Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

“He killed my brother.”

  “Ah, so he did.” The way Crow says it still sounds like a question, but when Fitzy bobs his head, that question is settled.

  Crow scrubs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “Well, lad… the way I see it is you have two choices. I’m sure if ye think on it, ye’re quite aware of the predicament we’re in now, having ye alive and all.”

  “I’m not a snitch,” I tell them. “I wasn’t concerned with what your crew was doing last night.”

  “So ye say,” Fitzy scoffs. “But so does every bloke who passes through this basement.”

  I glance around the room and take it all in. It’s nothing fancy, just four walls and a bunch of tables littered with cards and remnants of cigars. In other words, the home base for their underground gambling establishment. Just like the ones my Pop used to tell me about. He lost a finger in one of these once.

  “Maybe you could keep me around.” I gesture to the tables. “I’m a gambling man meself, and I know how to deal.”

  Crow laughs and doesn’t try to hide it. “Tell ye what, kid. We’re going to do ye a solid. Ye asked to kill the clown in the blue shirt, aye?”

  I nod.

  “Well, my pal Reaper here, he’s going to show ye the ropes. Help ye kill him real good. I suspect you’ll be pleased with the results.”

  It almost sounds too good to be true, but I play along. “Okay.”

  Crow goes on. “The lad will die, and you can do whatever ye want to him. Anything your dark little heart desires. Only thing is, when we’re through, Fitzy’s gonna have to do ye in as well. But he’ll make it easy on you.”

  Silence falls over the room as they both study me, waiting for a response. They’re probably waiting for the fall out. Some moaning and pleading and even a few tears maybe, but I’ve got none of that to barter with.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Crow’s lips flatten, and Fitzy gives me a respectable nod like I’m a man of honor. I’ve never considered that I was until now, and it feels pretty fucking righteous. My Pop was always bitching about me being too weak, and I just wish he were here to see it. If I’m going to die, I think it’s a fair shake. I’ll get what I want, and what I expected anyway.

  “Alright lad.” Fitzy bends down and helps me up off the floor. “I suppose we should go ahead and do this then, aye?”

  “Aye, I’m ready.”

  Crow slaps me on the back and squeezes my shoulder. “Have fun then, lad. And try not to chuck.”

  I’ve never killed a man. And before Brady, I never really gave it too much thought either. Pop told me he’d killed a couple of guards in his day. They’d get in the way, sometimes, he said. Trying to be a hero cost them their lives. Hearing these sorts of stories made me think it ran in my blood. Something had me convinced that I was just as hard as Pop was, and when it came time, I could do it too. But that was all before I met the Reaper. He’s the one with the glasses and an emotionless face.

  The man is clean cut and as precise as a surgeon the way he moves about the little room where our prisoner waits. He discards his suit jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves while he listens to classical music. It seems like an awfully weird fucking way to prepare to murder someone, but it looks like he’s probably done it at least a hundred times over.

  The guy I’ve been waiting six months to kill is already strapped to a table, mouth gagged, shirt cut off. There isn’t an ounce of fear in his eyes when he looks at me. The Reaper, though, that’s a different story. Albie knows, just as I do, something isn’t quite right with this Fitzy character. He’s too stiff. Too formal. And way too calm. I feel sick all over again when he turns and gestures for me to come look at his selection of tools.

  “Pick your pleasure.”

  I take a gander at the metal contraptions, but I only recognize a few. Reaper must sense it, because he hands me a pair of shears. “I suggest starting with the fingers and toes. Makes it real for them.”

  Jaysus.

  I turn back to Albie, and he’s laughing at me with his eyes. Even he knows I don’t have the stomach for something like this.

  “Do ye think he made your brother suffer?” Reaper asks.

  I have half a notion to tell him to fuck off, but he has a point. The entire reason I set out to do this in the first place is because Albie made Brady suffer. And for what? Because he fucking could.

  “He tortured him,” I answer, my voice barely audible.

  “Then it’s time to return the favor, lad. One last act before ye go. Would it not give ye peace to know you’d done what ye set out to?”

  Reaper’s words give me the conviction I need, and I move to the table. He follows with a metal bowl in his hands, setting it beside Albie. “For the appendages.”

  He applies a tourniquet, which never would have occurred to me, and then steps back to let me get after it. Albie’s taunting me with his eyes, still not convinced I can do it. I think of Brady, recalling how his face was so mangled I couldn’t even hold a viewing for him before the service.

  From the time he was just a wee lad, it fell upon me to look after him. I fed him, clothed him, made his lunches for school. He was a good kid with a heart of gold. He would have done anything to fit in. All he ever wanted was to feel like he had a family other than the shitty hand we were dealt. I hoped if I guided him in the right direction and stuck by his side it would be enough. But in the end, I failed him.

  “He was just a kid.” I meet Albie’s dead eyes. “A fucking kid.”

  His lips twist beneath the duct tape, and I can tell he’s smiling when I reach for his hand. It’s all a bleeding joke to him. But it stops being funny when the shears close around his index finger and I start to squeeze.

  It’s a lot harder than I expected. There’s a crunch of bone and tissue before a tortured groan rumbles from Albie’s chest. Blood starts to seep from the wound, dripping onto the floor and making a real mess of what I’m trying to do. I can’t seem to get through the bone.

  “It takes a wee bit to get the technique down,” Reaper tells me. “Just give it a good hard squeeze.”

  I do. I close my eyes and squeeze it like I wanted to squeeze that trigger the night before, and the nub of his finger falls to the floor with a satisfactory thud.

  “Good on ya, lad.” Reaper pats me on the back. “Only nineteen more to go.”

  He leaves me to it, and I’m surprised to find it gets a little easier each time. Albie’s squirming against the table, moaning and whining and carrying on like the pussy he is. Blood sprays my face and clothes, but I can’t smell it anymore. It’s like I’m in a trance and all I can hear is the sound of Albie’s pain. I like it a lot more than I expected to.

  The door opens, and another guy walks in. He’s got a bowl full of stew of some sort, which he continues to eat while he watches.

  “Rory.” Reaper greets him.

  “Fitz.”

  Rory finishes his food and then sets the bowl aside, leaning back against the counter in the same fashion as the Reaper. “What’s the deal with this bloke?”

  “They were both at the warehouse last night,” Reaper explains. “One on the table killed his kid brother.”

  “Look at him go.” Rory eyes me off. “Kid’s a natural. What’s your name lad?”

  “Conor.” I nod to him and then continue on with my work. I’ve still got four toes to get through and Albie’s screaming like a banshee now, nearly choking on his own tongue.

  “Conor,” Rory muses. “Ye might just have yourself a new apprentice, Fitz.”

  Reaper’s response is dry and to the point. “He’ll chuck when he’s through.”

  “We all chucked the first time,” Rory says.

  Reaper shrugs. “Crow gave him a deal anyhow. The lad won’t be sticking around.”

  The room goes silent. When I glance at Rory, the amusement has disappeared from his face. He doesn’t like the sound of this deal, but I don’t know why he cares one way or another.

  “The lad
was in agreement,” Reaper clarifies.

  “He’s a fucking kid,” Rory mutters under his breath. “Does Niall know about this?”

  Silence. Again.

  They don’t say anything else when I turn away, but the door shuts, and I know they’re both outside discussing the situation. I don’t let it ruffle my feathers. I gave them my word, and if there’s one thing my Pop beat into me over the years, it’s that a man has to stay true to his word.

  My word is all I’ve ever had, and besides, it’s not like there’s anything left for me here. Ma’s dead. Pop and Brady too. I’ve been wandering this city without an ounce of purpose for months and I’m tired. Sammy was the only thing I had left, and she sure as fuck didn’t give a shite about me when I caught her banging some random bloke in the alley last month for a fix. Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s gone now too. Took her last needle to the arm a couple weeks ago.

  I put those thoughts out of my mind as the last of Albie’s toes fall into the bowl. When Reaper comes back, Rory is gone, and that suits me just fine.

  “Alright, lad,” he says. “How do ye feel about blow torches?”

  6

  CONOR

  I WAKE WITH A START, shaking myself out of the past as my eyes scan the surroundings of my present. The dream doesn’t come as a surprise, I have them often. I’ll never forget how that night changed my life, but sometimes, it does well to have a reminder. It’s trying to come back down to earth that’s the hard part. But when I glance around Rory’s apartment, I know I’ve come a long way since I first killed a man in that dingy basement at Sláinte.

  Ivy is still on the couch, snoring, and Rory is on the floor. My eyes move between the two of them, and I’m irrationally bent out of shape when I think about what might have happened in my absence last night. Then I realize how ridiculous that notion is, and I try to focus on the task at hand.

  I’m not here to worry about whose bed Ivy wants to warm at night. I’m here to see what she knows, and I start by digging through the bag she carries with her. All that turns up are an extra set of clothes, a few toiletries, and her cash from last night.

  No needles. No drugs.

  My eyes move over her face, and I know I can’t be wrong about this. She’s too thin. If it isn’t needles, it must be pills. I take a peek at her arms, and there aren’t any marks that I can see, but that doesn’t mean shite. There are a million other places to inject.

  I blow out a breath and toss her shit back into her bag before nudging Rory with my boot. He mumbles incoherently, and I nudge the fecker again. When that doesn’t work, I blast him with some ice-cold water from the kitchen. He told me to wake his arse up, and I’ve never been happier to oblige. It’s the least he deserves after bringing Ivy back here last night. Rory comes up swinging, and I shield myself behind the couch.

  “Real gentleman ye are.” He scowls. “Hiding behind a lady.”

  My lip curls and I can’t hide it. “Yeah, a real lady.”

  Rory grins at my bitter tone, and then a laugh bursts from his chest. “I brought her home for you, ye fucking muppet. I saw the way ye were making eyes at her all night long. But then ye disappeared and couldn’t be bothered to come back here to sort her out.”

  My chest expands, and I shouldn’t be so relieved by his dumbarse admission. I have no right to that feeling, not with her. I’d do well to remember that.

  “Get her some breakfast and then give her a lift home,” Rory says.

  I want to tell him to feck off, but I keep my gob shut as he disappears down the hall and I nudge Ivy. She doesn’t budge, so I poke at her arm again, and still nothing. Acid coats my lips as I wait for her chest to swell. She was just snoring a few minutes ago.

  My fingers come to rest on the soft flesh of her throat, waiting for a pulse. And when I feel the quiet tremor of warm blood pumping through her veins, it hits me like a ton of fucking bricks. I shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t make a lick of difference when her eyes fly open and lock onto mine, but it does.

  “What is it?” She eyeballs the hand that’s still on her throat, then darts upright to check that her clothes are still there. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s morning.” I retreat from her and try to find my bearings. “Time to go. I’ll sort ye out some coffee and then drop you wherever ye need to be.”

  “Right.” She clears her throat and stares at the floor. “I should probably do that.”

  I warm up the car while she puts herself together in the bathroom, and she joins me a few minutes later. She looks different this morning with the makeup scrubbed free from her face and her hair pulled back. The sexualized dancer from last night is gone, and all that’s left now is sweet. She looks like the kind of girl a guy would want to take home to his mammy.

  I force the car into gear and pull onto the street. “Hope you like Dunkies. It’s about the only place we ever do breakfast.”

  I feel her eyes on me before she answers. “Dunkies is fine.”

  The silence between us doesn’t improve, so I opt for the drive-thru to make it as quick and painless as possible. “What do ye fancy?”

  She looks at the menu and shrugs. “Just a donut and coffee would be fine.”

  She’s trying to make it easy, and I wonder if it’s because she knows I think she’s a nuisance. As if I haven’t already made that clear. But I remember how she scoffed down her pancakes last night, so with that in mind, I order a mixed dozen and two coffees. I hand them off to her and pull back onto the road.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Oh, um, you can just drop me at Sláinte. I left my car there.”

  “Right, I’ll do that then.”

  We’re both quiet, and I can’t get there soon enough. I have half a notion to let Crow know this task doesn’t suit me, but that would make me a fucking muppet to say so. I barely know this girl. Crow has asked so little of me, and this is the only thing he’s ever asked me to do in confidence. I’m not about to let down the man who took me in and gave me a purpose over a bloody woman.

  “Where did you go last night?” Ivy pipes up.

  I look at her, and her cheeks flush with pink when she realizes how stupid her question is. You don’t ask a mafia bloke where he goes. Ever. She would know that from her time with Muerto, I’m sure, but she doesn’t retract the question.

  “Out.” I grip the steering wheel tighter. “I had business.”

  “We waited for you to come back,” she tells me. “I thought we were going to play cards. Wasn’t that the whole point?”

  “I didn’t invite you,” I point out.

  She turns toward the window, and I feel like an arsehole. But it’s better this way. She should know what she’s getting herself into.

  A few minutes later she appears to have bounced back from it when she opens the box of donuts. “Which one do you want?”

  “None. Those are for you.”

  I feel her eyes on me, studying me like she could figure me out, but she doesn’t say anything else. The drive back to the club is the longest one I’ve ever made, and when I pull into the empty lot, I can finally breathe again.

  “I’m just down the street,” Ivy says. “You don’t have to wait.”

  “I’m not,” I grumble. “I’ve got business inside.”

  “Oh, right. Well thank you for breakfast, and the lift. I guess I’ll see you around.”

  We both get out of the car, and I’m tempted to watch her walk away, but instead I turn toward the club and head for the back entrance. Only, I don’t go inside. I wait until Ivy is out of sight and then start to follow her, crossing the street and using the cover of the parked cars on the other side and a wide distance to stay hidden.

  She checks over her shoulder often as she walks, but never catches sight of me. I wonder if she senses that I’m the monster on her heels, or if it’s someone else she’s looking for. Her steps quicken, and she legs it several blocks like a thief in the night, darting over broken footpaths and between shoddy build
ings. We’re in a commercial district now, and Ivy takes a visible breath when she crosses over the threshold as if it were her saving grace.

  The wheels are turning in my mind, trying to sort out her motivations for being here. But a minute later, that mystery is solved on its own. Ivy checks both ways to make sure nobody is watching as she disappears down another alley. It’s not a throughway. It’s three brick walls merged together and a bunch of garbage cans. The kind of place that the homeless usually sleep. Or the kind of place that addicts like to shoot up. Except, she didn’t have anything on her this morning, which only leaves me with more questions.

  For the next hour, I watch and wait, but she never comes out. My mind goes to a dark place, wondering if she’s passed out cold. Wondering if she’ll even be alive when I check on her. Jaysus. It’s too much, and I don’t have the patience to sit here all bloody day.

  I leg it down the alley and peek around the corner of the garbage can, and there she is. Laying on a fecking piece of cardboard with a shabby ass blanket to keep herself warm. Her eyes are closed, and she’s asleep like this is the most normal thing in the world for her. It’s an image I won’t soon forget.

  Whatever she may have seen or done in her past, she shouldn’t be living this way. Not like an animal. Not like this is all she deserves.

  This isn’t fecking right, and I want to do something about it. But then I think of Crow and my brothers in the syndicate. Everything they’ve done for me. I promised him I would take care of this, and helping the girl isn’t going to help anyone. Not if she has a ticking clock on her life anyway.

  Christ.

  I wipe a hand over my face, and she twitches, her brows pinching together like she’s having a bad dream. From the looks of it, her whole life is a bad dream. I need to get out of here. I need to put some distance between us before I do something stupid.

  I walk back out of the alley and resume my watch from across the street, trying to erase the image of her sleeping on the ground like a dog.

  I can’t help her. She’s the one who decided to get wrapped up with the Locos. She’s the one who walked straight into the lion’s den, knowing what fate waited for her if Crow found out. She’s the one who’s been fucking with my head since she came into my life.