SAINT (Boston Underworld Book 4)

by A. Zavarelli

  A car pulls up, and I barely get a glimpse of the faces inside when I’m yanked through the door.

  Someone covers my eyes with their hands, and I’m freaking out already until Alexander’s voice whispers into my ear.

  “Calm down, baby,” he says. “It’s just me.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. “I’m supposed to be getting initiated tonight.”

  “I came to escort my girl.” He takes my hand and I feel some of my nerves dissipating as he strokes the pulse beneath my skin.

  “Are you nervous?” he asks.

  “No,” I lie. “And why are they doing both initiations on the same night? Aren’t they supposed to be separate?”

  “Nah,” Alexander says, but he doesn’t give further explanation.

  “Are the other girls meeting us somewhere?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Of course. But you have to pass the first challenge first.”

  “What is it?”

  He brings something cool to my lips and liquid sloshes into my mouth.

  “Drink up.”

  I don’t want to do it. The whole thing is so lame. But I know I’ll be ridiculed forever as the girl who couldn’t even pass the first test if I don’t. And then my mother will be on my case about destroying generations of our family’s hard work and reputations.

  So, I drink the liquid.

  And it hits me hard.

  Not that I ever really drink, but it feels stronger than it should. Within moments, I’m dizzy and confused and my entire body is weighted down in the seat.

  Alexander says something, but I don’t understand the words. I slump against him, and then there is laughter all around me.

  I fall asleep.

  I don’t know how long we’re in the car for. Because when I wake up, we’re somewhere else. It’s cold, and it smells like pine.

  The moon is above me, and there’s dirt and rocks digging into my skin beneath me. Grunting and slapping.

  “Fucccccck yeah,” someone says.

  And it’s too close to my face. Something heavy falls on top of me, and when my eyes adjust, I realize it’s Duke.

  And then I realize that I’m naked, and he’s inside of me.

  My mouth opens, and a scream erupts.

  “What the fuck?”

  That’s Alexander’s voice.

  A hand clamps over my mouth, and he’s closer now, speaking into my ear.

  “Shut the fuck up, Ten,” he whispers. “You just need to get through this, and we’re both in.”

  All his friends are here. I see them and feel them and that’s betrayal slicing through me like a hot iron. I’m still screaming beneath his hand when Duke moves off of me and Alexander takes his place. He grunts and pushes himself inside of me, smothering my face with his hand.

  “Dude, you need to make her shut up,” someone says.

  There’s a hand in my hair, and my head is slammed back into the ground. Once, twice. Dizziness threatens again.

  “Put some more shit in a drink and give it to me,” Alexander tells them.

  A couple minutes later, my mouth is being squeezed open and more liquid is sloshing down my throat. I almost choke on it, but they keep forcing it down, anyway.

  Whatever it is, it renders me limp and useless again.

  “Finally,” one of them mutters. “Now flip her over so I can have some too. Don’t be a greedy pig.”

  There are so many hands on me. Bodies crushing me.

  I only get fleeting glimpses of the nightmare, interspersed with bouts of unconsciousness. I don’t know how long it is before I start to feel something in my limbs again. But the moment I do, I try to fight back.

  This time, someone clamps a hand over my mouth and my nose.

  I can’t breathe.

  And I can’t fight back.

  Not anymore.

  The last thing I hear when it all goes silent around me, is Alexander’s voice.

  “You gave her too much. What the fuck? What are we going to do now?”

  I’m being dragged through the dirt, tossed into a shallow hole. Leaves and rocks scraping over my skin and burying me alive.

  Hatred settles into my stomach and oozes through my veins, blackening everything inside of me. Until there is nothing left. Nothing left but evil.

  My carefully constructed kingdom of control is crumbling around me.

  The bathwater is cold now, my knees drawn up to my chest as I smear the dried blood on my hand across the wall.

  It mixes with the condensation and forms tiny rivers of red in the cracks of the tile, leaking back into the bathtub and poisoning everything around me.

  The betrayal, the pain, the complete loss of control.

  It’s happening all over again.

  The time for war has come, and there’s no backing down now.

  I’m trapped in this game. And the only way out is by leaving a trail of blood in my wake.

  I’m going to kill them all.

  I’m going to make them pay for their sins and I’m going to fucking win.

  If Alexander thinks he will ever touch me again, he can die thinking that as I plunge my knife into his heart.

  But it isn’t enough. It’s not enough to temper the fire inside of me. Alexander and his friends aren’t enough.

  There’s someone else I’ve been holding back on. And I don’t hold back for anyone. I was being nice, and I don’t do fucking nice. And it’s now two times that Rory Brodrick has crossed me.

  If he hadn’t interrupted me tonight, none of this would have happened.

  I wouldn’t have been off my game and I would have been paying attention and Alexander wouldn’t have caught me off guard.

  He just keeps fucking everything up. He thinks he can fix me, but I’m going to show him. There is no fixing me.

  There’s only the violence and the want and the hate.

  And now, I’m going to use him like a pawn. I’m going to take Rory’s fragile, vulnerable little heart… and I’m going to play with it like a fucking toy.

  Cross me, Mr. Brodrick? You better cross your heart and hope to die.

  Seven

  Rory

  Fight night.

  My favorite night of the week.

  Every Thursday, I’m in this warehouse. Having a bit of craic, fucking shit up.

  Irish men are natural born fighters. And I’m no exception to that rule. I love to lamp some poor bloke upside the head just as much as the next lad.

  It’s what we do.

  And all the lads get in on it too. Drinking and placing bets. Cheering me on from the sidelines. The place is standing room only. The stench of blood and sweat and beer permeating the air around us. There are women too. Lots of women.

  There always are.

  I usually end up taking one home with me at the end of the night. They know the score, and so do I.

  Casual. Always keep it casual. They want to bag a fighter, and I want to work off the last of my adrenaline.

  But the last few I’ve taken home with me have only ended up passing out on the couch since I’ve been too piss drunk to do much of anything.

  Conor’s got it in his head that there’s something wrong with me. Something bothering me.

  Tonight, I’m set to prove him wrong. My eyes scan the crowd before I even square off with the Italian I’m fighting in just a few short moments.

  I’m already counting my victory… because let’s face it… this bloke walked in here with Gucci loafers.

  Enough said.

  There’s a few blondes over in the corner tossing smiles my way. I smile back at them and flash them the dimples. Works like a charm.

  Every time.

  I ignore the brunettes in the crowd. Because there’s only one brunette I want. And I don’t like to compare.

  There is no comparison.

  But just as Johnny starts his spiel and I meet my opponent in the middle of the makeshift ring, one brunette does catch my eye.

  And I have to do a
double take to be sure.

  Because her face is all beat to hell.

  Scarlett.

  In a black dress and flats. Scarlett never wears flats, but tonight she is because her leg is jacked up too. She’s leaning to the left and trying not to show it.

  My nostrils flare and I crack my neck and I’m ready to murder someone when the bell sounds and I give her one last glance. She’s looking right at me. Holding her head high. Acting like her face isn’t all fucked up, and she has every right to come here and provoke me like this.

  Because she knows.

  She knows I’m going to slay the motherfucker who did that to her. Even if I have to cuff her to my bloody bed and torture the name out of her myself.

  I can’t handle this shite.

  I can’t handle seeing her fucked up like this all the time. The things she does to herself. The way she puts herself at risk.

  Fucking Christ.

  I need somewhere to channel this rage.

  The Italian clatters me in the jaw when I’m not paying attention, and it feels like a hit from back in my schoolyard brawls.

  Doesn’t matter though.

  I come at him like a freight train. Loaf him three times in the head and he goes down. He’s not even fighting back when I get down on the floor and continue to pummel him in his face.

  It isn’t until Lachlan and Ronan are pulling me off him that I realize he’s knocked the fuck out. And it’s not enough. There’s still too much adrenaline flooding my veins. Fucking up my head.

  And all I can see is Scarlett’s face.

  So, when Crow doesn’t take his hands off me, I turn around and clock him too. And pretty soon, we’re both going at each other before some of the other lads join in.

  It takes four of them to pin me down and talk some sense into me.

  It’s Conor, surprisingly enough, that I listen to. He seems to understand what the others don’t.

  “She’s going to leave if you keep acting the maggot,” he tells me. “And then what?”

  He’s right. And I know he’s right. He helps me to my feet, and Crow wipes the blood from his lip, his eyes darting to Scarlett in the crowd and back to me.

  Crow is the boss of the syndicate now. My boss. And I just had a go at him that I had no right to have.

  But he understands better than anyone. The trouble with women. It wasn’t so long ago that his own woman almost got him killed.

  So instead of telling me to feck off and he’ll take a few fingers for that offense, which I rightfully deserve, he gives me a nod. To go to her.

  Conor tosses me a rag and I wipe the blood from my face before I push my way through the crowd. But the place where Scarlett stood only moments before is now empty. And after a few minutes of scanning the building, I realize she’s no longer in it at all.

  It’s always this way with her. These games of cat and fecking mouse. She loves it. Toying with people. Toying with me, specifically.

  But I’m in no mood for it tonight. Or anymore for that matter.

  I drive to her apartment first. But the light inside isn’t on and she isn’t home. I’d let myself in, if I believed she was here, or would be back anytime soon, but I know that isn’t likely.

  Whatever the reason she came to the fight tonight, she put it out of her mind just as quickly. The woman is as elusive as ever.

  After scoping out her usual stomping grounds and checking in with Mack who hasn’t seen her, I drive to my place.

  I’m only planning to grab a shower and a change before I go back to her place, but when I let myself into the house, there’s no need.

  Her perfume still lingers in the entryway, and her shadowed profile sits atop the window seat. Her knees are hugged into her chest, her bare feet crossed at the ankles as she stares up at the moon.

  “How did ye even know where I live?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she gets up and moves across the floor in my direction, quiet and predatory.

  “Scarlett?”

  She comes too close. Her hands moving up over the expanse of my chest before her fingertips are on my neck.

  I know what needs to be done. Logically. But right now, with her hands on me, my cock is doing all the thinking.

  So, when she leans up on her toes and pulls my head down to hers, I give in. There's honey on her lips, but destruction in her kiss. And in the darkness, it’s easy to forget why she’s even here, or if it matters, as I yank her body against mine and grab her ass.

  But when the slightest of whimpers escapes her, it comes back to me quickly.

  I pull away and she follows.

  “Scarlett,” I warn her. “Don’t come any fucking closer.”

  “Fuck me,” she begs.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I walk to the wall and turn on the lights, and whatever fleeting thought I had of doing just that vanishes when I see her face up close. She’s moving towards me again, like the hunter she is, only limping and in pain. She’s playing it off like it’s nothing. But it isn’t nothing, and it’s a whole lot of something and I’m fed up with seeing her hurt.

  “Rory,” she whispers. “I need you.”

  Her voice is soft and sweet, but her eyes tell me the demon in her wants to come out and play. She reaches up to take control again, but I put the kibosh on it by pinning her up against the wall with my body. I’m covered in sweat and blood and dirt, and she doesn’t give a fuck. Her lips move to my neck and she doesn’t just kiss me, she tastes me.

  And fuck me, she’s pure evil.

  “I want you,” she tells me again. “I want you so fucking bad.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  I grab her face between my fingers, careful not to hurt her as I examine the damage. I close my eyes and take a breath. Trying to calm myself before I speak.

  “Name.”

  She doesn’t answer, and my fingers dig into the flesh of her arm.

  “Give me a name, Scarlett.”

  “For what?” she teases. Like this is all some big fucking joke. “So you can go and defend my honor?”

  “Aye,” I answer. “So I can go and defend your goddamned honor.”

  “Rory,” she sighs.

  “Scarlett.”

  We’re at an impasse. Our eyes locked together. There’s a tiny flicker of emotion in hers. Guilt maybe. Regret. I don’t know.

  But she came to me. She came to me for a reason. She brought herself to that warehouse knowing exactly what I would do.

  In the past, this is where I’ve always lost her. She’d run, just as soon as things started to get too hard. When she started to feel vulnerable.

  I let it slide then.

  Because I didn’t know her. I had no right to tell her how to live her life, even though I wanted to. When I found out she was trick rolling clients instead of fucking them, there was a part of me that was relieved. Because I wanted her for myself. No doubt about that. But there was another part of me- the one I’ve always been a slave to- that wanted to save her.

  When it comes to women and children, I have a weakness.

  I can’t fucking stand to see them suffering. And knowing Scarlett was doing this to herself triggered every caveman instinct inside of me.

  The thing I discovered about Scarlett though, is that she doesn’t take orders from anyone. In her ship and in her life, she’s the fucking captain. No bones about that. She doesn’t accept help, and she doesn’t show weakness. And the minute a man tries to tell her what to do, even with the best of intentions, she will tell him to fuck right off.

  Needless to say, we’ve been butting heads ever since.

  But there’s a limit for everything. And seeing her bruised face and her bloodied lip, my mind is made up. I’m done playing this game with her. And I’m about to let her know it too.

  I force her gaze to mine. Scarlett doesn’t like to look people in the eyes. I have a notion that she’s afraid of what she thinks they’ll find there. She always keeps herself locked up so tight
.

  But I’ve just made it my mission to know all of her. So she better get used to being uncomfortable.

  “A name,” I repeat.

  She smiles up at me in challenge.

  “Why did ye do it?” I ask. “Why did ye come there? You had to know what ye were doing. You had to know ye were going to push me past my limit, sweetheart. There’s only so much a man can take.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” she asks. “Hold me hostage again?”

  “Aye,” I answer her.

  She laughs, until she realizes I’m not fucking joking. Then she tries to bolt for the door. I catch her around the waist and lock my arms around her. That’s when she moves for her knife again.

  Scarlett’s wild like an animal. When she feels threatened, she will fuck up whatever is standing in her way.

  I learned that lesson the hard way.

  I grab hold of her wrist, and she tries with her other, which I grab hold of too. They are small in my hands. Too fragile. I don’t know how a girl so fragile has survived for so long on the road she’s chosen for herself.

  “I wasn’t going to stab you again,” she lies. “Let me go.”

  “No.”

  A tiny flicker of panic moves through her features, but she’s still playing it cool. Scarlett doesn’t like to be restrained. But like I said before, I’m done coddling her. She’s going to get used to me. And she’s going to learn to trust me.

  I lean in with my body, pressing hers into the wall. Her wrists are pinned between us. Her eyes wide when she looks up at me and my face dips down to hers.

  Before tonight, I’ve never had the pleasure of tasting her lips.

  She’s never let me get that close.

  But right now, as vulnerable and skittish as she is, I have a notion it’s not going to be the only time.

  Her eyes plunge to my chest, and I laugh. It pisses her off.

  “Kiss me again,” I tell her.

  She opens her mouth, prepared with something hostile. But I don’t let her get that far. My mouth crashes onto hers and I groan because fuck… she tastes so good.

  I think she’s going to push me away. Or maybe loaf me in the head. But instead, her jaw relaxes, and she gives in. A dangerous thing when my self-control is currently hanging by a thread.