Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  “It’s okay,” I force out roughly. “I’m just tying your wrists. Now be a good girl and hold still.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut and releases a shaky breath, and all I want to do is sample those salty tears on her lips. My fingers brush over her throat for no particular reason and she shivers. Her eyes are glassy and beautiful when they open to meet mine, and I don’t know how the fuck she’s doing this to me. She’s poisoning me against everything I love, trying to take away my life. My brotherhood. And I can’t look at her.

  I force my gaze away and finish the task at hand, securing her wrists to the bed frame.

  “Please look at me, Conor,” she begs. “I’m human. A mother. A person. I got wrapped up in some bad shit, and that isn’t my fault. I’ll explain it all to you if you let me. I’ll tell you everything, and then you’ll understand.”

  “I don’t want to understand.” I finish off the knot and retreat from the bed. “That’s what you don’t get.”

  She curls into herself and I aim to put as much distance between us as I can while I figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.

  I shut the door behind me and walk down the hall, taking up residence on my sofa. My eyes fall to the Glock in my hands, and an empty cavern opens up within my chest. Since my induction into the syndicate, I’ve never hesitated to kill anyone who was a threat to my brotherhood. But when I think about doing it now, it isn’t what I want at all.

  Heaviness settles into my limbs when I imagine her death. Seeing those pretty blue eyes so lifeless? I’ll never get over that. I’ll never find a way to make peace with this decision. But what choice do I have?

  The hours tick by as I bounce from one conclusion to another, debating every possible alternative. But there are none. Every route is a dead end with the same conclusion. Crow asked this one thing of me. The only thing he’s ever asked me to do in confidence. It’s my chance to prove myself, show my loyalty. And if I don’t do it, I’m fucked.

  Ivy’s fucked anyway. If it isn’t me that kills her, somebody else will. At least I could make it easy on her. It doesn’t have to be a bullet. There are a million other ways. Pills, for example. I could make it like she just fell asleep. But when I close my eyes and her face haunts my mind, I know that doesn’t make a goddamn difference. She’ll still be dead, and I’ll still be the fucking piece of shite who did it.

  I turn to my old friend Jameson to help me decide. Only, that just makes everything blurrier and less logical. I’m not any closer to a decision, but I am drunk when I wander back down the hall, Glock in hand.

  Ivy is wide awake, curled into a ball, a trembling mess of nerves. She’s afraid of me. And it isn’t something I ever wanted to see in a woman’s eyes. Her gaze is fixed on the weapon in my hand, chest heaving as she waits for me to use it on her.

  “There’s only one way to fix this mess,” I slur.

  I glance down at the pistol in my hand and disengage the magazine, and Ivy loses it, thrashing against the bed because she doesn’t fucking get it. She doesn’t get that she’s ruined me. That she’s probably going to get me killed.

  I eject the cartridge and set the round on the nightstand, a physical reminder of what should have been. Ivy wheezes and peers up at me with the first sign of hope I’ve seen in her all day when I stuff the Glock back into my jeans.

  “Like I said, there’s only one way to fix this, but ye’re not going to like it any better than I do.”

  “What is it?” she whispers.

  “If ye fancy your life all that much, then ye’re gonna have to marry me.”

  9

  IVY

  “I CAN’T MARRY YOU,” I blurt, horrified.

  Conor shoots me a withering glare and gestures to his gun. “Fine, have it your way then. Your kid can grow up without a mum.”

  My teeth grind together under the weight of his threat. “You don’t have to be such an asshole. There has to be another way.”

  Conor paces the length of the room, his spine rigid. “What, do ye think ye’re too good for me, is that it? Like I fecking want to marry you? A skinny ass crack addict.”

  “I’m not a fucking addict!” I shout. “I’m just hungry!”

  For a split second, shame colors his eyes, and he looks away to hide it. “There isn’t another way, Ivy. It’s this or nothing. And even this is liable to earn me a bullet in the head if I’m lucky. I’m sticking me neck out for ye here, can ye not see that?”

  My shoulders cave inward, and I feel so fucking empty. What he’s saying is probably true, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. They don’t have any good reason to keep me around. In the end, my life means nothing to them. What Conor’s offering me is the only solution in which I’ll stay alive, but I’m supposed to get out of this city, and that plan doesn’t include marrying into the mafia. If I had any tears left to cry, I would. But tears aren’t going to get me anywhere.

  I was foolish to believe they wouldn’t find out about me. All I’ve managed to do was jump from the frying pan straight into the fire. And I hate Conor for even suggesting this stupid idea. For coming in here so casually and telling me in no uncertain terms that my life is over one way or the other. I can live in a prison of his making, or I can die. Those are my choices.

  I’ll never accept that this is going to be my life. But right now, I need to think short term. I learned from Muerto that sometimes just buying myself another day on this earth is all that matters. It isn’t even about me anymore. It’s about Archer and doing whatever I can to ensure that I’m in his life. He is the only deciding factor at stake.

  “Okay.” It physically hurts to speak, but I force the words out. “If we do this, can you guarantee that Archer will be safe? That you will never let any harm come to him?”

  Conor meets my eyes, and even though he can be a prick, there’s a softness to him when it comes to my son. “Ye have my word. I will look out for the kid. On my life, no harm will ever come to him.”

  All the air deflates from my lungs and I slump forward as I utter the last thing I ever thought I’d say. “Then I guess we should probably get married.”

  Conor unties me from the bed, and then he tells me not to get any bright ideas about trying to run before he stumbles back down the hall to the living room. I opt to stay in his bedroom while he sobers up, keeping as much distance between us as possible.

  Conor’s room is bare, but tidy. There aren’t a lot of personal effects in here, which I discover when I peek into the closet and a couple of his drawers. There’s a bed, clothes, and some ammo. But in the nightstand, I find one photo. It’s of Conor and another boy, taken when he was much younger. I can only assume it must be his brother, since the resemblance is so striking. They both have the same vivid green eyes and the same mischievous smile. A smile I’ve never seen in person. I don’t know if the man is even capable of such a thing anymore.

  It leaves me with more questions than answers about him. Why doesn’t he have any photos of the rest of his family? What happened to his brother? And why is he so hell bent that I must be a drug addict?

  I put the photo away and use the next hour to scribble my thoughts into my journal. It’s a small, pocket sized notebook I can carry in my coat, and for the last year, it’s been my only real outlet.

  When Muerto stole my life, everything I had was left behind. All my memories. All the personal things that make a house a home. I don’t even know what happened to them, but they’re just… gone. Every day, I’m left to consider what would have happened to my son if I hadn’t taken him to Lacey’s in time. It isn’t something I like to think about because when I think about it, I get angry, and now it feels like history is repeating itself all over again.

  It might not be logical, but all those hateful thoughts spill over into my journal, attaching themselves to Conor’s name. I hate him for doing this to me. I hate him and his asshole mafia for fucking up my life and taking away my control. The only weapon I have left is my pen, and I use it to my fullest a
dvantage, scribbling every acidic thought I have until I feel better.

  And it does make me feel better. Conor’s trying to paint himself as the hero in this situation. Telling me he’s putting his life on the line, sticking his neck out for me. But he has other choices, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. He could have sent me away. He could have let me go. If I can hide from the Locos, surely, I could hide from his mafia too.

  At least for a little while.

  It does me no good to dwell on it. Right now, I don’t know how I’m going to get myself out of this mess, but I will get out of it. It’s the only belief I can grab onto. The bigger picture is all that matters and in the interim, I will take everything in baby steps. Today, I will be grateful that I’m alive. That Archer is safe. And tomorrow, if I have to marry Conor to survive another week on this earth, then that’s what I will do. The road to my freedom is paved with patience.

  Freaking out and spewing hate at Conor isn’t going to help this situation. I need to play nice and break down his barriers. I need to figure out how this situation is going to work so that I can manipulate it in my favor, and I need to start now.

  So, after spending three hours alone in the bedroom, I finally work up the courage to walk down the hall. Conor’s house is the typical bachelor pad. From my small exploration I conclude there are two bedrooms and a bathroom and nothing homey about the place. Everything he owns is for function only, and there isn’t a single decorative piece in sight.

  I find the man himself on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee and what looks like a wicked hangover. It’s not even five o’clock yet. I sit down on a chair opposite him and he glares at me like he wishes I would just drop dead. It’s obvious he isn’t happy about this either, so what I really want to ask is why he’s doing it at all. He must be getting something out of it, but what that might be I can’t imagine.

  The tension between us is awkward, and after five minutes of not speaking, I can’t handle it anymore. “Do you want some lunch? It might help with the hangover.”

  Conor looks at his watch with bleary eyes. “Christ, when’s the last time ye ate yourself?”

  “I ate one of the donuts you gave me this morning.”

  He shakes his head, almost like he’s disappointed with himself, but I can’t be sure. “You need to eat. There’s some makings for a sandwich in the fridge, but not much else.”

  “I’ll make a couple of them,” I volunteer.

  He doesn’t argue. Five minutes later, we’re sitting at the table together in more awkward silence. I can feel his eyes on me while I eat, so I attempt to slow down and act like this isn’t one of the most delicious meals I’ve had in a week.

  “Those things I said about you being an addict,” he mutters. “If it’s true that ye’re just hungry, then it was a shitty thing for me to say.”

  I look up at him, and my heart feels funny. Is he apologizing? Just when I think he actually means it, he has to go and ruin it.

  “But just so ye know, if the opposite is true, it’s going to be finished here and now. No wife of mine will be on drugs. I don’t care if I have to chain ye to the bed and—”

  “I’m not a fucking addict,” I snap. “What is with you and that word? You toss it around more often than you breathe. Haven’t you ever heard not to judge a book by the cover?”

  He looks away to hide something in his eyes, but I can’t help noticing how rigid his shoulders have gone. There’s something behind that tension, a story. A raw wound. And I intend to get to the bottom of it eventually, but for now, I need to establish this one thing with him.

  “If this is going to work, you’ll need to trust me, right? So, for starters, how about we stop beating this dead horse and you just listen to me. I’ve never touched an illegal drug in my life, and that includes marijuana.”

  Conor looks up at me again, his eyes unconvinced, but I could swear I see hope there too.

  My voice softens, and I feel compelled to go on. “Despite what you might think, I’m a good person. I’ve only ever tried to live a straight life, but things just got fucked up along the way.”

  “How so?” he asks.

  I fidget with the napkin in my lap as I debate how much I should tell him. “I didn’t go looking for trouble. It found me.”

  Conor finishes up his sandwich and pushes the empty plate away. “You mean Muerto?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  He leans back in his chair and studies me. “I’ll need to know what happened. Crow will want the details when it comes down to it, so you might as well tell me.”

  That sounds like a bullshit excuse because he doesn’t want to admit he’s curious himself. But regardless, I indulge him.

  “I was never Muerto’s girlfriend,” I begin. “I was his captive.”

  The muscles in Conor’s forearms flex as he folds his hands together, and I can tell he’s skeptical, but I don’t really care. This story has been bottled up inside for so long, it’s long overdue to be uncorked.

  “Archer’s dad was in the military,” I tell him. “An old school friend that I hooked up with once when he was home on leave. We weren’t together, and I didn’t even know how to get in touch with him when he left. He died in combat before I could even tell him I was pregnant, so all the responsibility fell on me.”

  Conor’s brows pinch together, and for a second, something softens in him. Something that makes me believe he can relate and gives me the courage to go on.

  “I was a hairstylist,” I explain. “And I had a booth in a salon, but it was expensive to maintain. Being that I had a kid to look after on my own, I had to take a second job helping at a barber shop as the shampoo girl. It wasn’t glamorous, but it supplemented my income. I was making it work. But then one night Muerto decided to come in for a haircut.”

  My fingers twist under the table as I recall that first time I saw him. Right away, my gut told me it was bad. The way he looked at me, I’ll never forget it. His eyes were soulless, a shade of black I’d never even seen until then.

  “He wasn’t the kind of guy to ask a girl on a date,” I rattle. “The Locos had a mantra that I came to know well. Mata. Viola. Controla. It means kill, rape, control. From the second he walked into that shop, I was fucked.”

  “What did he do?” Conor demands.

  I stare down at the pale, cold fingers in my lap. “He stalked me. Harassed me. Told me I would be his whether I liked it or not. I was terrified, and I went to the cops. They said I could get a restraining order, but it would be difficult to prove. Somehow, Muerto found out and he went ballistic. When I went into work the next night, the shop was closed, and the owner was dead. Muerto’s crew had murdered him to send me a message.”

  My throat clogs with emotion as I meet Conor’s eyes. “He had two young children and they just killed him like it was nothing. When I got home, there was a guy at my door. His friend Animal came to tell me that if I thought about going to the cops again, my son would be next. He knew where I lived, where I worked. He knew everything about my life. I didn’t have the money to run. I had nowhere to go without getting someone else killed. My only option was to get Archer out of there, so at least he would be safe. I took him to Lacey, and it was only supposed to be for a couple weeks.”

  “In my mind, I became resigned to the fact that he was going to fuck me, one way or another. I hoped it would be once and he’d get it out of his system. But the first night he took me in an alley on my way home from work, he told me he wasn’t letting me go, and he meant it. He took me to their compound and locked me up in that room. For an entire year, I didn’t see the sun. I was left there to rot, only useful when he decided he wanted to toy with me. He fucked with my head, threatened my son, starved and beat me because it was a game to him.”

  A tear splashes against my plate, and I realize that I’m crying again. It’s humiliating how much I’ve cried in front of Conor already, but when I look up at him, there is no more judgment in his eyes. All that’s lef
t now is rage.

  “I would kill that motherfucker,” he growls. “If he were still here, I would have made him pay for ye, Ivy.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone, and I’m out. I get to see Archer now. That’s what I have to focus on.”

  “What about the others?” Conor presses. “Did they ever touch ye?”

  “Not if they wanted to live,” I laugh dryly. “Muerto didn’t share me. But I’m fair game now that’s he’s dead. That’s why I can’t let them catch me.”

  “You won’t ever have to worry about that,” Conor assures me. “Those shitebags won’t live long enough to touch ye again. I’ll make sure of that.”

  10

  CONOR

  IVY’S BEEN in the bathroom for over a bleeding hour, and I can’t figure out what she’s doing in there. The whiskey has leached from my system, but I’m bristling with an edge I haven’t felt since Brady’s death. I want to go kill every one of those Loco fuckers and string their bodies from the streetlights in downtown Boston as a warning to anyone else who thinks about fecking with a woman.

  I make a mental note to speak to Dom so I can thank him for killing that scumbag Muerto and ask him if he suffered. I need the details. It’s the only way I can feel any peace after Ivy told me her story. I already feel like a big enough shitebag as it is, accusing her of being a street rat and a drug whore.

  I have every intention of making some sort of amends, but when she comes down the hall with her hair and makeup all done up, that notion goes right out the window. My cock springs to attention as my eyes drift over her body. Even when she had nothing but a plain face and shabby clothes on, I couldn’t deny she was beautiful. But now she’s clean and smells like vanilla and her eyes are all smoky, it’s a different fucking animal. I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing.

  “What’s the craic with that getup?” I ask.

  She chews on her lip and glances down at herself. “I have to go to work, remember?”