This neighborhood still runs like an oiled machine, and that’s thanks to us.
The family.
The Dark Saints.
Movies glamorize this shit, but then, that’s the point of a movie. It’s entertainment, not real life. In real life though, the Irish gangland shit you see in movies is quite real, and trust me…
It’s not glamorous.
But the Saints are the glue that holds this place together. It’s a dirty life, and there’re certainly more than a few skeletons in the closets, but the Saints are the reason this neighborhood exists.
It’s also all I’ve ever known.
And that knowledge goes way back, to when Aela’s dad took me and my brothers under his wing. And he didn’t have to do that, either. Sure, Dad had worked for him, but our old man had pissed off long before. When Mom took off too, back when I was ten, Connor was thirteen, and Gray was eight, we should have just gone to the State.
To “the system.”
But here in Southie, we’ve got our own systems. The Saints see to that. Jack Reilly put us with the Gallagher family down the street, not a boys’ home, because Saints take care of their own. And after that?
Well, after that, we were in it.
After that, it was being errand boys, and lookouts. A little later on, you steal some cars, beat up on a few guys who’re late on payments, and suddenly you’re in the life. And it’s been a good one.
Well, aside from losing her.
Lungs burn, blood roars, and the neighborhood blurs as my feet keep moving.
Shit, do I need a drink.
“So how’d that go?”
Connor, my older brother, shoves a Guinness in front of me as soon as I sit down.
“Oh, you know, fucking fantastic.”
He smiles that thin, grim smile of his.
Connor’s a man of few words, which is the polar opposite of me, who can’t shut the fuck up to save his life. But few words are a good thing in Con’s line of work. He’s a fixer for the Saints.
He makes “problems” go away.
Not being a big talker is a selling point when you’re looking for a guy to dispose of your bodies and clean up your evidence.
“You know what I mean. How was seeing her?”
I take a deep pull of my stout. “Fine.”
“Just fine.”
“Yeah, just fine, Con.”
It’s in Connor’s nature to protect, I guess. For one, because he’s the big brother, but also ‘cause he’s still beating himself up about Gray being in jail.
We both are.
“Bet she was real happy to see you.”
“She pulled a knife on me.”
Connor laughs.
“Fuck you.”
He grins. “You going to be able to handle this?”
“Yes.”
“Liam.”
“It won’t be a problem.”
“You know Mick would kill you if he knew what happened before, right?”
I arch my brows as I take another sip. “Yeah, I got that.”
“You know he’d kill you if you touch her this time, yeah?”
“Yeah, I got that too.”
“Actually, is there a situation here where Mick doesn’t try and kill you?”
“As always, your support is very appreciated, Con.”
He shakes his head as he drinks from his own pint. “I’m only half kidding. You know you shouldn’t have taken this fucking job.”
“And you know I didn’t have a choice.”
“That what you’re telling yourself?”
I don’t say a thing as I look forward, finger tapping the side of my glass.
“Aela being back here doesn’t make you eighteen again, buddy. It doesn’t erase the way things ended with you two.”
“You know why things ended that way.”
“Does she?”
I’m silent again as I look into my beer.
“Her being back here is fuckin’ dangerous, Liam.”
“Spare me the sermon, Con. You sound like Mic—”
“I mean fucking dangerous for you.”
Chapter 6
Liam
Fourteen Years Ago
“Do you want one?”
I’m ten, and my nose is bleeding from where Jimmy Mullins just popped me on the playground for, well, whatever reasons ten-year-olds hit each other. Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t cry.
You don’t ever cry, not here. That’s something I’ve learned young.
Don’t cry.
I clench my jaw tight as I pinch my nose, stopping the flow. But then I focus on the voice, and something happens.
It’s like feeling happy. It’s like Christmas, and summer vacation, and getting a hotdog at Fenway Park all mixed into one.
Except it’s a girl. She’s holding a tissue out to me.
“Thanks.”
I take it, bringing it to my nose and wincing again as I use it to stop the flow.
“You’re welcome.”
Freckles. The first thing I notice is the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. That and the red hair she’s got tied up in a white bow.
“You look pretty.”
I say it ‘cause Connor’s been telling me that’s what girls want to hear. Again, I’m ten — I’m not interested in girls, not like my older brother is I guess. But it’s the first thing that comes to mind.
She beams. “Thank you!”
I guess Con was right.
“Aela!” a voice calls, and we both look up.
My eyes go wide.
“Oh, my dad’s here.”
“That’s your dad?”
She turns back and smiles curiously. “You know my dad?”
Anyone else, and I’d assume they were trying to be funny. But from her, I can tell it’s earnest.
Because of course I know Jack Reilly. I doubt there’s a single person in Southie who doesn’t know him, actually. But to me, it’s more than just reputation as neighborhood leader and president of the Dark Saints. Because six months ago, Jack Reilly pulled me and my brothers out of foster holding and put us with the Gallagher family instead of letting us rot in the system.
I’m a Southie street kid with two brothers and no parents, and Jack Reilly is my damn savior.
She’s still looking at me curiously as I swallow. “Yeah, he—”
“Aela!”
She glances back. “I gotta go.”
“Okay.”
I look up at her dad, and wave.
I immediately feel like an asshole.
Yeah, I know who he is.
And I know people call him a gangster, but he’s not a bad guy, like in the movies. Bad guys don’t save kids from the foster system. They don’t feed the whole neighborhood food on Christmas. They don’t do more than the cops ever did to keep violence and drugs away from our front doors.
But he gives a wave back, nodding at me.
“Oh! What’s your name?”
I look back at her, startled, with that same strange, warm, glowing feeling bubbling through me.
“Liam.”
She smiles, and damn if I don’t do the same.
“Bye Liam. I hope your nose feels better.”
Present Day
I feel the bone crunch under my fist.
This guy’s nose is not gonna feel better. Not for a while, at least, and probably not until a doctor fixes the septum I just deviated. He squeals, blood pouring down his face as I shake the punch out of my fist and sigh heavily.
“You know why I’m here, Stephano.”
“I told you, I—”
My fist crashes into his lip, splitting it as he cries out and falls backwards into the shelves of his pet food shop storeroom.
“Stephano, you know I hate wasting time, right?”
“Liam, let me just—”
“Why are you wasting my time?”
I don’t own a pet, but even if I did, that’s not the reason I’d be in “Furry Feasts”
today. I’m here because Stephano still owes fifty grand on his loan from Mick. That’s something else that changed when Jack died and Mick took over. I mean, yeah, Jack Reilly did loans, but for people who needed them, and he did it fairly.
Mick’s just a shark.
Just the same, I don’t feel bad at all for Stephano Dimopoulos. Because besides being late on his payment, Stephano seems to have developed a habit of beating up strippers.
That’s a problem.
For Mick, it’s a problem because strippers with black eyes have a much narrower appeal. For me, it’s a problem because laying a finger on women is a hard no-fucking-way in my book. But whatever the reasons, as it shakes out, I get to beat the shit out of him for laying a hand on Nicole, a girl from the hood we grew up with who happens to dance at the Ruby Slipper.
She happens to be a friend, too.
I narrow my eyes as I wind back and sink my fist into his gut, doubling him over.
“Okay! Shit!” He wheezes, panting. “Hold up! I got this week’s due in the register.”
“That’s not all I’m here for.”
“What then?”
I punch him again, knocking him back into the shelf and sending kibbles and bits across the floor.
“Your pop tell you it was okay to hit girls?”
“What?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Stephano.”
“No I don’t! No, I swear I—”
“Wrong answer.”
I get him with a right hook to the face, knocking him to the ground before I kick him sharply in the ribs.
He squeals.
“Okay! Okay!”
The tubby Greek starts to cry, and I roll my eyes. “Jesus, Stephano.”
“I’m sorry!” He sobs, blubbering at my feet. “Okay? I’m sorry!”
“You’re sorry?”
I haul him up.
“She’s got a kid, you know.”
“She’s a whor—”
My fist gets him right in his broken nose, and he screams bloody murder.
“She’s a stripper, Stephano. There’s a difference. And when you fuck up her face, she doesn’t get paid, which means her kid doesn’t eat.”
Stephano’s blubbery form is whimpering on the floor, cowering from me as his tear-streaked eyes meet mine. I raise a fist, and he flinches.
I smile.
Yeah, he gets it.
“Okay,” he chokes out. “There’s an extra grand in the register.”
“An extra what now?”
“An extra two grand.”
I let go of his collar as I stand upright. “See? I knew we could come to an understanding, Stephano.” I sigh. “Aren’t you glad we had this little chat?”
He nods pathetically.
“Get some ice on that.”
I already know where Stephano keeps the key to his cash register, but then, just taking the money doesn’t send a message. Showing him what happens when he crosses the Saints — and more importantly to me at least, when he hurts someone close to us — does.
I pocket the due on the $50,000 for Mick and slip the extra two-thousand for Nicole into my back pocket before I waltz out the door to the shop.
Before, she was the only thing keeping me glued to anything resembling control. Aela was the only thing keeping the demon that roared up inside me at bay.
She was the beauty to my beast. My Belle.
But when she went away, she took the restraint with her. She took the reason for taking deep breaths, and staying calm and cool with her too. And when she left, I turned to the only other thing I was ever good at.
Hurting people.
I just broke a guy’s nose in two places, cracked some ribs, definitely chipped his tooth, and probably made him piss himself before I took every dime from his register.
And this is just an average day for me now.
So really, it’s probably a good thing she never came back here.
Chapter 7
Aela
Six years ago
“When?”
“Two days.”
I’m crying, and he won’t touch me. He’s cold, distant — his face grim, and he’s been like this for days.
Cold is the last thing I need right now, three hours after we get back from burying my sister.
“Good.”
I jerk my eyes up to him, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Good?”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah, good.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“If I do?”
“You think it’s good that I’m leaving? That they’re separating us?”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
“To which?”
His eyes turn steely. “That you’re leaving.” He shakes his head. “Both. I don’t know.”
The sob rips from my throat as the tears burn hot down my face. “You’re not saying this. It’s Switzerland, Liam. You think you’re going to come visit me? Think we’ll just be hanging out on weekends back here?” I laugh mirthlessly, and he looks away.
I want him to touch me.
To hold me.
To kiss me.
To tell me this isn’t the end.
I want him to tell me that he’s going to fight for us, because we matter.
“Say something!” I scream.
“There’s nothing to say, Aela.”
“There are a hundred things to say!”
“None that matter.”
I shake my head. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you should leave,” he growls, grabbing me. But it’s not the touch I’ve been craving. It’s hard and it’s desperate, but it’s not the warmth I need.
“The Albanians are all over Southie, the Feds are crawling up our asses, Gray’s in jail. Jesus, Aela, Sheila’s dead!”
I sob, the sound brittle and broken.
I know all these things, but I want him to make them go away. I want him to save me like he always does.
“Just tell me it’s going to be okay,” I plead, the tears blurring my vision. “Please, just tell me you can make this go away.”
“I can’t do that,” he says, his voice leaden. “Not anymore.”
“Liam—”
“You need to go, Aela.”
“I—”
“You need to get the fuck away from me and get the hell out of Southie.”
And then he’s gone.
And then my heart breaks.
Present
“Wow, when you come back to town, you don’t fuck around do you?”
I smile at Nora as she opens the door and grins at me.
“Aela!” She grabs me, pulling me into her arms and hugging me close.
Okay, this is the kind of homecoming I can appreciate. Someone who’s genuinely glad to see me, and not because I’m playing a part in this bullshit of Mick’s. Nora Gallagher and her brother Damian are friends from way back — the same Gallaghers that Liam and his brothers grew up with after my dad made sure they didn’t go into the foster system.
Word travels fast in Southie. So does my new cell-phone number, apparently, because it took all of eight hours for Nora to call me and demand that we get together to catch up.
Standing there in the doorway to her loft, she pulls back and beams at me as she shakes her head. “Aela Reilly, back in Southie.” She whistles lowly. “Holy shit, is the neighborhood even ready for that?”
I grin as she grabs my arm and yanks me inside. “Come in!”
We walk through her big industrial loft apartment to the kitchen area.
“You’re still painting!”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, yeah. Well, sort of.”
My jaw drops as I look around the big artist space at the huge, vibrantly colorful works hanging next to charcoal sketches and dour black-washed canvases that contrast sharply to the color-splashed ones.
“These are really good, dude.”
“Do you run an art gallery?”
I glance up to see Nora grinning, a
nd I give her warm look. “Not yet, sorry.”
“Let me know when you do.”
I grin.
“So how the hell have you been? Are you still with, uh—”
“Stop. Don’t.” She rolls her eyes.
“What?”
“Aela, you’ve been gone six years. Whoever you’re trying to remember, believe me I’ve forgotten him too. But I’m giving you an A for effort on the small-talk.”
I smile as I look down. “I haven’t been gone for six years. I came back to visit.”
“For your dad’s service, I remember,” she says quietly. “But for like, what, one day?”
“Three hours.”
She gives me a look as she turns and grabs a bottle of whiskey and some glasses from a shelf.
“A proper Southie toast.” She pours us each a glass. “I hope you weren’t expecting Champagne or whatever fancy shit they drink in Switzerland,” she says with a grin.
“Nope. And I live in California now. Well, I did.”
“Well, wherever the heck you disappeared to, cheers to you coming back. Sláinte.”
“Sláinte.”
We clink glasses and sip the whiskey, and I smile at my old friend over the lip of mine.
I didn’t vanish entirely from this place over the years. I mean, physically, yes, and for the most part, yeah, I disappeared. But though Nora and I did play catch up here and there over the years, it’s been too long.
But she’s that friend where you can drift apart, then come right back together again, and it’s like no time has passed. I haven’t spoken to her in at least a year, and yet here we are, lapsing right back into it so easily.
This is the part of Southie I actually missed, I guess.
“So, Tommy Flaherty.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say absently, looking at my glass. “Yeah, he’s—”
“A douchebag?”
I snort. “No, no, he’s—”
“Aela.”
I look up, my lip twisting in my teeth.
“Do me a favor and cut the bullshit with me, okay?”
I start to protest again, but she shakes her head.
“Dude, I know the deal. Damian’s a lieutenant now, and Mick’s not exactly good with secrets.” She raises a brow at me. “You’re not either, by the way.”
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