearing black briefs beneath, swollen from the outline of his hardened cock. My instinctive urge is to touch him. To please him. But first, I want to explore everywhere he’s never let me venture before.

  He lifts his hips and helps me with the business of removing his pants. Then I stand before him and remove my own. I’ve done this hundreds of times at the club. For an audience of other men. It meant nothing then. But it means everything now.

  Ronan watches closely as if he might miss something should he even blink. He’s seen me naked plenty over the last two years, but he still looks at me like it’s the first time. Like I’m not dirty or wrong or broken the way I often think I am.

  His tendons are strained from how badly he wants me. How much he’s struggling to maintain his self-control. So I don’t make a long production of it. Tonight’s not about putting on a show for him. Tonight’s about learning the landscape of his body. Connecting with him in a way that’s more intimate than any other. Knowing his skin. The story only his body can tell me.

  My fingers burn with the need to have those things.

  I crawl onto the bed and move around behind him. His back is rigid, and I have to withhold the sharp intake of breath when I understand why. Upon seeing the large tattoo carved into his flesh, my stomach churns with dread. For Ronan.

  The words are distorted, but I can still make them out. The codes of his militant cult. They are engraved onto his skin as a permanent reminder of the horrors they never want him to forget. The stretched lines make it apparent they were done many, many years ago. When he was only a child, and not even close to done growing yet.

  My eyes sting from unshed tears, but I don’t let them fall, and I don’t make a sound. I told Ronan he could trust me, and now I understand his fear. His fear that I couldn’t handle seeing these things without losing my shit.

  That thought alone propels me to touch his shoulders. They are warm and muscular beneath my palms, a testament to the many hours he spends boxing with Lachlan.

  This man is a fortress in his own right.

  Immovable. Unstoppable. Formidable.

  He is the very thing they created him to be. A killer. A machine. But he’s also a protector. A man who can be as human as any other. I’ve seen his true nature. And I’ve never felt safer than when I was in his arms. So these people- the ones who hurt him- they didn’t win. Ronan might not know it, but I do.

  “Is this okay?” My fingertips move over him in a gentle cadence, massaging him lightly. A full body shudder moves through him, and his voice is a rough whisper when he replies.

  “Aye.”

  “Have you ever had a massage before?” I ask.

  “No.”

  My eyes rove over the skin on his back, riddled with scars and a lifetime of more pain than any one person should ever have to bear. It looks like he was whipped, stabbed, burned, and shot at… among other terrors my mind probably couldn’t even conjure. These wounds tell the story his lips can’t. And even if I don’t know all of the details, I’m glimpsing a piece of Ronan that I doubt very many ever have. It isn’t something I take lightly.

  My fingers crawl up the nape of his neck and dissolve the tension from his muscles there and into his hairline. Ronan’s only response is a small grunt of approval, but it plays like the sweetest melody I’ve ever heard. I massage his scalp and press a gentle kiss to his shoulder.

  “I’m messing up your perfect hair,” I say.

  “I don’t care,” is his reply.

  When I move lower, I notice a deep scar on the side of his head. My stomach flips when I trace over the raised flesh behind his ear.

  “What’s this one from?” I whisper.

  “Another lad tried to cut it off,” he answers. “And then I killed him.”

  I nod even though he can’t see me, because I’m afraid if I speak my voice will betray me.

  So for a while, I just touch him. Coaxing the stress from his body and watching the magic of Ronan melting into me. He’s enjoying this. He trusts me. And I know without a shadow of a doubt now that I’ll never be able to let him go.

  I direct him to lay down on the bed. He does, and this time, I kneel beside him and work on his feet. Like every other part of him, they are well cared for and clean. But on the bottom of his soles, I uncover another score of long healed scars. More burns and slices. Deep and unforgiving. The amount of pain he must have endured to conceive such mutilations is unfathomable.

  “Do they still hurt?” I croak.

  “Sometimes,” is his murmured reply.

  His voice is sleepy. Content. The shock of what I’m witnessing no longer fazes him. He’s under the spell of my fingers, completely oblivious to anything else. I forge on, choking my emotion down as the horrors of Ronan’s childhood are laid bare. Scars on his knees. His thighs. His stomach, chest and shoulders. There isn’t a single part of him that’s been untouched by the violence he has known.


  I’m trying to hold it in. Tamp it down. Keep control of myself. But the more I see, the harder it becomes. So many times, I’ve questioned this man. Who he is and what reasons he had for his behavior. I couldn’t have known. My mind would never have taken me to such a dark place. But I get it now.

  I get it so much that silent tears of shame and anger bleed from my eyes, burning me like acid. A sob drags from my lungs before I can stop it, and Ronan blinks up at me in confusion. I swipe at the mess that is my face and shake my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to cry. It’s just, I hate them. I hate them for what they did to you. And I slapped you. I should never have slapped you…”

  Ronan reaches for my hand and tangles our fingers together. He stares at that connection, and he likes it. Things that I’ve always taken for granted, the small kindness of a human touch, must be so foreign to him.

  He’s never had them. Any of them.

  I’m going to make it up to him. I’m going to rock his world and make him feel everything. Everything good.

  I straddle his hips and lay my body down across his much larger one, gazing up at him.

  “Will you take off your glasses?”

  He does. His eyes are soft and intense, soaking up every detail that comprises the woman on top of him. He knows me already, but it’s time for me to learn him. So I touch his face, mapping out every arc and bow. The fire that forged him was monstrous and cruel, but I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life. When I tell him so, he frowns.

  “I’m a man,” is his reply.

  I slide my hand down between us and grip his cock.

  “I know.”

  I tug on his shaft twice to provoke him. My exploration is over, and the time for talking is done. Ronan is already a step ahead of me when he grabs me by the hips and flips me over. He settles between my legs so that he’s in the dominant position, exactly where he belongs. He presses my stomach into the bed and arches my hips as he slides up into me.

  I’m full, content, and greedy at the same time. Clinging to his arms and breathing him in. He connects with me in a way that nobody else ever has. My body was dormant, and he brought me to life again. We’re a symphony of madness. Dark thirsts and wild obsession. My love for him burns hotter than the sun. It’s sappy. It’s fucked up. And more than anything, it’s real.