Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  It isn’t Storm, but she hands him a folded note. He reads it, and she disappears.

  “What is it?” I ask when he comes back over.

  He hands it to me.

  * * *

  Thought you were getting warmer, B.

  But you’re ice cold now.

  Come and find me already.

  I’m waiting…

  Xoxo

  Storm

  * * *

  I shake my head and hand it back to him. “Good luck with that one, buddy.”

  He nods and gives me one last toast before he bails and mammy tells us it’s time to take our spots at the front of the church.

  And then I wait. For my beautiful little hellraiser to walk down the aisle.

  She looks like an angel as she walks towards me.

  And I’m harder than hell knowing she’s filled with my come, and soon she’s going to be wearing my ring on her finger for good.

  I can’t help it.

  When she gets to the end of the aisle, and Niall gives her away, I kiss her in front of everyone. Before the priest clears his throat and interrupts us.

  “We haven’t reached that part yet.”

  “Right.” I kiss her again. “Sorry about that.”

  Scarlett smiles at me and then pulls away so we can proceed with the ceremony. It’s all traditional.

  Scarlett and I talked about it, and we both agreed we were more than happy to just do it at Slainte without any fanfare. But this is for mammy.

  And when I look out and catch a glimpse of her bawling happy tears, I’m more grateful than ever to Scarlett for indulging her.

  When he gets to the part of the vows, I listen to every word and repeat them carefully, putting as much emphasis onto them as I can.

  It’s important to me that Scarlett knows I might joke around, and even though we just desecrated the church in our own way, I do take this seriously.

  These are vows that can’t be broken.

  The same as my vows to the syndicate and my brothers.

  For the rest of my life, I will worship her and do whatever it takes to protect the sanctity of our marriage. I add that part in too, on my last vow.

  The priest has had about enough of us, so he wraps it up quickly. And after we exchange the rings, he says those five magical little words.

  You may kiss your bride.

  I kiss the fuck out of her.

  All night long.

  Thank you so much for reading SAINT. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving an honest review.

  REFERENCES

  Quotes referenced in this book:

  The following quotes were taken from the Public Domain.

  Source: http://www.gutenberg.org/

  * * *

  Hell is empty and all the devils are here-

  The Tempest, Shakespeare

  I don’t want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again-

  This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald

  If you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison' it is certain to disagree with you sooner or later- Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

  She was beautiful - but especially she was without mercy-

  The Beautiful and Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Some people are nobody's enemies but their own-

  Oliver Twist, Charles Dickens

  Cowards die many time before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once-

  Julius Caesar, Shakespeare

  Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me-

  This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Terror made me cruel-

  Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë

  I don’t want just words. If that’s all you have for me, you’d better go-

  The Beautiful and Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  I have to remind myself to breathe - remind my heart to beat –

  Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë

  What a fool I was not to tear my heart out on the day when I resolved to avenge myself-

  The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas

  And though she but little, she is fierce-

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare

  Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar: but never doubt I love-

  Hamlet, Shakespeare

  They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered-

  This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald

  There is nothing good or bad, only thinking makes it so-

  Hamlet, Shakespeare

  THIEF

  BOSTON UNDERWORLD #5

  I’m a good girl.

  I live by a code that can’t be bent or broken. It is my duty to my family to stay innocent and pure. To marry an Italian man. The stars are already aligned.

  But Nikolai Kozlov re-writes my destiny with five simple words.

  You belong to me now.

  He's Russian mafiya. A thief. A skilled liar with no moral boundaries. He is everything I have been taught to hate. A man who stands for nothing. A man who takes what he wants without a second thought.

  And what he wanted was me.

  He thinks he controls my fate, but what he doesn’t know is, sometimes it’s the good girls you have to watch out for.

  I’m a dangerous man.

  I live by a code. The Vory code. It is my duty to my family to protect the brotherhood. To destroy anyone who threatens what we stand for, including her.

  She’s a dancer. A beautiful little doll. My prisoner, and my new favorite puppet. This mafia princess thinks she has me under her spell, but in the end, she is simply collateral.

  It’s a shame to destroy precious things.

  But this is what bad men do.

  PLAYLIST

  ARCHIS- Bittersweet

  Camila Cabello- Never be the Same

  Halsey, G. Eazy- Him and I

  Symon- Lonely Girl

  Eminem, Ed Sheeran- River

  Rita Ora, Liam Payne- For You

  Zac Effron, Zendaya- Rewrite the Stars

  Sia- The Greatest

  Selena Gomez- Wolves

  Imagine Dragons- Believer

  Craig Armstrong, Lana Del Ray- Hotel Sayre

  R.I.P.- Rita Ora

  AWOLNATION- Sail

  Bruno Mars- It Will Rain

  Leona Lewis- Bleeding Love

  Plumb- Damaged

  Leona Lewis- Angel

  Yiruma- River Flows in You

  Leona Lewis- Take a Bow

  One Republic- Apologize

  GLOSSARY OF TERMS

  Avtoritet- authority, captain

  Boevik- warrior, soldier, strike force

  Pakhan- leader, boss

  Nika, Nikolasha, Kol’ka, Kolyan- diminutive forms of the name Alexei

  Nakya, Tashechka- diminutive forms of the name Tanaka

  Zvezda- star

  Bratan- brother

  Sovietnik- councilor, advisor to the pakhan

  Vory v Zakone- thieves in law

  1

  TANAKA

  LET IT RUIN YOU. It’s the only way.

  The words rush between my lips on a stolen breath, and in my mind, Vivi’s face is still as lucid as the day she uttered that direction. She was loud and unintentionally poetic. Silky locks of raven hair, red lipstick, and cat-shaped glasses. These were just a few of the threads that stitched together my mentor and my inspiration.

  Every dancer at the Met tonight would sell their souls for a career like Vivi’s. I was one of the lucky disciples chosen to study under her, but I doubted it had anything to do with luck at all. She had an artist’s eye, always looking for something different. And in a flock of pale sheep, I was the lone umber wolf. Vivi liked that. From the beginning of our time together, she spoke of her plight to create cultural diversity in a world of dance that still upheld strict ancient standards.

  My half-blooded Italian heritage and
a dash of my mother’s ebony skin elected me as the poster child for her cause. But regardless of her reasoning, I didn’t let the opportunity go to waste. I was not under the delusion that I was special, and Vivi would be quick to remind me of it if I ever got the notion in my head. Every ballet student wanted to think she was special. That she was pure talent and natural grace. That she was the best. But every dancer’s best was only as good as the dancer next to her, waiting to steal her shine in the spotlight. Vivi provided that lesson when she allowed another dancer to do exactly that. Her practice was brutal but effective. More than structure and timing, she taught me how to live and breathe my art. And most importantly, she educated me on what happens when a dancer becomes complacent.

  I remember her warmly whenever I’ve put my body through hell, and I know that she would be proud. If she was here to witness the mangled state of my feet, she would tell me that I had gone to war, and I had won.

  Flexing my toes, my eyes sweep over the desolate landscape of my thighs as I swoop forward in a meditative stretch.

  There is no such thing as pain. There is only discipline.

  Tonight, I will take the stage as a soloist for the New York Ballet Company, performing as Ceres in Sylvia. It is a hard-won role. A role I have fought and bled for. The years of study have not been kind, but there is no such thing as mercy in ballet.

  The shelf life of a dancer is short, and for me, it’s even shorter. I am fortunate that the ballet has always pleased my father because it is the one amusement he would not deny me. He told me as a child that a dancer embodies everything a woman should be. When he took me to my first ballet, I came to a quick agreement. The heavenly creatures floating across the stage in shades of pale pink and white were the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. At the age of six, I resolved that I would be one of those dancers someday. My lofty aspirations brought amusement to my father’s otherwise brash face, and he declared that if I wanted to be a true ballerina, it would mean accepting nothing less than principle. When I asked why, he explained that in the days of old, only the best dancers could earn the accolade of ballerina.

  From that day forward, I resolved that I would earn the right to be called a true ballerina. And eighteen years later, I am closer than ever to my dream. Also, closer than ever to having it snatched away.

  A muted whisper jars me from stillness, and when I open my eyes, the calm before the storm dissolves.

  The standing agreement between my father and the artistic director of NYBC is that I must always have my own room to dress, even if it’s only the size of a closet. My father likes to say that the guise of religion can buy you many things, but the truth is, his name is what affords such luxuries. The artistic director doesn’t blink twice at the guards who shadow my every move. Unfortunately for me, the other dancers do.

  I am kept separate. Hidden away and forbidden from socializing. The circumstances of my situation haven’t bred the warmest reception from my peers, but I’m accustomed to the isolation. Which is why it is no small shock to discover that Gianni has infiltrated my improvised dressing room. I’m not even certain how he snuck in, and when I look at the door where my guard is waiting outside, a knot forms in my throat.

  “What are you doing? My father will be here any—”

  “Tanaka.” He lowers to my level. We’re eye to eye, and there’s no mistaking his apprehension. Gianni is the poster boy for every Italian gangster costume that gets mass produced around Halloween. Slicked jet-black hair, gold rings on his fingers, and the stereotypical New York accent. I couldn’t take him seriously on my best day, but I’m taking him seriously now.

  “What is it?” I curl my legs under me and rise to my feet, my stretching forgotten. He can’t be seen here with me and he knows it. So, if he’s here, it can only mean something’s up. I have the sudden urge to puke, and it has nothing to do with the impending performance. My stomach is a riot of nerves, and it’s all his fault.

  “You promised me.” My spine sags forward as I clutch my waist. “You swore everything would be okay.”

  All I can think about is my dreams going up in smoke. Principal won’t matter if I’m dead. Nothing will matter if I’m dead. The years of training, the countless hurdles I’ve overcome, they will have been for nothing.

  Gianni glances at the door. “I came to warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  The conversation screeches to a halt when there’s a knock on the door. The knock I’ve been dreading since his arrival. I knew it would come, and there isn’t time to finish what Gianni started. He curses under his breath, bolting for a chair in the center of the room. I wave at him frantically while he pulls himself up through a displaced ceiling tile.

  “Principessa,” my father calls through the door. “Are you decent?”

  The tile slides back into place, and I clear my throat. “Yes, Papà.”

  The guard opens the door, and my father enters. I meet him halfway as a sign of respect, and he kisses each of my cheeks. The ritual is predictable and familiar, but the uneasiness in his dark eyes is not.

  Impeccably dressed in a suit and trench coat, my father remains steadfast in his old-fashioned ways. He will always look his best, and everyone around him should too. But even he can’t hide the grimace in his step as he paces the perimeter of the room with a keen eye. It could mean one of two things. A business deal gone bad, or his debts are worse than I had imagined.

  I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell. A father does not discuss these things with his daughter. At least not in our world. My days, weeks, and hours are slave to a dancer’s regime, while criminal activities consume his.

  At first glance, the man is an improbable source for my paternal genes. He is a throwback to his Italian roots with dusky eyes and sooty hair. My complexion is far more coppery, and my eyes a more forgiving shade of amber. He is stocky in stature, and I am willowy like my mother.

  I am grateful to have inherited her features, believing that in some small way, she lives on through me.

  “Sei Bella.” Papà roosts on the chair that Gianni used for his escape only moments ago. “Tonight, the audience will see a genuine angel.”

  I smile at the compliment, but beneath his words is an undercurrent of despair, and it worries me.

  “You know you must give this up soon, Principessa.”

  My answering nod is stiff and obedient. “Yes, Papà, I know.”

  Soon sounds quicker than I anticipated, but it is not entirely surprising. Dante has been making quiet preparations to marry me, and the moment I agree, my life will change entirely. Dancer’s accolades are of no significance in a man’s world. A mafia wife has one sole purpose, and it is not outside the home. I’ve been raised to know the challenges that await me. The sum of my life is only as great as the man’s name that I take.

  “Dante would like to have a word with you,” Papà says.

  I comply with a quiet, “Okay.”

  After one short command from my father, Dante enters dutifully. He greets me with a respectful kiss on the cheek and nothing more. It is as much contact as we ever have under the watchful eye of my father. I am to remain pure for my husband, and only on the wedding night will my virtue be taken. This is the way of my world, and one of the many reasons for my constant guard.

  “You look like a goddess.” Dante squeezes my hand. “I expect you will mesmerize the entire theatre. I am only disappointed I will not be able to see it.”

  My face crumples. “You aren’t staying?”

  Dante looks at my father before answering. “I wish I could, but business calls.”

  I nod because it isn’t my place to argue. Business is business.

  “Thing is,” Dante says with undisguised bitterness, “the business is overseas. I could be gone for a couple of months.”

  A couple of months? This is news to me, and it’s the first time I’ve ever known Dante to resent his marching orders. Orders undoubtedly handed down by my father. In a bold display of own
ership, he slips his hand over my cheek and leans in to whisper in my ear. “When I return, I’ll be making you my wife.”

  A shiver moves through me, and Papà clears his throat. “Time to go, Dante.”

  One last kiss on my cheek, and Dante does as he’s told.

  I give my father a weak smile, hoping he will go now. The show will start shortly, and my nerves have not abated. I need more time to warm up. I need to re-frame my thoughts and calm the chaos eating up my focus. My father’s uneasy behavior. Gianni’s unspoken warning, and now, Dante’s swift exit. An atomic energy is building in the air with every passing second, and I don’t like it.

  I force my beating heart to calm when my father gestures for his men outside, and Gianni is the one to enter. He’s here as a guard tonight, and his face is completely devoid of emotion when my eyes flash to his. He gives nothing away, and I know it’s important that I do the same.

  “Tanaka,” my father says brusquely. “I’d like you to meet an associate of mine.”

  My eyes move to the door, a new threat lying in wait. The associate is introduced as Nikolai, but he is hardly an associate from what I can see. The man is from a different world entirely.

  The first thing I always notice about a person is their posture. I was raised to believe that good posture conveys good manners, as well as respect for those around you. Nikolai carries his posture like a casual “fuck you.” There is no decorum in his leather jacket, jeans, or his haphazardly laced motorcycle boots. Everything he wears is black, but the small glimpse of flesh beneath is a riot of colors. Tattoos cover every inch of his exposed skin, including his throat. I’m not sure which is more offensive—the ink or the fauxhawk atop his head. This is not the way you attend a ballet, nor is he the type of man I expect my father to keep company with.