Saint: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  I want to believe all that, but I know there’s no truth to it.

  The ajar door says otherwise.

  The glass shattered on the ground reminds me that’s bullshit.

  The blood is a fist to the gut, telling me exactly how fucking wrong I am.

  I grab the guns I’ve stashed behind the vacuum cleaner in the hallway closet and stagger outside to the porch. That ripping feeling is still tearing at my chest, making me work to suck in a breath of air as I look wildly around as if still trying to spot her.

  But she’s gone, and I think I’ve got a real good fucking idea who’s taken her from me.

  And just like that, everything I’ve just been saying to myself, and to Liam over the phone just fucking shatters like the flimsy bullshit it always was. All my huffing and puffing about “letting her go” and “keeping her away from me” goes up like fucking smoke.

  Because someone’s taken what’s mine away from me. Someone’s taken away the one good thing I’ve felt in fucking years.

  My eyes narrow, my pulse thunders, and my hand grips the cold metal of the gun in my hands tight.

  Anton’s stepped over the line, and taken what belongs to me.

  And now it’s time to start a war.

  Now it’s time to act.

  Now it’s time to move heaven and hell to get her back.

  Because she’s mine, and I’m not ready to let her go.

  I’m about to storm off for the car when my eyes land on something black and metal on the sand by the steps to the porch.

  The fucking burner phone.

  I glare at it, every intention of putting the heel of my boot through the top of it when I suddenly freeze. The bag drops to my feet, and I grab the goddamn thing out of the sand, flip it open, and scroll to the one damn number programmed.

  I push the call button.

  “Agent Marlow,” I growl when the line picks up. “I heard you’ve got a little crush on me.”

  There’s a frozen second before he clears his throat.

  “Mr. Roarke,” he hisses.

  “You’ve been up everyone’s ass all over Southie trying to pin something on my family or me. I think it’s time I threw you a bone.”

  He barks out a bitter laugh. “I don’t need shit from you, you punk Irish motherfu-”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen.”

  He shuts up.

  “What if I had something for you. That be worth anything to you?”

  He’s quiet another second before he answers.

  “I’m listening.”

  I smile grimly as I snatch the bag of guns up and head for my car.

  “Agent Marlow, how’d you like to make the bust of your miserable career?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Connor

  The warehouse on the outskirts of Dorchester, near Anton’s turf, is black and deserted when I pull up and shut the engine off. The car parked fifty feet away facing me flashes its lights, and I grit my teeth as I open the door and step out.

  Marlow.

  I know I’m walking into the lion’s den here, but I’m out of fucking options. Besides, the guns are locked in the strongbox in my trunk, I’m not carrying anything, and if Marlow had anything real on me, I’d be in jail already.

  That said, I called Liam - with Aela there too this time - on the way over here and let them know what was going on. I assured them I wasn’t drunk, or insane, and that I knew what I was doing.

  …Even if I’m not entirely sure that’s true.

  We’re meeting here because “here” is about two blocks from what I know is Anton Boiko’s main clubhouse, in an old printing factory the Boston Globe used to use way back in the day. SWAT’s staging in the dark warehouse next to us, gearing up to strike.

  Marlow’s no ally, I know that, but it seems we’ve got a mutual enemy in Anton. You know that saying that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?

  Yeah, well, that doesn’t apply here at fucking all, but if Marlow and I can use each other to get what we came here for, I’m fine with that. He confirmed on the phone before I even jumped in my car back to Boston that surveillance teams spotted a van driven by one of Oleg Liski’s guys heading back from Cape Cod.

  Those motherfuckers have her, and if working with this piece of shit and his FBI buddies gets her back before Oleg hurts her, so be it.

  And if he has hurt her?

  The rage roars up inside of me.

  If he’s hurt her in any way, I won’t be held responsible for the thunder I call down on this entire city, that I can promise.

  I walk towards Marlow’s car, nodding at him as he steps out.

  “Roarke,” he nods back, and I notice that his hand hovers by the holster at his hip.

  “I’m not carrying,” I growl.

  We size each other up, which is comical considering the physical differences between us. Him, the short, middle-aged, paunchy guy with graying hair and sallow skin. Me pushing six foot two and about two-twenty of lean muscle.

  His perceived power comes from the fucking badge he wears. Mine’s been earned through blood and sweat and tears.

  “So.” Marlow eyes me warily. “We have a deal?”

  I grit my teeth, glaring at him. We do, and he knows it, he just wants to hear me say it to his face. I’ve already run this by Aela and Liam, and they’re both completely okay with giving up anything we’ve got on Anton and his crew. The cavalry swoops in and yanks Sierra out of there, and I spill whatever we know about the Ukrainians - who’s who in the operation, drop spots, known activity, the fucking works.

  Bringing the law in on matters that involve the Saints isn’t something that’s taken lightly. In fact, I’m not sure it’s ever been done. But we tried diplomacy, and that clearly went up in smoke.

  Anton asked for trouble. We’ll bring it to his goddamn doorstep, and if that involves sticking the goddamn FBI on his ass? So be it.

  “We have a deal.”

  Marlow smiles. “Excellent. That’s excellent. I’m glad we’re going to be friends here, Roarke.”

  I swallow back the rage, knowing the clock is ticking but knowing I have to deal with this shithead.

  “Can we get this show on the road now?”

  He smiles. “Sure, Roarke, sure.”

  I hate the way he’s being so casual - his fucking nonchalant demeanor considering what’s at stake here.

  Marlow jerks his head towards the warehouse behind us and turns to head that way.

  “Surveillance just confirmed the same van is parked outside the printing factory now, so we’ll be breaking down Anton’s door in ten minutes.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  Marlow just laughs as he strides ahead of me and shoulders open the side door. “I don’t think so, Roarke.”

  “I do.”

  He pauses in the doorway, turning to look at me. “You’re really all set to give up Anton?”

  “Does it look like I’m going to lose sleep over it?”

  He whistles. “No honor amongst thieves, huh?”

  “I think you’ve watched too many movies.”

  Marlow chuckles. “So it’s nothing personal with Anton?”

  “Of course it is, his guys shot at me.”

  “Nothing to do with Sierra Hammond.”

  My mouth goes tight as my heart jumps in my chest.

  Marlow grins and shakes his head. “The criminal with the heart of gold. You’re killing me here, Roarke.”

  “Can we get a fucking move on?” I hiss.

  He laughs as he turns and steps into the warehouse. “That heart’s gonna get you in trouble, Roarke.”

  I step in after him, and it’s only then that my normally honed senses finally scream at me. It’s then that my survival instinct finally manages to shoulder its way through the anguish of worrying about Sierra to scream in my goddamn face.

  And suddenly, I freeze.

  The warehouse is pitch black. SWAT isn’t suiting up in here, and there’s no FBI strike team gett
ing ready to roll out.

  “The fuck is going on, Marl-”

  The blow comes at the back of my head, knocking me onto my knees. I snarl, jumping up and spinning around, slamming into the guy and knocking him back into the wall.

  The guy goes limp as I smash his face against the corrugated metal, but as I whirl around, something slugs me in the gut, dropping me.

  An overhead light flickers on as I suck painfully for a breath of air and try and stagger to my knees. Hands grab me, and I’m still roaring and trying to tear myself away when someone grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head up.

  And then I’m looking right at her.

  Sierra.

  She’s being held by two of them, her hands bound, her mouth gagged. She’s screaming through it, kicking and fighting and lurching away from them, and it breaks something inside of me.

  I explode, ripping myself away from the hands holding me back and lunging for her. The crack comes sharp to my side, sending me reeling to the floor. And I’m still roaring like a fucking wild man as four of them tackle me and pin me to the ground, my eyes locked on her.

  Oleg Liski steps into the light next to her, grinning that yellow smile at me. And next to him, smiling right at me as he claps Liski on the shoulder?

  Marlow.

  My lips curl back as my eyes narrow at him. “You son of-”

  I don’t finish before he strides forward and sinks his shoe into my side with a snicker. Sierra screams through her gag, lashing out with her foot and catching Oleg in the shin. He snarls as he turns and suddenly cracks a hand across her face.

  And I fucking roar.

  I roar like a fucking caged animal and something in me shatters - the beast completely destroying his cage as I lunge for him with every intention of killing him with my bare fucking hands.

  But my hands never touch him, and I don’t make it two steps before there’s more of them dragging me away from him and raining fists and heels down all over me.

  I’m fading, badly.

  She’s screaming, and I try and get up again, but the fists and the boots and the whatever else they’re hitting me with come raining down all over again, knocking me to the ground. I look up, my eyes searing into hers, and I lunge once more for her before something goes crashing into the side of my head.

  This time, I don’t get up.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sierra

  The chair creaks beneath me, the rough old wood biting into the back of my thighs. The rusty metal under-frame squeaks, grating against my ears as I shift in it. I’m pulling at the ropes binding my wrists to the arm rests, but I know it’s useless.

  I hiss as I twist once more, the rope rubbing raw against my skin and the wood digging into me before I swear loudly and kick at the big old metal desk in front of me.

  I’m alone in the dusty old room - an office of some kind. Judging by the machines and reams of paper I saw on the way in as they dragged me in here, this must have been a printing facility way back. Old rusty file cabinets line one wall, stacks and stacks of four-decade-old copies of the Boston Herald along another.

  Apparently, Richard Nixon has just resigned, according to the front page.

  I can feel my heart thundering in my chest as my eyes dart around the room. I squeeze them shut, trying to center myself, trying not to shake, and trying to force myself to take deep breaths.

  I’m doing everything I can not to lose it completely, but the truth is, I’m scared. The truth is, I’m terrified, because I know I’ve stepped way over my head here. I’m so far past “normalcy” for someone like me that I’ve forgotten what normal even is.

  There’s the sound of footsteps outside, and when the doorknob jangles, I freeze, the blood chilling in my veins. The door opens, and agent Marlow steps in, an evil, smug grin on his face and a manila folder in his hands.

  “You know, it’s always the quiet, smart ones you never see coming.”

  I don’t say a thing, and he just chuckles as he closes the door and steps toward me. I tense as he gets close, moving to sit on the corner of the desk in front of me and tapping the file folder against his knee. He eyes me before glancing down, opening it, and whistling lowly.

  “Jeez, valedictorian, a shoe-in at Boston University for undergrad, and it looks like they practically begged you to enroll in that double master’s program they got you in.”

  He clears his throat, scanning the file.

  My file, apparently.

  “Straight A’s until - huh, until a few months back, looks like.” He glances up, smirking. “A C?” He makes a tsking sound. “Well that just won’t do, will it?”

  Agent Marlow grins at me, before making this sarcastic sad face.

  “Awww, what’s the matter? Conversation not stimulating enough for you?”

  “Guess I’m not feeling chatty,” I mutter.

  He chuckles. “Shit, you sound like Roarke. Guess he rubbed off on yah, huh?”

  He winks lecherously, and I bristle. He glances back at my file.

  “So, you start snagging C’s, you stop going to class, and then, wow. Then you burn down some poor little shit’s garage.” Marlow glances back up at me. “What are we going to do with you, Sierra? I mean what would your parents say?”

  My lips purse tight.

  “And your siblings? Rowan, Ivy, Kyle and Stella?”

  I feel a cold sensation trickle over me, and he grins sharply.

  “Still don’t feel like talking, huh?” He shrugs as he reaches into the pocket of his two-sizes-too-big sports coat and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Smoke?”

  “No,” I say quietly.

  He shrugs, sticks one in his mouth and lights it with a silver Zippo lighter he pulls out of the other pocket. Smoke curls around his pudgy face, drifting and wafting up to the ceiling in the dry stillness of the ancient room.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do, Sierra. This arson charge?” He blows smoke through his nose. “I’m not gonna hit you with that one.”

  “Are you even really with the FBI?” I blurt out.

  He smirks. “That I am.”

  He must get the meaning in my words because he laughs right after that.

  “Oh, what - this?” He looks around the empty, dusty office and shrugs. “Ahh, you’re one of those poor schmucks who still thinks the world is black and white. You think I’m ‘bought’ or some shit since I’m working for Anton.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  His eyes narrow. “I don’t work for free, missy, but no, I’m not bought. This is just how the world works.” He puffs on his cigarette. “There’s a war coming, and I hate to say it, but your little Irish boy-toy and his pals are going to be on the wrong side of it. Because I’ve picked my side, or rather, the side that wants to win picked me. Anton’s not an idiot, unlike Roarke and his little gang.”

  Marlow eyes me, clearing his throat.

  “But let’s talk about you. Here’s the deal, Ms. Hammond. This arson charge isn’t going to come out and bite you, but it is going to linger - waiting around, watching your back. Call it insurance if you will.”

  I glare at him. “I’d call it leverage.”

  “Call it whatever you want, but it means you work for me now. It means you do what I fucking say, and talk to who I fucking tell you to talk to.”

  He grins, his eyes sliding over my body, making me shiver horribly.

  “Maybe I ask all sorts of things from you.”

  I immediately want to throw up.

  “I’ll turn myself in,” I hiss at him, pulling tight at the ropes binding me.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Watch me,” I spit.

  “Does your brother Rowan own that dive bar of his outright?”

  I glare at him, hating the smug look on his face.

  “Yes.”

  “How’s his fire insurance?”

  The blood drains from my face.

  “You son of a bit-”

  “That sister
of yours, with the kid?”

  I shake my head, the rage bubbling up inside.

  “Be a shame if he followed a ball out into the street or something.”

  “Fuck you!” I grit out.

  Marlow just laughs.

  “Shit I can do this all day! Your other sister? The one with the lifestyle blog and all those pretty Instagram pictures? Suppose something happens to fuck up that money-maker of a face? Or how about the next time your daddy takes Mommy out for a nice dinner, some drunk assholes just happens to be going a little too fast to see the red light, and just-”

  “Enough!”

  I’m shaking, and a single, searing tear rolls down my cheek.

  Marlow leans close, blowing smoke out of the corners of his mouth, letting his eyes burn into me.

  “Here’s the thing. Someone like you’s got everything to lose. And you will if you don’t play by the rules. My rules.”

  My eyes fall to the floor, a numbness creeping through me.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

  I blink, still half numb. “Ask you what.”

  “What I’m going to do to your little boyfriend.”

  My eyes fly to his, and his face splits into a wicked grin as he chuckles.

  “Nah, I’m just kidding. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna do shit to him. Actually, I’m done with Connor Roarke.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, my shoulders slowly unclenching.

  “Oh, but Anton?” Marlow whistles.

  “Yeah see, Anton’s got plans for that boy, and I’m pretty sure they involve a blowtorch and that pretty face of his.”

  I scream, lurching towards him despite the fact that I’m tied to the chair. I go crashing to the floor, the ancient wooden chair splintering behind me as my head slams off the floor. I groan, stars floating in front of my eyes as the room spins.

  Marlow cackles a laugh. “Jesus Christ, kid! Watch that head! Remember, I own that noggin, along with the rest of you now. Got it?”

  He stands from the desk and steps towards me lying tied and sprawled on the ground. He leans down, cigarette smoke blowing over my cheek.

  “Sit pretty, Ms. Hammond.” He chuckles into my ear. “Maybe you and I get to know each other a little better later on, huh?” he says, his voice sending revulsion through my body.