by A. Zavarelli
“Anything?” Rory asks.
I shake my head. “I need to have a quick word with my wee pal.”
He nods and sits down on the sofa while I walk around the desk and kneel beside Archer. He looks at me with eyes too innocent to know such pain. “Have you talked to mama yet?”
I can’t bring myself to lie to the kid, but it kills me to let him down. “I’m still trying, but I need your help, Archer. Can you do something for me?”
“Yes,” he answers. “What should I do?”
“I need you to close your eyes for a second, okay?”
He gives me a funny look, but then does as I asked. “Okay.”
“Now I need ye to think about this afternoon. When you and mama were standing on the steps getting ready to leave, do you remember where she said ye were off to?”
“An adventure,” he whispers.
“Okay.” I rub his back. “That’s very good, Archer. Now were you standing outside waiting for a ride?”
“Mama called a cab,” he supplies.
“Alright. And did the cab show up?”
“Yes. She was putting our stuff in, but when the guy got out, she told me to go inside.”
Something about this just doesn’t seem right. I don’t see the Locos driving around in a cab trying to nail her. “Do you remember anything about the guy?” I ask. “Can ye tell me what he looked like?”
“He was wearing a cap,” Archer says. “And a jacket. I think he hurt his arm.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it was in one of those things the doctor gives people who hurt their arms.”
“Christ,” I mutter.
Archer’s eyes widen, and I apologize. “Ye did a grand job, little fella. I’m going to go find mama now, okay?”
“Please tell her I miss her,” he says.
My throat feels like a vice when I offer him a smile. “I will.”
Rory looks at me in question. “What is it?”
“Slick.”
31
IVY
RONNIE’S FOOTSTEPS thud down the stairwell behind me, bouncing off the walls as he struggles to regain his balance. He’s disoriented, but not disabled.
“I’ll shoot you,” he yells.
He’s gasping for breath in a way that makes me think I seriously hurt him. Either that or he’s never exercised in his life. I don’t think he has a gun, but even if he did, I can’t chance stopping now. Having no idea what I’ll find at the bottom of this stairwell, I forge on.
I finally reach the last step and thank every god that might exist because it’s a fire exit. And by some miracle, when I press the bar, the door opens. Ronnie curses and I dart out into the night, running as fast as my legs can carry me. Every muscle in my body burns and my calves are seizing up, but I don’t care.
I have to do this for Archer. That’s what I keep telling myself. I weave my way down dark alleys and side streets, but Ronnie isn’t giving up either. I can still hear him behind me, cursing and grunting as he draws nearer. He’s catching up to me when I round the corner and see a group of men hanging out in front of an old warehouse.
“Help!” I scream. “Please help me!”
It’s dark, and I can’t see their faces under the dim street lights, but right now they are my only salvation.
“What the hell is this?” One of shadowed faces asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ronnie answers from behind me. “She’s just bent out of shape after an argument. You know how women get.”
My legs nearly give out from under me when I come to a stop, and the man at the front of the group steps forward, cocking his head to the side as he examines me. There’s a toothpick dangling from his mouth and a funny look in his eyes, and it takes a minute for recognition to curdle in my gut.
It’s Muerto’s second in charge, Animal. There is no question that he recognizes me too, it’s written all over his face. I start to retreat, smacking right into Ronnie. And now, in the ultimate twist of irony, I’m praying that he actually does have a gun.
“You know this bitch?” Animal looks at Ronnie. “Because she’s acting like she don’t know you.”
“Yeah, she’s my girlfriend,” Ronnie says. “There’s no problem here. I’m Slick’s son, remember?”
“I remember.” Animal scratches at his chin. “But last I checked, she was property of Muerto, God rest his soul.”
Before Ronnie can even attempt to formulate an answer, Animal whips out a pistol and fires. Something warm and wet splatters across my face, and I realize with sickening clarity that it’s Ronnie’s brains. His skull exploded, and he’s on the ground, and I’m freaking the fuck out as I my legs lurch into the opposite direction.
I don’t make it very far before I’m tackled to the ground with a level of violence that leaves no question about what happens next.
I’m dead.
32
CONOR
“HEYA, RUNT,” Dom rumbles through the phone. “Where are you?”
“I’m just down the block from the cab office.”
“Don’t bother,” he says. “The gobshite just showed up here.”
“At my house?”
“That would be the one.”
“Unfuckingbelievable.” I flip a quick bitch and turn the car around. “I’m on my way.”
Ten minutes later, I park on the street and beat it up the stairs. Dom left the door unlocked for me and he wasn’t shitting me. Slick is inside, hog tied on my parlor floor.
“He really is a fecking eejit,” I say.
Dom snorts. “Can honestly say this is a first. I think he came back for the kid.”
I remove my jacket and toss it onto the sofa. Slick looks up at me with a fat lip, and I boot him in the stomach to get the show started. “I guess you didn’t get the message last time.”
He launches into a coughing fit and curls his knees up in an attempt to protect himself. But he won’t find me to be a merciful man twice.
“My son will kill her if I’m not back in the hour,” he wheezes.
“Doubtful.” I kick him in the teeth this time, and he shrieks as blood pours from his mouth. “Unless he wants to die too.”
“Fuck you!” Slick garbles. “Fuck you motherfucking son of a bitch!”
I kneel down and meet his eyes. “You have two options here, fuckface. I’ll give ye enough credit to believe ye’re aware how this ends. You crossed me, and you’ll die for it. Simple as that. But you can make it real easy, or real hard.”
Slick looks between us, and he knows he’s fucked. “Christ, just take her. It’s your fucking funeral, I don’t care. Take back your little whore—”
I wrap my fingers around his throat and squeeze until his eyes are about to pop out of his head. “Where is she?”
“Highland,” he rattles when I let up. “My office on Highland. There aren’t any numbers on the building, but the door is green. You can’t miss it.”
I look to Dom. “Drop him at the club for me, will ye?”
He nods. “Reaper’s outside. You’re not going alone.”
At this point, I wouldn’t care. I know where Ivy is, and if I have to burn this city to the ground to get to her, I will.
My heart is beating so hard it feels like I just snorted six kilos of coke, and even worse is the sound of my own thoughts fucking up my head. “You get anything else out of those Locos?”
Reaper shakes his head. “Nah. Squeezed everything I could out of them. They weren’t talking.”
I turn down Highland and slow to a crawl as we keep a lookout for a green door.
“Have a look at these blockheads.” Reaper gestures up ahead. “What do ye suppose they’re doing?”
“I don’t know.”
Slick’s office is in the heart of gangland, and more importantly, Locos territory. They are out on every corner tonight, but from the looks of it, something is going down up ahead. There are three blokes standing guard at the end of an alley, and they’re on high ale
rt when they see our headlights. It’s too dark for them to make out our faces, but I recognize theirs.
“Pull around the corner,” Ronan says.
I pull around the corner and flip a bitch. It’s hard to say what’s going down in that alley, but it’s too coincidental to be ignored.
“I’m not usually a man to shoot first and ask questions later.” Reaper starts digging around in the duffle bag he brought with us. “But in this case, it might have to do.”
“Aye, I think ye’re right.”
“Drive by again, slow like,” he instructs.
I turn the corner, and Ronan attaches a silencer onto his Glock. We aren’t twenty feet away when the tires slow to a creep and he leans against the open window, obscuring the gun beneath his coat sleeve.
The Locos are ready to do battle when they see our car for the second time, and they’re pulling out their own pieces when Ronan fires the first shot. His aim is true, even in the dark in a moving car. The first scumbag crumples to the ground before a shot rings out and shatters the front windshield.
I slam on the brakes, and Reaper fires again, spraying the second man as he retreats. I’m already out of the car and chasing the third as he beats it down the alley to duck for cover.
A scream echoes off the surrounding buildings, and a bullet whizzes past my ear, taking some of the flesh with it. Warm blood leaks down my neck, but I forget all about it when I see what’s waiting for us at the end of the alley.
Her hair is a mess, and her face is beat to hell, but there’s no doubt the half-naked woman is my wife. One of these slimy motherfuckers has his hands wrapped around her throat, and she’s trying like hell to fight him off. Her jeans are pulled down, and her shirt is ripped in half, and he’s got his dick out still trying to get inside of her.
“Animal!” Someone tries to warn him from behind the dumpster, but it’s too late. I’m already there, muzzle pressed against his skull. It’s not enough to kill him quickly, but in the grand scheme of things, all that matters is Ivy.
“Get. The. Fuck. Off.”
His hands fall away from her throat, and he chuckles as he rocks back onto his knees. “Cool, cool. You must be one of those Irish fuckers, huh? You want to take me out? Why don’t you do it like a fucking man. I always hear your crew claiming they’re the best fighters in all of Boston. Show me how you do it with your bare hands.”
In answer, I aim between his legs and fire a shot, blowing his dick clean off. All his bravado is gone when he collapses into the fetal position and starts simpering like the pussy he is.
“Take it like a fucking man,” I taunt him.
My eyes move to Ivy, and I wish they hadn’t. The horror in her eyes, the fear… it’s too much for me to handle. She’s seen me at my worst now, and she can’t handle it. She can’t handle any of it, which is evident when she rolls onto her side and pukes.
“Fucking Christ.” As much as I’d like to toy with Animal and torture him, I need it to be over. For her. I dig into Animal’s skull and fire the kill shot. Ivy screams, and I drop to my knees before her.
“They’re all spoken for,” Reaper interrupts. “But we need to get out of here. You can sort her out in the car.”
I scoop Ivy’s battered body into my arms and she clings to me, weeping with a brokenness that splinters my ribs and blackens my beating heart.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”
We pile into the backseat and Ronan burns rubber down the street while I do my best to console Ivy. I right her clothes and pet her hair and kiss her forehead, murmuring my regret for only her.
“I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t protect you.”
“Archer,” she chokes out.
“He’s okay. He’s safe.”
She shakes her head, insistent that he isn’t. She won’t be okay until she sees him for herself, so I drag my phone out of my pocket and video call Rory. He answers on the second ring.
“Where’s the wee one?” I ask.
“He’s asleep on the sofa,” Rory answers.
“Can you show me?”
He aims the screen at Archer, sound asleep with a blanket and teddy bear, and Ivy releases a breath before she clutches a trembling hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing. It’s all she can do. Nothing else matters now because she’s my strong girl, and she would take on the whole fucking world if it meant saving her kid.
“Bring him to mine in two hours, would ye?”
Rory agrees, and we disconnect the call. Ivy looks to me, her face dirty, bruised, and swollen.
“Did he touch you?” I rasp. “Did any of them touch you?”
She starts sobbing again, and I think I’m going to be sick, until she shakes her head. She can’t get the words out in full sentences, so she gasps them between breaths. “He… almost. Then… you.”
“It’s okay, baby.” I pet her hair and kiss her forehead once more. “It’s okay. I won’t ever let anyone hurt you again. You have my word that come what may, I will keep you and Archer safe.”
She nods against my chest, and I know we still have a lot to talk about, but the first order of business is getting her back to where she belongs.
In our home. With our boy.
33
IVY
“WHEN IS ARCHER COMING?” I croak. My throat is raw from screaming, and I barely have a voice left, but I won’t be able to rest until I know he’s here and he’s safe.
Conor dabs at my face with a wet cloth, cataloging every scratch and bruise with an agony I’ve never seen in him before. “Rory will bring him shortly. But I think you would agree that we need to get ye cleaned up first. He shouldn’t be seeing his mother in such a way.”
My eyes water, but I agree. I wouldn’t want Archer to see me this way. Conor goes about the task of cleaning my body with a gentleness he doesn’t often show. These same hands took life tonight. They shed the blood of Animal and the other Locos, and probably many others before. But when I look up into his soft green eyes, I realize that I don’t even fucking care. I don’t care about any of it. Not when I know Conor to be good and kind and pure in his own way. This is the man I fell in love with. The one who tends to my wounds and makes everything okay. My love for him is savage and completely irresponsible, but it can’t be tamed.
I almost left him, and I almost paid for it with my life.
There is too much space between us, and not even a single inch will do. I want to crawl into his lap and force him to say pretty words and make me promises he will keep. I need him to tell me that he will keep us and love us and never let anything come between us again.
“Is this okay?” His fingers edge the torn hemlines of my sweatshirt, slowly dragging it up to remove it.
I tell him it is, and he busies himself with removing the rest of my tattered clothing, throwing them into the trash where I hope he will burn them. As my eyes wander over him, it occurs to me that he’s been so busy taking care of me, he’s forgotten to take care of himself.
“Your ear is bleeding.”
He brings his fingers up to the wound and shrugs. “Just a flesh wound. I’ll live.”
“Please put something on it. At least stop the bleeding.”
Conor reluctantly agrees, ripping into a fresh pack of gauze and securing it over his ear. It’s not the best job, but for now it will have to do. I want to help him, but I’m too sore to move on my own and the pain is catching up with me now. I realize it when he walks to the bath and tests the water and I’m left to support myself on the edge of the sink.
“Feels good,” he says. “Let’s get you inside.”
“I can’t,” I whimper.
Conor turns to me, and when he recognizes the pain in my eyes, he comes back to me without delay. “It’s okay, love. I’ve got you.”
I fall against his chest, too weak to wrap my arms around him. But it doesn’t matter. His skin against mine is all that I need. I need him to stay with me like this all nig
ht, and I hope that he will.
Conor unbuttons his jeans and kicks them off, and then holds me upright with one arm while he strips off his shirt. He doesn’t bother to remove his briefs before gathering me up into his arms and carrying me to the tub.
“That’s it, love.” He lowers us both into the tub and settles us into the warm water. “Just relax. I’ve got you.”
I melt into him, and even though I’m still a fucking mess, a deranged smile curves my lips. I can only imagine what we must look like. This big, burly man crammed into the tiny bathtub with me. It can’t be comfortable for him, but he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t seem to give it any thought at all as he soaps a cloth and scrubs it over my skin, pausing to ask if the pressure is okay. He asks me where I hurt, and then he feels those places with his fingers. When it’s all said and done, his level of care says everything words can’t. He touches me like I’m his salvation. Like he couldn’t live without me, and it took us almost losing each other for him to understand that.
He massages me, strong fingers kneading the tension from my back and shoulders. Then his lips are on my neck, kissing me, breathing me in. We’re melded together, and all the wrong from the night is somewhere else, in another time and place where we don’t exist. And when he finally does choke out some words, it’s all I ever need to know.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry. I love you, Ivy. You can’t ever leave me like that again.”
34
CONOR
“MOMMY!” Archer cries out.
My beautiful girl can barely move, but she musters every last ounce of strength left in her to wrap her arms around her son. “I’m here,” she tells him. “I’m here, my love.”
They hold each other for as long as Ivy can handle, but when it becomes too much for her, I intervene. “It’s been a long day. Why don’t we all go to bed.”
Ivy nods, and I help them both settle into our bed. But when I stand up, her arm shoots out to catch me. “Please don’t leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere, love,” I assure her. “I’m just taking off my shirt.”
