Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  Little did I know I’d need protection from him.

  Conor O’ Callahan was exactly the kind of danger I was trying to avoid. He was gorgeous as sin with an accent hotter than Hades, but that’s where the charm ended. He was also cynical, cold, and downright cranky.

  So, you could imagine my surprise when he gave me a proposition. Marry him or lose my life.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’ve learned to do what’s necessary to survive in this world, and that includes marrying a mobster. Regardless of what he might say, it’s only temporary.

  It’s not like I’m going to fall for him.

  Because that would be stupid, right?

  PLAYLIST

  Reflecting Light- Sam Phillips

  In My Veins- Andrew Belle

  Taking Pictures- Sam Phillips

  Bird Set Free- Sia

  Paper Bag- Fiona Apple

  I Wish I Could Break Your Heart- Cassadee Pope

  Hunter- Dido

  Here is Gone- Goo Goo Dolls

  Big Girls Cry- Sia

  Let Love In- Goo Goo Dolls

  Bad Things- Jace Everett

  PROLOGUE

  CONOR

  THERE ARE two things my old man always told me were inevitable. Death and captivity. From the moment the hospital stamped my birth certificate, my years have been numbered. It’s in my DNA, true as the Irish blood running through my veins.

  For as long as I could remember, Pop was in and out of the can. He never could live straight. He tried, a couple of times, but within a week or two of flipping burgers, he’d be back to planning his next big score. I suspect he always knew it would kill him. But when I asked him about it once, he told me he’d rather go down in a blaze of glory than choking on his Jell-O in the nursing home.

  When I was a kid, I figured it’d be the same with me. What other choice did I have? I was raised with the notion that the only way to make a living was to jack trucks and rob banks. If you wanted something in this world, you had to take it.

  So, standing here as I am, destined to go down in my own blaze of glory, it isn’t all that unexpected. Only difference is, it’s not a security guard or cop I’m squaring off with, but six members of the Lenox Hill crew.

  Best case scenario is that I get one shot off before they do me in, and I have every intention of making that shot count. That greasy fucker with the slicked back hair and beady eyes will have a fat, hot piece of lead lodged in his face if it’s the last thing I ever do. Whatever happens after that will be worth it.

  I rub the ink on my arm and meet his gaze. The drink in my system almost knocks me on my arse when I reach for my piece. When the adrenaline is high, everything seems faster and more amplified.

  My heart is full of thunder and my palms are clammy. I’ve lived this moment a hundred times over in my mind, unwavering about the way it would go down. But reality is always different than our imaginations. When the piece of shite across the warehouse realizes what’s happening, it doesn’t bring me relief like I thought it would.

  Doubt nags me. A bullet to the head is too quick, a kindness he doesn’t deserve. If I’m lucky, I’ll only get to enjoy his suffering for a second or two before my own skull is cracked open and splattered in pieces across the cement floor. But when it comes to options I’m all out. His crew is closing in on me as I raise my piece and look him in the eyes.

  “For Brady.”

  There’s a flurry of rapid movements as they all reach for their own weapons, and for a moment, I wonder if my Pop would say I’d done good. I could only ever do bad in his books, but I’d like to believe he’d tell me I’d done him proud for this one thing.

  And Brady too.

  But that fantasy is snatched away from me before I have a chance to make good on it. When gunfire erupts around me, there is only one last horrifying thought. I’ve fucked this up too because they got to me first.

  Any second now, I’ll feel the shock of pain and fire when bullets pierce my flesh. One second passes, and then two, and I’m still standing. I haven’t fired a single shot, but when I look around me, the Lenox Hill crew are dodging for cover themselves.

  I stagger over to the wall and duck behind a partition as I try to piece together what’s happening. There’s a lot of shouting. A few low moans from somewhere in the corner. I don’t know how long it goes on for, but when there’s a pause, I stumble out in a panic, seeking out my target. Instead, I’m met with the end of a cold barrel to the back of my head.

  “Slow down there, lad,” the Irish interloper instructs me. “Where exactly do ye think ye’re off to so quickly?”

  I try to shake him off as my eyes scour the warehouse for the blue shirt. I find it peeking out from the stack of boxes along the wall and my feet move in that direction before my mind can catch up to logic. I’m about a half a step closer to my goal before the man behind me grabs me again and tosses me to the floor.

  “Just let me kill him,” I slur. “Then you can put a bullet in me head.”

  The Irishman narrows his eyes and looks to his companion with the glasses. These guys aren’t part of some low life street gang. They’re clean cut and hard. The kind of blokes who wear clothes way too nice for this neighborhood. There’s no doubt about who and what they are. Given their accents similar to my own, they could only be part of the Irish syndicate.

  “Since when did the Lenox Hill crew start running with such jittery lads?” The guy with the glasses asks.

  “I’m not with them.” I glance over my shoulder, tracking the flash of blue. “And he’ll get away if ye don’t let me sort him out. You were going to do it anyway, so this is all I ask of ye. Let me be the one to do him in.”

  The desperation bleeding from my voice mixes with the alcohol in my veins, and it’s not a great combination. My words are slurred, my movements slow, and I really don’t give a feck who these pricks are. When they don’t answer me, I start scuttling backwards on my hands and knees while they watch in amusement.

  The guy in the leather jacket shakes his head. “Ye have to give him credit for his determination.”

  His laughter dies when I yank out my piece and swivel around on the floor, too drunk to get up. My arm nearly falters as I take aim at the blue shirt, finger twitching on the trigger. I’m a split second away from firing when the man with the glasses walks up and kicks it from my hands.

  “Calm down, lad,” he tells me as I scramble for the gun again. “Don’t ye know, if ye have beef with this tool… a bullet to the head ain’t the way to sort him out.”

  I pause long enough to look up at him. “Then what would you suggest?”

  “That’s a fair question,” the other man answers. “One that my mate here wouldn’t mind explaining to ye. But first thing’s first, lad. What exactly did that prick over there do to get ye so jacked up?”

  The whiskey in my stomach curdles and I swallow down the bitterness of the raw truth.

  “That prick killed my kid brother.”

  1

  CONOR

  “WHERE IN THE bleeding hell have you two been?” Crow asks as Rory and I slump onto our bar stools at Sláinte.

  The Irish run strip joint is still bumping with energy at this late hour, but I’m limp with exhaustion. Tonight was meant to be a simple drop, but nothing in the syndicate is ever simple. It seems like every other week some new gobshite is gumming up the works.

  “Those fucking arseholes hit our shipments again,” Rory moans. “The Loco Salva-whatever-the-fuck they call themselves.”

  “Again?” Crow frowns. “That’s the second time this week.”

  “I doubt they’ll be going away anytime soon,” I say. “Considering we just took out five of their crew.”

  Crow’s brow furrows like I just reminded him of something, but whatever it is, he doesn’t mention it. “Chrissakes, Conor, you still have blood on your face. Go clean yourself up.”

  Even though I’ve been with the outfit for a couple years now, I’m still the yo
ungest of the lads. So, when Crow tells me to do something, I do it. I take my leave and descend into the bowels of the club where the gambling and killing usually take place.

  Sometimes it’s a pain in the arse being the rookie, but even if it takes a lifetime, I’m willing to prove myself to the brotherhood. Without them, I’d be six feet under, as useless as my father always told me I was. Crow might give me shite most of the time, but he’s been offloading a lot more responsibility lately too. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what he asks of me. I’d lay down my life for this crew, and anything else is just white noise.

  That’s why I don’t hesitate when I finish my business and Crow gestures for me to follow him to one of the private lounges on the balcony. He’s quiet as he leans against the railing, eyes scanning the crowd below us.

  “Do ye see something that doesn’t quite belong here, Conor?”

  My eyes move over the sea of faces, and everything is blurry. At this hour, most of the lads are here, drinking and socializing at the end of the busy day. The dancers are the same, just another pair of tits and ass walking about. You’d think a lad would never get sick of looking at it, but you’d be wrong.

  I’m tired, and I haven’t a clue what this is about, but it must be important. Crow likes to test me from time to time, to see how far I’ve come since I was just the bumbling kid who stumbled into the middle of one of his gang wars.

  There are any number of things he could be talking about. A guy getting too handsy with one of the dancers. Another couple of blokes we’ve already booted out of here once for being too belligerent. Some sketchy looking customers in the pit, most likely jerking themselves off. But those aren’t what catches my eye. And I could be wrong, but it’s a gut instinct that I’m not.

  The thing that looks most out of place to me is the little birdie hanging out in the back, her fingers beating a nervous rhythm against her table. Under the flashing lights her hair looks almost white, but I can tell she’s a blondie. A wee scrawny thing, by the looks of it. Her chair practically swallows her whole and she can’t weigh more than one of my limbs. She looks too fragile to be sitting there by herself and it rubs me the wrong way.

  She isn’t here to watch the dancers, and she’s not trying to pick up clients. So really, she has no business being in the club. Still, I hesitate before I say it out loud, a little unsure of myself. I look to Crow, and he’s studying me, waiting for me to get it wrong.

  “Well?” he asks. “Spit it out, Conor. I don’t have all night.”

  “The blonde.”

  Crow tilts his head to the side, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What about her?”

  “She’s not here with anyone. I think she’s been in here before, but she doesn’t have a reason to be. At least not that I can see.”

  “Aye, ye’re right.” Crow says. “She doesn’t.”

  My chest expands, and it feels good that I’ve done him proud. Crow is my mentor and our superior, and it’s important to me that he knows I’m solid. But the levity slips from his face and turns to something darker. I’ve seen that look before, and I don’t like it. Because if Crow isn’t happy about it, I won’t be either.

  “Truth is, I think we have a wee problem, Conor.”

  “What is it?”

  His fingers curl over the railing while he watches her. “She’s been hanging around here a lot. Skittish as a fecking mouse. Asked me for a job a couple of times. I suspected something wasn’t right about the whole situation from the get go. But then I hear the Locos have been looking for a girl just like her. Apparently, she was the girlfriend of that psycho they called Muerto.”

  “The one we killed?”

  “Aye, that’d be the one,” Crow answers. “And I have a reliable source who tells me she was in the house that night.”

  “Jaysus. You think she saw something?”

  “I don’t know.” Crow shrugs. “Dom swears nobody else was in that room when he popped the guy, but I have it on good authority that she was.”

  His words sink into my gut like a lead weight. If she’s a potential witness, it can only mean one thing. The Irish don’t leave witnesses behind, and that’s what Crow’s getting at.

  “It’s a big ask.” He turns to me. “But I’m trusting ye to handle this, Conor. Can I count on you?”

  I stuff my hands into my pockets and force my words into submission. “Without a doubt.”

  He nods solemnly. “I need ye to keep an eye on her. Find out everything ye can about her and what she knows, and don’t let her out of your sight. Do what ye need to do to sort this out.”

  I turn back to the balcony, processing exactly what it is I’m agreeing to. This little birdie is young, probably in her early twenties like me. She’s a hot fucking mess who isn’t doing herself any favors with the baggy clothes, but even so, it’s plain as day she’s got a pretty face. It would be a shame to see her killed, but if it comes down to my brothers or her, it’s always going to be my brothers.

  “How am I supposed to keep an eye on her without raising her suspicions?” I ask.

  Crow slaps me on the shoulder and heads for the stairs. “I’m sure you’ll sort it out. It shouldn’t be too hard, considering I just hired her on as a dancer.”

  2

  IVY

  IT’S BEEN two hours since the guy in the leather jacket told me he’d give me a job. He goes by the name Crow, and I know he runs this club, but I have a suspicion he’s in charge of a lot more than that.

  He’s scary as hell, but the alternative is even worse. That’s what keeps me glued to the chair I’ve been occupying for the last week, hoping and praying nobody will find me here.

  The first few times I asked for a job, Crow laughed in my face. But tonight, for reasons I’m not entirely sure of, he finally took pity on me. I could be thinking of the many ways this could go wrong, but right now, I’m just grateful. As risky as this place might be, it’s the one place I know the Locos won’t come. When you’re between a rock and a hard place, it’s always wise to choose the lesser of two evils. In my case, that’s the Irish fucking mob. They protect their territory with a viciousness that makes any low life gangbanger think twice about crossing this threshold. Now if I can just manage to fly under the radar for a month while I stash away every cent I earn, I can finally leave this city- and all of my bad history- behind.

  I’m eager to get started, but apparently Crow isn’t on the same page. I’ve been here all night and the room is starting to spin. I’m tired, cold, and my stomach aches with a pervasive hunger that seeps into my bones. I just really fucking need this job.

  A shadow falls over me, and when I look up, I find myself in the crosshairs of a pair of eyes so green they should be illegal. A shiver crawls across my neck as my eyes move over the towering stranger who just entered my orbit unbidden. He’s tall, built, and mysterious in a way that only a mafioso could be. I know before he even opens his mouth that this guy is part of Crow’s crew. He’s as Irish as the day is long, but he’s younger than the other guys I’ve seen lurking around here. Not quite as rough around the edges. His face isn’t as weathered, but there’s something colder about him. There’s a hardness in his features that tells me he’s not a man to be easily won over.

  He jerks his chin in my direction, eyes narrowed as he examines me. “I’m Conor. Crow sent me to show ye the ropes.”

  I sit up a little straighter, feeling small and unsure of myself under the weight of his gaze. “Hi. I’m Ivy.”

  “Ivy.” He rolls the name over his tongue with an Irish accent dipped in sin. “That sounds like a made-up name.”

  “Well, it isn’t,” I assure him. Even if it is my middle name, it’s still my name. I figured it only made sense to use that instead of my first name Elizabeth, which the Locos know me as.

  Conor’s gaze cuts over my face with laser precision, and whatever he thinks he sees in me makes his lip curl in disgust. Heat climbs up the flesh of my throat and it burns with repressed ha
te for men like him. Men who think they fucking know me with one glance. I’ve seen it a thousand times over. They mistake me for weak. A skinny orifice with big boobs and no brains. The misconceptions are endless. I must be a user because I’m gaunt and lifeless, not because I’m starving. I must be a whore because I was with Muerto. Surely, I asked for it.

  I’ve seen it all before. So Conor’s quiet judgment means nothing to me, or at least it shouldn’t. But for some reason, if I’m being honest, it stings a little more than all the others. Maybe I was wrong, but when our eyes connected, it felt like I saw something else in him. Something other than a mafia asshole.

  Regardless, his opinion doesn’t matter. I have no interest in a guy like Conor or what he might think of me. The faster I can get the hell away from him and everyone else like him, the better off I’ll be.

  “What do you need to show me?” I ask, my voice harder than it was just a moment ago.

  Conor doesn’t budge, and neither do I. He won’t take his eyes off me, and I’m too paralyzed to move. He’s watching me carefully, waiting for me to crack while he picks me apart until I feel raw inside. My hands squeeze together in my lap in an effort to diffuse the tension, but all I really want to do is curl up in a ball and hide.

  Finally, Conor turns and makes a flippant gesture with his hand. “Follow me to the back. I’ll show you where the dressing rooms are.”

  I follow him down the hall, trying to focus on my surroundings, but instead, my gaze bores into Conor. There’s a pronounced swagger to his walk that tells me he’s confident in his abilities, and granted, he probably should be. He’s broad shouldered and built like a fighter, and I could almost bet he looks airbrushed underneath that jacket. His hands are so fucking big he could probably wrap them around my neck twice while he smokes a cigarette and strangles me with two fingers.