by A. Zavarelli
SAINT
Boston Underworld #4
A. Zavarelli
Contents
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Afterword
Quotes referenced in this book
Acknowledgments
Also by A. Zavarelli
Saint © 2016 A. Zavarelli
Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover Photograph © 2016 Wander Aguiar Photography
* * *
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Scarlett-
* * *
When going to war, there are three very simple rules one must abide by.
1.Know thy enemy
2.Be prepared to sacrifice.
3.Always wear good shoes
After all, revenge is a dish best served in stilettos.
I’ve got an eye for it, and nothing’s going to stand in my way.
Not even Rory ‘The Saint’ Brodrick.
He’s a fool if he thinks he can change me. By the time I’m through with him, I’ll make his mafia look like child’s play.
Cross me, Mr. Brodrick?
You better cross your heart and hope to die.
* * *
Rory-
* * *
I’m a fighter. A hustler. A mobster.
I’ve seen a few things in my day.
But I’ve never encountered anything like her.
She's a beauty with a beast of a heart. The poison apple I just can't resist. And in her trail she leaves a wake of men crawling on their knees.
What she doesn’t know is that I like my women wild.
It only makes it that much more fun to tame them.
* * *
Playlist
Wreak Havoc- Skylar Grey
A Little Party Never Killed Nobody- Fergie
Gangsta- Kehlani
You Don’t Own Me- Grace
Bonnie and Clyde- Kellie Pickler
Kill of the Night- Gin Wigmore
I Feel a Sin Comin’ On- Pistol Annies
Raise Hell- Dorothy
Renegade Runaway- Carrie Underwood
Black Widow- Iggy Azalea
Hard Out Here- Lily Allen
Fix- Chris Lane
Make Me Wanna Die- Pretty Reckless
Natalie- Bruno Mars
Grenade- Bruno Mars
Criminal- Fiona Apple
Hunter- Ella Fence
Gunpowder & Lead- Miranda Lambert
Addicted to Love- Florence & The Machine
Titanium- David Guetta & Sia
Talking Body- Tove Lo
Tornado- Little Big Town
Fastest Girl in Town- Miranda Lambert
Just Tonight- The Pretty Reckless
Ready Set Roll- Chase Rice
Till I Collapse- Eminem
Remember the Name- Fort Minor
Kill!Kill!Kill!- The Pierces
Hard- Rihanna
Cherry Bomb- The Runaways
Bad Romance- Lady Gaga
Gasoline & Matches- Julie Roberts
Loca- Shakira
My Medicine- The Pretty Reckless
Fake It- Seether
Psycho- Puddle of Mud
All or Nothing- Theory of a Deadman
Next to You- Buckcherry
Better Dig Two- The Band Perry
Prologue
Scarlett
Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.
-Confucius
All the world’s a stage, and I’m just one of the many players, baby.
Like that douchebag over there, watching me eat this hot dog. What is it about men and phallic shaped objects? I can’t even pick out a cucumber at the market without their eyes on me. They imagine dirty things while their wives herd the children down the aisles in an orderly fashion and thirst for the vodka at home.
The men, though. They’ll go home, still thinking about that cucumber. And they’ll jerk off to it and then sit on the sofa and watch some inconsequential sports program and grunt out responses when their wives ask them a question.
The American dream.
Sigh.
This hot dog though. Legendary. There’s extra mustard and relish, of course, because… go big or go home. I’m going to eat this whole goddamned hot dog, and I’m not even going to feel a little bit bad about it.
Course, there isn’t a whole awful lot I feel bad about.
It’s important to find humor in the little things. Like the construction worker who trips over a pothole and nearly breaks his neck while he eye-fucks me.
I smile back at him and lean into the cold brick wall behind me. My stilettos are crossed at the ankles on the broken concrete below, and there isn’t a chance he could miss me in this dress.
I like it when they look at me. Because I know what comes next.
His friend catcalls me and asks how much.
“Five thousand,” I yell back with a mouth still half full of food. “To let me watch while you suck a bag of dicks.”
They exchange a dopey look and hurl some verbal insults my way. I flip them the bird before stuffing the last of the hot dog into my mouth and licking my fingers.
Boys. That’s what they are.
Silly little playthings.
On my stage, and in my show, the only players I allow have blue blooded pedigrees. Like the current toy waiting for me just inside the hotel room at my back. Twenty minutes have come and gone since I lured him back here. And being that my windows of time aren’t really an exact science, I need to stop fucking around.
I mentally press stop on the endless reel of chaos running through my head and take a deep breath.
There is nothing good or bad. Only thinking makes it so.
I step back into the room and stare at the heap of privilege and repugnance lying on the dank come-stained carpet.
His eyes are shuttered, his mouth slack as his face droops into his shoulder.
They never see it coming.
This prick didn’t either. Another day, another unconscious prick on a hotel floor. Only this one has purpose,
I think. Maybe. He looks exactly like the type of grade A douchebag that would run in Alexander’s pack.
And that’s unfortunate for him.
I nudge him with my toe, confirming that the benzos I slipped into his drink have fully entered his bloodstream.
Every client is different. Some of them need more. Some less. But they always go down in the end.
This one is built like a fucking horse.
The bigger the man, the bigger the ego. Or is it the bigger the bank account, the bigger the ego?
In either case, it’s been my experience that the flashier the clothes, the smaller the cock. They are all compensating for something, and I’ve no doubt that when I get his clothes off, there will be no surprises. This one looks like a Ralph Lauren catalog threw up on him.
I yank his Burberry wallet from the back of his khaki trousers and dump the contents onto the bed. A part of me wishes for something shocking and unexpected.
But, alas, it’s always the same. Even with Teddy the III.
Country club memberships and credit cards with exorbitant limits. A Porsche keychain because clearly the car isn’t enough for this asshole. And a condom to fuck the whores with. Razzle fucking dazzle.
They can never be original. I swear the whole lot must be mass produced in a factory somewhere.
The WASP cookie cutter doesn’t break the mold. These Ken dolls are all assembled in the same fashion. Posh clothing and secret societies and Ivy League educations. Humble beginnings sold separately. They sail and have luncheons and charity benefits all while stuffing one skeleton into their closets after another. Never short on arrogance but long on pretentious diatribes and entitlement.
These guys think the world owes them. Whatever they want, they take. No fucks given.
It’s an epidemic in the upper crust.
And there’s only one antidote for such an affliction.
The little monster they created.
C’est moi.
Debutant turned deviant.
Captain shitforbrains here paid me for a good time, and I’m about to rock his fucking world.
First things first, I relieve him of anything of value and shove it into my purse. Watches, rings, cufflinks. They are always found in abundance on these name brand jackoffs.
It isn’t about the money, for me. The humiliation of being robbed by a call girl is just the cherry on top.
At the heart of my scheme, there’s only one thing I desire from him.
If he gives it to me, well it’ll just tickle my little black heart. If he doesn’t? Again, that’s unfortunate for him.
But either way, he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t.
Once I’ve disposed of all his valuables, I retrieve the duffle I stash in my rented room before I meet with a client. It’s good to be prepared. And I’m the best goddamn girl scout they’ll wish they never crossed paths with.
His wrists and ankles are already bound with zip ties. The clothes come off next.
A pair of craft scissors does the job in a jiffy, saving me from blunting my favorite knife. Stripped of his clothes, trust fund Teddy looks ridiculous slumped against the bed frame, his flaccid cock squished between his thighs.
It only gets more outlandish when I add some fishnets and heels to my pliable little doll.
It’s all so easy breezy. That might suck the wind from my sails if I stop to think about it. So I don’t stop to think about it.
Because now comes the fun part.
From my bag, I choose a big blue dildo and shove it into his slackened mouth. Next comes the nipple clamps.
I fetch my camera and toy with the settings, really hamming up the role of fotog. Now that I know where Teddy likes to play, his upper echelon haunts will be plastered in flyers come Monday.
That’s right, housewives.
Guard your children. Lock your doors. There’s a creep just next door.
If only they knew they were all creeps.
What their husbands get up to when they are at book club on Thursdays. What their own sons are doing to the pretty cheerleader in the bathroom at school.
They don’t know. Because they don’t want to know.
They can keep their delusions until I shove it in their face.
Teddy stirs a little as I’m snapping photos.
“Smile for the camera,” I tell him sweetly. “You’re a natural, Tedster.”
He murmurs something that sounds an awful lot like ‘cunt’.
So I slap him in the face before I step back to admire my handiwork. It isn’t the act itself that I derive pleasure from. It’s the aftermath.
The knowledge that when he wakes up, he will feel just as violated and humiliated as he makes his paid whores feel.
Having a momentary loss of power can be a life altering experience.
But one full night of shame?
That’s the spaghetti on the wall. It burns into your brain and haunts you in all your waking moments.
Teddy here will come to understand that.
They all come to understand that.
There’s only one way to wipe his transgressions free in my book.
A sin for a sin.
I drag the chair closer so he has a nice view for the show that’s about to start. His ticket was punched from the moment he walked into the bar tonight, and it’s VIP all the way.
When he stirs, I’m kind enough to give him a few moments to find some sense of lucidity before I lay into him.
“Why are you doing this?” he slurs.
I cock my head to the side and give him a bored expression. It’s always the same questions from these tools.
At least once, it’d be nice if they surprised me.
But alas, men are men, and they seldom do.
I fish around for my scrapbook and open the well-worn pages, dangling it in front of his face.
There are five photographs on those first two pages. Along with small placards that display height, weight, and physical characteristics.
But no names.
Those are for my lips only.
And perhaps Teddy’s too, if he decides to be honest.
“Think carefully before you answer,” I tell him. “If you play your cards right, then you- nor your family or friends- will ever have to see these pictures again.”
I toss the Polaroids I took tonight onto his lap, and he gives them a cursory glance. There’s a flush creeping up his neck now and a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. He wants to inflict damage. On little old me.
“Aw, look at that,” I say. “Just dills your little pickle, doesn’t it?”
He grunts and tries to squeeze his legs together.
“Be a good boy,” I urge. “I know you wouldn’t want to be cut out of mummy’s will. You know how that saying goes. Old money is much more respectable than new.”
“Fuck you, cunt,” he slurs again, his binds chafing against his wrists as he struggles to get free. It’s no use. They ought to know that.
“You don’t owe them anything,” I assure him. “I know how you boys like to play. So, tell me what goes down in the metaphorical locker room. Something they wouldn’t want the world to know.”
His eyes flutter shut, and he almost drifts off into oblivion again, so I give him a hard slap to wake the fuck up.
“You’re going to be sorry,” he grunts.
“That’s what they tell me,” I reply. “But I never am. Clock’s ticking, my friend. And I’m only going to warn you once, I’m rather short on patience.”
Teddy is quiet, but the gears turning in his pea sized brain are loud. He’s trying to conjure up a lie. Again, it’s downright formulaic the way they react to this scenario.
I sigh and lean back in my chair, crossing my legs. He looks at them and doesn’t hide it. He’s wondering what it’d be like to choke me and then fuck me. Show me who’s boss. If his eyes didn’t tell me so, his dick is talking plenty on its own.
I decide to raise.
“
Fine, we’ll take it slow. That’s what you tell the girls, isn’t it? Before you tie them up and rail on them? I bet mummy wouldn’t be so fond of that little detail either.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls.
“The only thing you need to be concerned with right now is your old Yale chums and their dirty laundry. You’ve got exactly five minutes to tell me what I want to know. And then you can skip along on your merry way, photos in hand.”
A lie, of course. What fun would that be for me?
“Come to think of it…” he says, and my heart beats a little faster. I want it so bad I can taste it, but I’ve got a good poker face, and Teddy here doesn’t know that yet.
“A few of them do look familiar,” the piece of shit says.
I grit my teeth together and stuff down the vile disappointment in my throat.
“They should, since they’re like a bad case of Syphilis on all of your social media accounts.”
His cheeks turn a little rosy at the trap he’s found himself in.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
“A name, if you would be so kind.”
My voice is all sugar, and it honestly scares me how good I’ve become at the game. Sensei Scarlett is about to school the little grasshopper if he doesn’t catch a clue soon.
“I don’t know,” the moron continues on with his charade. His acting skills certainly leave something to be desired. “We met at a party in college. I was drunk. But I’m almost certain one of them works at The Hancock.”
“Don’t you mean Clarendon?” I correct.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” he agrees.
He’s cool as a cucumber as he says it, but beneath that staged expression, his hands are itching with the urge to pummel my face bloody. He would too if he could get loose.
“Gee, that’s super helpful,” I tell him with all the false excitement I can muster. “There are only like a bajillion stories in that building, right?”
His pleasantness slips back into the void in which it came from.
“Look, bitch, I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. I don’t know them.”
A resigned sigh ushers up from the cavity of my chest as I hang my head in my hands and cry crocodile tears.