Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

I just wish Rory would figure that out.

  “I have to go,” I tell him.

  He follows me out the door and stops me.

  “Why do ye always have to do this?”

  “Do what?” I snap.

  “Ye’re always trying to pick a fight with me just when something good happens.”

  “Nothing good has happened,” I argue. “Since you’ve come into my life, everything is fucked up. It’s all wrong.”

  “Fine, Scarlett,” he sighs and turns away from me. “That’s just fine. Go on and run along then. Do whatever it is ye need to do to convince yourself that this is wrong.”

  “I will.”

  I turn to go, but he grabs me by the arm. And I know he means what he says this time.

  “And next time ye want to come and play with me?” he says. “Don’t.”

  He slams the door in my face and leaves me standing out there on the street.

  Alone.

  And as it turns out, I’m not broken and some things do change.

  I feel.

  I feel like hell.

  Whiskey is in his own special sort of mood today, following me down the hall and meowing incessantly.

  “I don’t have time for your shit too,” I tell him. “It’s bad enough that I’ve caught feelings for one asshole. I don’t need you on that list as well.”

  He doesn’t care, apparently, because he’s a fucking cat, and so the keening continues.

  I give in and pet him before telling him to bugger off. Still, he persists. All the way to my door, berating me in cat speak. I’m not fluent myself, but even I know when he’s pissy about something.

  I tell him to join the club before I open the door to my apartment and gesture him inside, but he won’t go.

  “Fine, suit yourself,” I say. “All you men are the same.”

  And then I shut the door behind me.

  Only to have my head slammed into the wall.

  21

  RORY

  I FIND MYSELF AT SLAINTE, the way most of the single lads do in their down time.

  The whiskey is flowing, and the girls put on a good show up on stage, and everything’s the same as it always is.

  Only I’m restless as fuck.

  “Got anything for me, boss?” I ask Crow.

  “Nah, mate,” he answers. “Why don’t ye take the night off.”

  I’d much rather be bloodying up my knuckles to take the edge off, but I don’t say so. Niall was quick to warn Crow I could be hot headed, and I don’t need him second guessing me now.

  Least of all over a woman.

  My eyes land on Conor and something else occurs to me.

  “Come with me, lad,” I tell him. “I need your help.”

  “Can’t, mate,” he says.

  “Since fucking when?” I bark.

  He nods across the bar and there’s the same blonde he had eyes for at the fight. Ivy. The one I brought home to torment and test him.

  I like the lad, and he deserves to get his kicks too, every now and again.

  He hasn’t been with a woman since his last girl went and overdosed on him. So even though I’m in a cunt of a mood, I’ve no intentions of ruining his night as well.

  “Go on then,” I tell him. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “Catchya later,” he says.

  And then it’s just me, and Crow, who’s giving me the side eye again.

  “Thought I gave ye the night off.”

  “I need to speak with that Russian fella. Alexei. Can ye give me his number?”

  “I could,” Crow says. “But he’s out of the country. So whatever business ye have with him will have to wait.”

  I half suspect he’s bullshitting me, because he knows this is about Scarlett. But before I say anything I might regret, I grab a bottle of Jameson from the bar and head towards the VIP lounge.

  “I gave you the night off,” Crow calls after me again.

  “Ye did,” I answer back. “And I’ve every intention of enjoying it.”

  22

  SCARLETT

  COWARDS DIE many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once- Shakespeare

  My head throbs.

  Broken brain cells flutter around like confetti as I shift from side to side. Something gurgles, and I think it might be me.

  Memories are a funny thing. The way they play tricks on you.

  I smell pine.

  Logic tells me I’m indoors. Tied to a chair. The binds on my wrists and ankles are tangible, and yet my mind has transported me somewhere else.

  Gravel digs into my back. Sticks and dirt and cold are upon me. Heavy.

  I’m alone.

  Until I’m not.

  The acrid odor of metal invades my mouth.

  And the memories shift.

  The radiator, the butcher, the knife.

  Blood. Blood is everywhere, even when I open my eyes.

  But it is not the butcher in front of me today.

  Or even the five faces from my nightmares.

  It’s only one.

  Alexander.

  And a more recently familiar face.

  That of Kylie’s friend Katie.

  The one who told me about that crescent shaped scar on Alexander’s lip. The one who confided in me that he hurt Kylie and she feared he would hurt her too.

  I told her that wouldn’t happen. I told her I would get to him first.

  But her fears were right, and I am as wrong as I’ve ever been.

  He’s hurting her now.

  The violence and brutality of his depravity is on display, and it’s worse than any memory. He’s choking her with his cock. Squeezing her throat and dragging her around the floor.

  Tears fall down her cheeks with streaks of black mascara, and hope has abandoned her.

  I am powerless to do anything but watch the scene unfold before me. The way he spits at her and degrades her.

  My binds are unbreakable. Unshakeable.

  I can’t move.

  But I can’t give up, either.

  It isn’t often that I give my word and mean it. But I meant it with her. This girl is still so young. And she isn’t like me. There’s good left in her.

  She told me about her dreams. How she wants to leave the street life behind and go to beauty school. I offered to help her, and I meant that too.

  The offer still stands, and I refuse to believe that this is the end for her.

  Alexander’s eyes find mine across the room, and he groans with pleasure when he realizes I’m awake.

  “Look who finally decided to join us,” he murmurs.

  He shoves Katie away and comes for me. And I’m okay with that. I will do whatever he asks now. I will be his puppet.

  His fingers brush over my cheek with reverence as he kneels in front of me.

  “I couldn’t wait,” he says. “Time is up, Scarlett.”

  “Do whatever you want with me,” I tell him. “But let her go. She has nothing to do with this.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” he says.

  There is no remorse in his voice. There never has been, so I don’t know why I thought I could find it now. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Alexander, it’s that there are other ways to get to him.

  “You are disgusting,” I snarl. “It’s no wonder you have to fuck girls this way. You and that insignificant appendage you call a dick. Is that what pisses you off, Alex? You have to compensate for your lack of…”

  His hand cracks across my face, whipping my head to the side. Once. Twice. And then a third time for good measure. He seizes a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back, glaring into my face.

  “Do you think I’m that stupid?” he asks. “Really, Tenly. Give me some credit. I’m a federal fucking agent, baby. You don’t get where I am being fooled by common street-whores like you.”

  Katie sobs in the background and I need her to be quiet. I need Alexander to forget about her and focus on me.

  “You
can do whatever you want to me,” I tell him again. “I’m the one you want to punish. Admit it, Alex.”

  His eyes flash and I think I’m getting somewhere, so I keep after it.

  “Invite all the boys for a reunion,” I swallow. “It’ll be just like old times. That could be your way back in.”

  He shoves my head back and rips into my tank top, exposing my breasts. My legs are already splayed across the chair, defenseless, when he pulls my pants down around my ankles.

  I’m naked and exposed for him now. The urge to vomit is strong, but I force it down.

  Katie is limp, sobbing, and I need her to fight.

  I tell her to run while she has the chance.

  She looks at me, and then at Alexander, and she stands on trembling legs. She runs for the door.

  And she doesn’t make it.

  Alexander tackles her to the floor and then forces her to her hands and knees while she cries silently.

  “That was a piss poor effort if I ever saw one,” Alexander says.

  He pushes himself inside of her from behind and grabs a fistful of her hair. He’s fucking her, but his eyes are on me. It’s like gasoline to his hostility.

  It’s turning him on like nothing else can. Imagining that I’m her. Taking out his hate for me on Katie.

  It only gets worse. His delusion enters a point of no return when he starts calling her Ten. Ten the whore. Ten the cunt. Ten the filthy slut.

  Katie screams, and he muffles it with a hand over her mouth.

  He’s getting off on the memory of that night. The way he smothered me into unconsciousness and left me for dead. He’s reliving the high with Katie.

  The binds cut into my wrists and my heartbeat thrashes in my ear. The sounds are too much. The light hurts my eyes, and the chair is stabbing into my skin. I’m hyperaware of every thrust. Overstimulated and under-oxygenated.

  Rory’s voice is the thing I grasp onto. His words from this morning at the gym.

  Telling me to stay calm. Always stay calm and think about your next move. He told me I would make a mistake if I let panic win, and he was right.

  I seize a mouthful of air and drown out the noise in front of me.

  Duct tape.

  Mack told me once about the duct tape. How if you bring both of your arms down with enough force, it will break on its own.

  She showed me, and she made it look easy. And it’s never as easy when you’re doing it yourself.

  With my arms behind the chair, it’s a strain to get the momentum I need. But while I’m shifting around, there is a physical incentive pressing against my calf. My sheath is still where I left it.

  Either Alexander didn’t notice it, or he already removed the knife.

  I won’t know for sure until I can reach for it.

  Time is running out.

  His grunting is louder, and his violence is too.

  Katie isn’t moving. She isn’t breathing. Her face is ashy and wrong. One of Alexander’s hands is still wrapped around her throat, the other clapped over her mouth and nose.

  Nothing else exists to him outside the clutch of his violent fantasy.

  I scream at him and he bashes her face into her floor. Over and over again. Fucking her while blood spatters across the room.

  It’s too late.

  I’m too fucking late.

  Katie falls limp against the floor, and Alexander collapses on top of her, groaning out his release with one final thrust into her dead body.

  My heart beats faster and a rush of rage spiked with adrenaline floods my veins. I overextend my arms and thrust down as hard as I can.

  It has to be now.

  He has to die now.

  The duct tape breaks with an audible sound, and Alexander is moving.

  Crawling towards me- covered in Katie’s blood- with an expression on his face that I won’t soon forget.

  I’m next.

  He’s going to do me next.

  My fingers shake as I reach for the sheath and yank on the Velcro strap. I’m stumbling, shaking, grasping… and it’s real. The handle is real, and it’s in my palm.

  Alexander reaches out for me when I bring the blade up and plunge it into his chest.

  My fist squeezes around the wood and recoils, yanking it from his flesh. He retreats and touches the place where I stabbed him. The place where blood seeps from his wound and drips onto the floor below.

  A series of emotions flashes through his eyes.

  Disbelief. Shock. Hate. And then rage.

  I have wounded him, but it isn’t enough.

  I slash the bloody knife between my ankle and the chair, severing the tape.

  There is only time for one before Alexander comes at me again, still clutching his wound. This time, I aim for his balls with my foot and I don’t miss.

  He doubles over, and my other ankle is free.

  The knife is a mess of blood and glue and my hand is sore and stiff. This isn’t going to work.

  I bolt from the chair and pull up my pants, seeking out alternate weapons with my eyes. There’s a mug on the counter and I move for it while Alexander crawls after me.

  I throw the mug at his head and it misses.

  But the next item, a frying pan, hits him in the shoulder.

  “Cunt,” he roars. “You will beg for your death.”

  A fork sails through the air and bounces off his forehead, which does me no favors.

  He’s wounded and bleeding, but adrenaline is powerful. He’s on his feet now, clutching at the counter as he moves around it.

  I don’t even know what I’m throwing at him anymore. I reach for anything I can find and hurl it at his face.

  Until I grab hold of something metallic and heavy.

  His gun.

  He left it on the counter next to his keys, and what a fucking rookie mistake. It’s heavier than my revolver was and I use both hands to hold it up and aim in his direction.

  Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he knows that I couldn’t hit Ethan when I tried because he’s laughing at me.

  He lunges, and I pull the trigger.

  It hits him in the gut, and he collapses.

  But he’s still cognizant and his teeth are bloody and he’s fucking smiling at me.

  My hands are clammy, and I’m fumbling with the trigger, huddled in the corner I backed myself into. The knife fell in the chaos and there are no other weapons in my reach and the gun won’t fire again.

  It’s jammed or… I don’t know how to get it to work.

  I’m screaming for it to fucking work, desperate in a way that I’ve never been before.

  My eyes are blurry and distorted and my ears still ringing from the shot.

  But when I look down again, all I see is blood stained tile.

  Alexander isn’t there.

  And after arming myself with several kitchen knives and checking the apartment three times over, I realize he isn’t anywhere.

  “Jesus,” Mack says again.

  “I know,” I say again.

  The apartment is a blood bath.

  I still can’t bring myself to look at the body lying in the middle of the floor. I can’t even think her name, because that makes it real.

  I’ve already vomited twice since Mack’s been here.

  There is nothing left in my system now.

  Nothing but regret and emptiness.

  “You know I’m going to need some answers,” Mack tells me. “Right, Scarlett?”

  “I know. But I just can’t… right now.”

  “I don’t like keeping secrets from Lach,” she says.

  I’m quiet, and for a minute I think I’m on my own again. That she’s not going to help. Her loyalty lies with them and I don’t blame her. But then she speaks.

  “I’ll call Fitzy,” she says. “He’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Just do me one favor.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Please don’t be alone tonight,” she begs.
“Come to our house.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her again. “But I have somewhere else I need to be.”

  23

  SCARLETT

  THOSE DAYS ARE OVER. I have to be won all over again every time you see me- F. Scott Fitzgerald

  There is one universal truth about men.

  They want to feel like Kings.

  They want to eat like Kings. Fuck like Kings. Sit on the sofa (AKA throne) and watch TV like Kings. If they fixed something around the house, you better damn well tell them they are a fucking King. Because in their hearts they are sensitive little beasts who want to be regarded as the Alpha by all their brethren and any woman who might stumble into their path.

  Rory is no different.

  So it is with little surprise that I find him in the VIP lounge at Slainte.

  The VIP lounge is dark. Crimson and black and sultry. Men are meant to feel like Kings here while women take off their clothes and dance only for them.

  There is a dancer up on stage and she’s beautiful, and I respect what she does because I used to do it too, once upon a time.

  I also want to rip her heart out.

  I don’t know if Rory is watching her or not. It’s difficult to tell from behind him. But I watch him in the shadows for some time.

  If I just left, then things would go back to the way they were. We wouldn’t cross paths, except for the rare occasion. There would be no drunken phone calls filled with regret because Rory and I aren’t those people.

  He would go back to having quick fucks to satisfy his appetite, and I would go back to my revenge, either accomplishing what I set out to do or dying in the process.

  I should go.

  He deserves better than this. Better than me. That imaginary family he’s building his home for. He should have those things.

  I’m good at leaving.

  Pushing people away. Keeping everyone at a distance and burning anyone who flies too close to me.

  But I’m bad at leaving Rory.

  Tonight, I am broken and tattered, and in my heart I am selfish. I want his body and his warmth and the calm that exists only when we are together. I want those things even if I fucked up and pushed him away and I am willing to play a role to get them.

  I move around him. And he isn’t watching the dancer on stage. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed, and he is napping. There is a full bottle of Jameson beside him. He came here to feel like a King, but I still haunt him.