Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  Crow snickers. “That’s it? That’s the fecking problem? Ye’re all bent out of shape because Ivy hates you?”

  “It’s not funny,” I counter.

  He looks to Ronan. “Aye, it is. Do you recall how much my missus hated me when she came blasting into this place? That’s the nature of the beast. You better develop some thicker skin if ye can’t handle a little fire in the pan.”

  I get what Crow’s trying to say, but our situations are different. It might have worked out for him, but he wasn’t exactly holding Mack hostage either.

  “Besides—” Crow walks over to his desk and pours himself a drink. “That girl doesn’t hate you. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Ye’re just being a mophead.”

  That much is probably true. The way I left things tonight wasn’t my finest moment. Ivy went out of her way to make an effort, and I threw it back in her face because my pride was wounded.

  “Get your arse home and make it right,” Crow says. “Then get your head on straight. I need ye to pull it together.”

  “Aye, I will.”

  The house is dark when I get home, and I don’t need to flip on the lights to know something isn’t right. It’s too early for Ivy to be in bed. Even if she was, she always leaves the lamp on for me. But when I walk down the hall, my gut twists with what I already know I’ll find.

  All of her things are gone. And Archer’s too. The house is empty, and it takes a full minute for that to sink in.

  She left me. Just up and left without so much as note. Can’t say that I blame her after the way things have been. Crow was right. I am a dumbarse, and now my girl is gone and the wee lad too, and I’m sitting here alone wondering where they might be. But then I wonder if it even matters.

  If she’s out of the city, and she’s safe, maybe that’s for the best. Maybe that’s exactly what she needed. I know it’s what she wanted.

  But it isn’t what I want. I can’t get my head around that. The idea that I won’t ever kiss her again. Or hold her again. I’ll be coming home to an empty bed every night where she should have been.

  Fuck.

  I let her down. I let them both down.

  I told her in the beginning that I’d come after her. And I know now that I meant it. Because if nothing else, I need to know she’s safe. I need her to look me in the eyes and tell me that it’s over. Even then, I probably won’t let them go. Because I need them. I love them, and she can hate me for as long as she wants because I’ll do whatever it takes to get her back.

  I comb through her empty drawers, looking for any evidence she might have left behind. But everything is gone. She just deleted herself from my life. Her clothes, her shoes, her scent. None of it’s here, and it isn’t right.

  The only thing I find is the last thing I’m expecting. Her journal is still tucked beneath her pillow on her side of the bed, forgotten. And I can’t forget how badly things imploded the last time I looked at this, but it doesn’t matter now. My feelings don’t matter. I need to make sure she’s safe.

  I crack the pages and flip through to the end, and that’s when I notice the gap. The pages I read before weren’t the last pages she wrote. Not by a long shot. She started again in a different section of the journal, and when I see the words written there, I collapse back onto the bed.

  I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. But I know that I can’t make him love me. I just wish I’d never fallen for him.

  My heart drums out a war cry in my chest. She fell for me. She wants me. It’s right here in black and white, but now she’s gone.

  From somewhere in the house, something creaks, and I shoot up from the bed, whipping out my Glock. I listen for the noise again as I slink down the hall, but it’s quiet. Archer’s room is open, and everything is just as Ivy left it. The bed is made, but all his toys are gone. It stabs at me all over again.

  And then I hear a sniffle. A tiny inhale of air, and my pulse pounds. Someone is under the bed. Ivy and Archer are gone, but someone is under the bed. I kneel down, ready to kill whoever the fuck thought they could come into my house. Only, what I find there is a pair of terrified, tear-soaked eyes.

  “Archer?”

  He splutters, and a sob bursts from his chest when he realizes it’s me. I reach in and drag his tiny body toward me, wrapping him up in the safety of my arms.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  He clings to me, squeezing me so tight it scares me. Because I know something awful has happened. Ivy would never leave him. Never. And as much as I want to give him time to calm, I need to know what went down here.

  I rub his back and tip his chin up to face me. “Tell me what happened. Where’s mama?”

  “She said Mr. Potato Head,” Archer sniffs. “That means danger. I had to go hide.”

  “Ye did a grand job of it,” I assure him. “Now can you tell me where your mama was when she said it?”

  “We were outside,” he croaks. “And the man came to pick us up. We were going to get in the car, but then mama said Mr. Potato Head.”

  Acid eats at my throat as I consider the possibilities. But there is really only one. The Locos have found her, and I won’t stop looking for her until I’ve flooded the streets of Boston with their blood.

  29

  IVY

  “YOU HAVE to know this is a death sentence.”

  Slick ignores me, going about the business of tying me to a lawn chair. Judging by the amount of time he spent driving around and the lack of foresight on his part, I can tell he’s not prepared. The rope he’s using is something he dragged out of a janitor’s closet, and it’s way too stiff to tie a decent knot. He didn’t think this through, and I’m eager to convince him of that because it’s the only hope I’ve got.

  “You’ll bring down the heat of the entire Irish mafia if you do this.”

  “Not likely,” he scoffs. “I don’t care who you are, they aren’t coming into this territory unless they want war with the locals.”

  When I swallow, it feels like there’s glass stuck in my throat. All this time, I was afraid of the Locos. I thought for sure if someone got me, it would be one of them. But instead it’s some random guy who saw me in a club for five minutes and got bent out of shape.

  My thoughts drift to Archer, and it fractures me to acknowledge that this might be it. After tonight, he won’t have a mother. Conor will take care of him, I believe that. It’s the only thing I can take comfort in. He cares about him and he will do right by him. But it won’t be the same. Archer needs his mom. He needs the softness only a mother can provide in this world.

  “I know they did you wrong,” I forge on. “They humiliated you. They treated you like crap. And I’m sorry for the way things went down, but it doesn’t have to be this way. I can get you money. I can get you whatever you want.”

  “I don’t want your money.” Slick scowls. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  I take a deep breath and plan my words carefully. There’s only one thing left to say. One thing that could possibly convince him, even if it’s the lie that hurts me the most.

  “I’m not just Conor’s girlfriend, you know. I’m his wife.”

  Slick stops fiddling with the rope and looks up at me. “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true,” I say. “And if you do this, you will have your revenge for two seconds, but the wrath you will face after ensures you won’t live to see next week. You know it’s true.”

  His eyes drift to my hand and he shakes his head. “You’re a lying bitch. You don’t even have a ring.”

  “We custom ordered them. I don’t have it yet, but that doesn’t mean we are any less married. You can look it up if you don’t believe me. Check the court records.”

  Slick hesitates for a split second, and I think I’m getting through to him until he snorts. “He has no idea where you are, and he never will.”

  The worst part is that it’s probably true. I have no idea

what Archer will say to Conor when he gets home, but he will be so scared it will be difficult for him to say anything at all. Conor will assume it was the Locos, and by the time he does come looking for me, I’ll be long gone.

  When Slick finally manages to get the rope wrapped around my wrists, I wiggle against it and he snarls. “Stop fucking moving.”

  He disappears down a hallway to make a phone call, speaking in a hushed tone that lets me know he’s not too far away. We’re in a part of the city that looks eerily run down from what I was able to see outside the windows. Slick made me lay back in my seat and told me to shut my eyes the entire ride here, but there’s something oddly familiar about this building. The smell, or the peeling paint, or the dread. I can’t be sure why I feel that way because I know I’ve never been here.

  We’re in a rented office space. Except there is no office. It’s just an empty room with a desk, a couple of lawn chairs, and a twin-sized mattress in the corner. On top of the mattress, a pile of tiny bags waits to be distributed. Cocaine, from the looks of it. And that isn’t the only place I see it either. On the desk, there are residue lines left behind from what I would guess is Slick.

  He mentioned the locals which must mean we are in some kind of gang territory. That doesn’t bode well for me, especially if he’s running drugs for them. Chances of anyone helping me here are slim to none even if I do manage to escape.

  Still, my eyes bounce around the room in search of potential weapons while I try to loosen the rope, but there’s next to nothing that I can see. I’m in the middle of trying to edge my chair closer to the desk when Slick returns and shakes his finger at me.

  “You aren’t very smart, you know that?” He leans down and breathes into my face. “But you do have some spirit, and I’ve always liked a spirited woman.”

  I choke back the sickness I feel even looking at him, and he strokes my cheek with a level of creepiness I can’t handle. “On second thought, I think I will go back and get your son. If what you say is true, then it’s probably best I don’t leave any witnesses.”

  I start to thrash, shaking my head violently as I plead with him. “He didn’t see anything! He won’t talk!”

  “I’m not a monster.” Slick pulls away and checks his watch. “If you do everything I say, I’ll make sure the kid goes easy.”

  “Fuck you!” I scream. “You fucking piece of shit, motherfucker! I will murder you myself—”

  His hand cracks across my face, and it feels like my cheek has exploded. The rest of my words die off as his fingers move to my throat, squeezing in warning. “Be quiet you little bitch, or I’ll shut you up permanently.”

  I couldn’t talk if I wanted to, and by the time he releases me, I’m left gasping for breath. He isn’t about to take any chances, apparently, because he retrieves a piece of cloth from one of the desk drawers and stuffs it into my mouth.

  There’s a knock from down the hall, and Slick disappears while I try to figure out what to do. It’s still early. Conor hasn’t been coming home until late. I have little faith that he’s home now, which means Archer is alone. And even if Conor’s house is secure, it doesn’t mean Slick won’t find a way in.

  Tears stream down my face as I batter my body against the chair, desperate to free myself. But before I make any real progress, Slick returns with another man in tow. The guy is younger, and he shares the same features as the older version. Father and son.

  The newcomer lets out a low whistle, and Slick smacks him on the back of the head. “Don’t get any bright ideas. She’s mine.”

  Slick’s son rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

  “Sit down and watch her,” Slick commands. “Don’t move. Don’t call up your buddies or watch TV on your phone. If she makes any noise, choke her until she shuts up. It’s real fucking simple, okay? Now can you do that?”

  “Sure,” the younger man grumbles. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour tops,” Slick says. “Don’t fucking touch her. I don’t want your sloppy seconds.”

  He disappears down the hall, and the younger guy smacks his lips together before offering me a lewd smile. “The old man is a pain in my ass sometimes, but he sure knows how to pick em’.”

  I spit out the handkerchief and force myself to stay calm. This guy is dumb, just like Slick said. Maybe I can work him. It might be the only chance I have to get out of here.

  “I’m Ivy,” I tell him. “Who are you?”

  “Tut, tut.” He shakes a finger at me. “You aren’t supposed to be talking, are you?”

  I shrug and force a smile. “I just figured you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Well, maybe I do, maybe I don’t. And the name is Ronnie, if you really want to know.”

  His eyes rake over my body, and he makes a show of adjusting the erection in his jeans. He’s already thinking about what he wants to do to me, and the thought makes me sick, but that’s my opportunity, and I exploit it.

  “It seems like your dad doesn’t have a lot of respect for you,” I observe.

  His eyes narrow, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand. Fucking women, thinking they’re all psychologists or some shit.”

  He paces around the room, lights up a cigarette, and glances at me with every pass he makes.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say. “I was just thinking, if I had to choose between either of you, I’d much rather have you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ronnie smirks. “And why’s that?”

  I shrug. “You’re good looking. You seem like a nice guy. So far you haven’t smacked me around or choked me.”

  His eyebrows pinch together. “Yeah, you’re not in for a treat if you don’t like the rough stuff. That’s all the old man likes.”

  I cringe, and I can’t hide it. Ronnie looks sympathetic to my plight, for all of two seconds. “I wouldn’t mind having a taste of you.” He blows out a puff of smoke and then extinguishes his cigarette on the desk.

  “What’s stopping you?” I ask him in a soft voice. “He doesn’t have to know.”

  Ronnie shakes his head. “Can’t. The old man would kill me.”

  But I can tell he’s still thinking about it. And when he pulls out his phone and checks the time, I think he might really take me up on it. At least if he unties me, I’ll have a shot at fighting him off. I might lose, but I have to try.

  That’s my plan until Ronnie blows it up by heading for the door. “I have to make a phone call. I’ll be right down the hall, so don’t even think about moving.”

  He disappears and doesn’t go far, judging from the sound of the porn I can hear playing on his phone while he jerks himself off. It’s disgusting, but I’ve never been more thankful for such a pig. Hopefully he’s not a two-pump chump.

  I work my chair closer to the desk and snag the rope against the edge in hopes of loosening or fraying it, but it’s not working, at least not fast enough. The anxiety is building in my chest, and I’m on the verge of panic as Ronnie’s one-man sex show rises to a crescendo.

  But something else catches my attention, and it gives me an idea. Ronnie left his cigarettes and lighter on the desk. It’s risky, but it’s the only hope I’ve got.

  I bend over and contort my body to grab the lighter, but it’s not as easy as I’d hoped. It takes me three attempts and precious time. When I finally do get a hold of it, it won’t fucking light. There’s only a small amount of fluid left inside, and Ronnie’s muffled sounds warn me that I’m running out of time.

  I shake it, and it finally ignites before I force it between my wrists. I’m expecting a slow, agonizing process, but it takes off so fast I don’t have a chance to pull away before the flaming rope singes my shirt.

  I jerk my arms apart to avoid burning them, which only manages to cut into my skin. My wrists are raw from the harsh fibers of the rope, but I keep at it, tugging until it finally gives way. When I reach down to untie the knot around my legs, I’m shaking like a leaf. I think I’m in shock, or maybe too much adrenaline. I can’t hear Ronnie anymore. He’s going to be back any second, and I have nothing to fight him off with.

  As I’m pulling out the desk drawer, he comes back, and his face goes white. “What the fuck?”

  He comes at me, and I have no choice. I swing it as hard as I can and crack him in the head. Without waiting to assess the damage, I take off running. I can’t look back to see if he’s behind me.

  I can only go forward.

  30

  CONOR

  “THEY AREN’T TALKING,” Reaper says.

  “Then we keep at it until they do,” I tell him.

  He sighs. We’re both soaked in blood, and the two Locos we’ve got strapped inside his torture room aren’t going to last much longer. Logically, I know that. We’ve already cut off their ears, noses, fingers toes, and any other appendages I didn’t think they’d need anymore. All they can tell us is to go fuck ourselves, and I’ve never felt so desperate.

  Ronan sets down his tools and shakes his head. “If they knew where she was, they would have said so by now. I’ve seen stronger men crack over less.”

  I pace the floor and throw a glass at the wall, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. “Fucks sake, it shouldn’t be this hard. We can’t stop until we get something. If they touch her—”

  “Where’s the wee one?” Ronan asks.

  “He’s upstairs with Rory.”

  “I think ye need to have another word with him. Ask him what else he can remember.”

  I don’t want to push Archer any more. He’s been traumatized enough as it is, but Ronan has a point. If I don’t, then the lad might not have a mom by the end of the night.

  “I’ll keep working on these fellas,” Ronan assures me. “You just sort it out with the boy.”

  I huff it upstairs to Crow’s office, zipping up my coat along the way so Archer doesn’t see the blood. Rory’s got him at Crow’s desk, coloring in a book when I walk in.

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