SAINT (Boston Underworld Book 4)

by A. Zavarelli

  The address on file is Park Avenue.

  When I walk inside the building, it’s a far cry from where Scarlett lives now.

  A doorman greets me and asks who I’m there for.

  I give him the names of Scarlett’s parents, and he promptly tells me I’m not on the list. When I mention I’d like to speak to them about their daughter, his polite disposition withers.

  He makes a phone call and then ushers me to the elevator without another word.

  When it opens, I’m greeted by another woman in a maid’s uniform, who ushers me into a foyer.

  “You have something you’d like to say about my daughter?”

  I blink, and like an apparition, a waif of a woman appears. She is nothing like Scarlett. Her face is severe, and she is cold. Too tall and too thin and I’ve left a bitter taste in her mouth already.

  She appraises me, in my jeans and faded tee shirt, like a bag of trash was just dropped at her doorstep. And in her hand is a checkbook.

  This isn’t right.

  None of this is right.

  Scarlett in this place. Touching any of these things. Wearing these clothes. Talking to this woman who is nothing like my mammy.

  “Well?” she says.

  “Can we start over?” I ask. “My name’s Rory Brodick, Mrs. Albright.”

  “I don’t care who you are,” she snaps. “What do you want to say about my daughter?”

  I give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s a mother who has lost her daughter. I can only imagine what these last twelve years must have been like for her, wondering and waiting for her to come home. I need to believe that this is what turned her so bitter.

  “Actually,” I say, “I was hoping that ye might be able to tell me some things about your daughter. I’d like to help.”

  She shakes her head.

  “You aren’t a reporter,” she says. “Or a New Yorker, for that matter. Where are you from?”

  “I live in Boston.”

  She sighs and gives me a resigned nod.

  “I figured as much.”

  She places the checkbook down on the table and scrawls in a dramatic fashion before she pauses to look up at me.

  “How much?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “How much is it going to cost to keep you quiet?” she demands.

  “I only want to help,” I tell her. “I’m just looking for some answers.”

  “I have none to give you,” she says. “And if you keep poking around in this, you won’t get a cent from me.”

  “Do ye not have any desire to know what happened to your daughter?” I ask.

  “I know what happened to my daughter,” she says. “She had social deficits from the very beginning. She didn’t want to listen. She was too wrapped up in herself to care about what was important. And now she’s ruined this family, living like trash the way that she is.”

  “You must be bloody joking me,” I snarl back at her. “You knew she was alive?”

  “Of course I know.” A dry sound puffs from her mouth.

  “But the case…”

  “The media doesn’t need to know about this,” Mrs. Albright states with finality. “They’re better off thinking she’s dead. And so are we, for that matter. So tell me how much it’s going to cost for you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  She scoffs again, and the woman is the worst of humanity. I see that now. The mothers who breed their pedigree children and parade them around like show ponies.

  Scarlett deserved better than that.

  She deserved better than a mammy like her.

  “The only thing I’ve ever wanted was for your daughter to be happy,” I tell her. “But I see why she left this place. Why she left you.”

  “You know nothing,” Mrs. Albright snarls.

  “I know that if ye were any sort of a mother, you’d have moved heaven and earth to find her. To avenge her. But don’t ye concern yourself with it now. She’s got a new family. One who actually looks after her.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Scarlett

  Time to dust off my broom. The bitch is back.

  Whiskey has made himself right at home in Rory’s place.

  I’m still waiting for him to ask where the cat came from or why he’s here, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask anything, and he doesn’t tell the cat to get out of the bed or off his clothes, and on more than one occasion I’ve caught Rory petting him. Things have started to appear. Cat things. Toys and bowls and food. A litter box, even.

  I didn’t buy them, so that leaves only one possible culprit.

  There are things for me too. Small things. With more accumulating each day. A toothbrush. A hairbrush. A blow dryer.

  They appear out of nowhere when I’m not looking.

  Rory doesn’t ask why I’ve spent the last week here.

  That makes it easy, and it’s better this way. He’s happy and I’m not out wreaking havoc and I think the thing he loves most is having me in his bed at night. Waiting for him. Rory is a creature of habit. He comes in late at night, showers, and slips into bed behind me.

  There’s always a few whispered words between us, and then he’s inside of me. On top of me.

  The way he likes it.

  Tonight, as we’re lying in the darkness and he’s on the verge of drifting off to sleep, I wonder how long this can go on for.

  I can’t go back to my apartment.

  Alexander is out for blood and I can’t be lounging around Rory’s all day and getting soft.

  I need to find him first.

  I need to end this.

  “You haven’t been back to your apartment.”

  Rory’s voice startles me.

  He always falls asleep after he fucks me.

  Tonight, though, Whiskey is on his chest, purring up a storm. I’m a little miffed that the cat has taken a liking to him so quickly. I had to earn that shit. But Rory? He was in with bro code and a single pat on the head.

  Typical fucking men.

  “Would you rather I were home in my own bed then?” I ask.

  He plops Whiskey between us and tangles his legs with mine, reaching over to touch my face.

  “I’d rather you were in my bed every night,” he says. “If we’re being honest.”

  “Well if we’re being honest, I like it here. So maybe I’ll keep crashing for a few days. I think I’m going to need a new apartment, anyhow.”

  “I know ye haven’t had an easy life, Scarlett,” Rory says. “And I know that ye have your reasons not to trust anyone. But there’s something I want to say.”

  I fall into his neck and breathe him in, relaxing into his body. There are moments like this, when his strength is so tangible to me, so potent, nothing else can touch me. I’ve never leaned on anyone this way. It’s easy to get lost in these moments. To forget why I was so hell bent on destroying my only real ally.

  Rory is strong, both mentally and physically. But he has one fatal flaw.

  And that’s caring for me.

  “I told ye once before that I didn’t want to play games with you,” he says. “That I was done with it. With you. I was wrong, Scarlett. Because if there’s one thing I need ye to know, it’s this. I’m not ever going to give up on you. I’m not ever going to be like the people who walked out of your life and hurt you. I’m in your corner, always. And I will go to battle for ye every single day for the rest of my life, so long as I have you by my side.”

  I don’t know where any of this is coming from. But it makes me paranoid. Something has changed, and I need to know what it is.

  “I’m going for broke here,” he says. “I’m just going to lay it out for you, baby doll. I want to do everything with you, Scarlett. I want to fuck shit up. I want to get ye in a family way. I want my last name to be your last name. And I’m willing to fight for those things. For as long as it takes. So you can push me away, but I’m not going anywhere. And I need ye to know that.”

  Chr
ist.

  This is it. This is how I’m going to die.

  I’m having a heart attack. I can’t breathe and I’m dizzy and all I can focus on are the words he just seared into my brain. Babies and marriage and things that will never happen.

  I sit up and clutch my chest.

  “I told you to stay away from me,” I yell at him. “You should have listened. I can’t give you those things, Rory.”

  He’s quiet, but his hand reaches out for mine. Our fingers tangle together and that line inside of me is going berserk.

  I don’t know how this happened.

  I was supposed to be the one to fuck him up.

  But he’s got me all fucked up instead.

  I’ll never admit it.

  I’ll never admit that he’s done this to me.

  And I need something to grasp onto. Something to make me feel like my old self.

  “You got my files,” I accuse him. “Didn’t you?”

  Dead silence.

  His fingers stiffen around mine, and I have my answer.

  “I had no choice,” he says. “I needed to know what I was dealing with. I need to protect you.”

  “Did you like what you found?” I ask. “Do you feel vindicated now? Because I’m just so goddamn helpless?”

  “I saw your mother,” he blurts.

  That’s it. There goes the flat line. Back to where it belongs.

  “Fuck. I don’t know why I did it, Scarlett. I only want to take care of you.”

  The mental image of him and my mother together in one room, speaking about me… it’s too much.

  “Fuck you.” I lunge from the bed and grab for my clothes.

  He comes after me, and I yank out my knife and aim straight for his heart.

  “Come any closer, and I won’t miss this time.”

  “Scarlett.”

  He is sad and broken and all the things I knew he would be. But he did this to himself, and I’m out of generosity as far as Rory is concerned. As far as anyone is concerned.

  “You should have stayed away,” I tell him again.

  “Don’t leave.”

  “I told you,” I say. “I fucking warned you. And now, you better watch your back, Rory.”

  Thirty

  Scarlett

  The fault is not in our stars, but our hearts- those immortal instruments which beat on in spite of our most valiant efforts to destroy them.

  I don’t know why I’m here.

  Nothing has changed.

  My mother is shopping and day drinking, the same as she does every Wednesday afternoon. I watch her through the window, perfectly coiffed and utterly miserable.

  She alone could keep Botox in business.

  Because she doesn’t want to give away anything real or true.

  She’s always been this way. She was born miserable, and she will die miserable.

  But she will take that secret to her grave.

  All that matters is how her life looks on the outside.

  People don’t care that there’s a feud between the employees in the back when there are glamorous objects up in the store window. My mother keeps her storefront stocked with glamorous things.

  Pretty words and practiced topics of conversation. Conservative but fashionable clothing and a face that is immune to time and gravity.

  She fell in line like she was supposed to. The way an Albright was supposed to. She married into old money, and she had a baby, like she was supposed to. That was when things went terribly wrong for her.

  I never could fall in line, the way that I was supposed to.

  I had so much privilege it was nauseating. I had been blessed with everything. There was one critical problem with the whole situation. I couldn’t play the role I had been cast in. I gave it a fair effort, but I wasn’t her. She could never understand that.

  She fought for what she had her whole life. She fought tooth and nail for it.

  She never knew any other way.

  And all I ever did was disappoint her.

  I watch her drink her thousand-dollar champagne through the window, and for the first time in my life, I feel truly sorry.

  I feel sorry for her.

  My mother will never know the simple pleasure of telling someone to fuck off. Of doing something because she wants to, and not because it’s expected of her.

  She’s never going to know freedom in its purest form, with the chains she’s so carefully bound herself in.

  This world is hers, and I don’t belong here anymore.

  I never did.

  But I know it now more than ever. The path I set out for myself is the only one I could have followed.

  And I have nothing to say to her.

  I have nothing to say to anyone here. Except for the last three names on my list.

  The last three names before I am truly free from this life.

  The train feels old hat though I never actually took public transportation in New York. Albrights got around in town cars.

  The first time I ever took a train was the night that I left. I didn’t know where I wanted to go. I just checked the board and picked the next scheduled train.

  That was how I ended up in Boston.

  Since then, I’ve taken this route back and forth several times. None so somber as the first.

  Now it feels more like an adventure.

  I like to look at the people and make up stories about them in my head. I steer clear of businessmen and look for the standouts in the crowd. The ones with the colorful clothing or the weird ticks. The guy reading a self-help book about winning over friends.

  There’s one in every crowd.

  But things are different today. Or maybe I am.

  My eyes settle in on a man two rows down and across from me, reading the paper.

  There isn’t anything in particular that draws my attention to him. Just a feeling, like maybe we’ve met before.

  He isn’t a former client though, and he’s definitely not a New Yorker.

  He’s older than I am. Early thirties, I’d guess. Handsome in a rugged way. Military through and through. He checks his surroundings often, and he looks at everyone but me.

  I’m a details girl.

  Always have been.

  I notice the things that others tend to miss because they are so wrapped up in themselves.

  Like the way his trousers rise up just above the ankles when he sits, and how one of his ankles is smaller than the other.

  Not smaller, but synthetic.

  I recognize the joint of the prosthetic since there’s a girl on the street- Kesha- who wears one as well. Oddly enough, there’s a whole fetish for that sort of thing, and the girl makes bank. She likes to say the best thing she ever did was lose her leg.

  But this guy, I’d venture a guess, lost his in a war zone.

  His hand is scarred too, but because he’s wearing a jacket, the full extent of the damage is a mystery.

  It makes me think of Storm.

  I haven’t seen her around in a while. But now that I’m back in the game, that’s likely to change real soon.

  I forget all about the man with the prosthetic as I get off at Back Bay Station. I only have one target on my mind now, and his name is Quinn.

  He has a meeting today, and he has no idea that I’ve got the memo too.

  The lounge is swanky, crammed with the usual suspects.

  A few gold-diggers eye off the competition when I take a seat and turn up their noses. I don’t have the token Birken bag or Louboutin heels, so that must mean I’m gutter trash.

  I cross my legs and swivel towards the bar. The thing they don’t know is that I could have a Birken bag if I really wanted one. Or a hundred pairs of Louboutins if I wanted them too.

  I have a trust fund that would make their soon-to-be husbands bank rolls look like chump change.

  When my mother found out where I was, she speedily and quietly transferred all the money over to me.

  I don’t have any misgivings about spending
it. The money was never hers to begin with, but rather my grandfathers.

  And he had whispered in my ear once, on his death bed, that I should live while the getting was good. That I should spend my money how I saw fit and enjoy my life and celebrate every day I was given.

  He wanted me to have that money.

  And my mother was at peace knowing it meant she wouldn’t have to see me again.

  So I took it. But I certainly don’t flash it around.

  I do what my grandfather suggested. Now and then, I indulge in something I really want. Ice cream, shoes, La Perla underwear.

  Today, it was this black dress I’m wearing.

  When Quinn enters the bar, he won’t miss it.

  And when the bartender comes around, I order a dirty martini.

  Quinn won’t miss that either.

  I take small sips and play on my phone, checking the bar every few minutes to make sure I haven’t missed him.

  It isn’t Quinn who sits down next to me. But rather, the man from the train. The one with the prosthetic leg.

  This is no coincidence.

  And yet he’s quiet.

  So am I.

  One of us will need to speak first, but it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.

  He removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair, and from the corner of my eye, I get a small glimpse of the tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt sleeve.

  A bone frog.

  He waits until he orders his drink- a good old fashioned draft beer- to turn his attention towards me.

  It’s a calculated move on his part, trying to unsettle me with the long silence. It’s working too, at least a little, but I don’t show it.

  “Can I buy you another drink?” he asks.

  And now he’s beating a dead horse.

  “Sorry, pal.” I flash a smile. “I think you better go elsewhere if you’re in the market for a frog hog. This isn’t really the establishment.”

  He smiles back, and there’s humor in his eyes.

  “What gave me away?”

  “If it walks like a SEAL and talks like a SEAL, then it’s probably a fucking SEAL.”

  “Not anymore,” he says.

  “I figured as much,” I tell him. “With the bum leg and all.”