Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  Rory wraps his palm around the nape of my neck. A possessive gesture, and also a calming one. He wants me to be cool, and this is his way of telling me Storm is not a threat.

  This toy is always going to be mine, and I’m not willing to share him. Not anymore. Not ever.

  “I guess I can help you,” Storm says with a dainty shrug of her shoulder. “Not like I have anything better to do.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” I slip her the card for the hotel room. “Don’t be late.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, eyeing Rory again.

  She licks her lips and smiles, tossing him a wink. And it hits me, what she’s trying to do.

  She’s testing him.

  To see if he’s a cheater.

  Like the men she destroys.

  “He’s not,” I answer her unspoken question.

  She looks at me and smiles again.

  “I like to make up my own mind about that.”

  37

  RORY

  I BRING Scarlett home and tell her I have some work to do.

  She doesn’t argue because she’s tired.

  Defeated.

  I question again if this is the right thing. Allowing her to do this.

  But when I see her studying the file again at the kitchen table, I know that it is.

  Scarlett will never be able to move forward with her life until she feels safe. Words mean nothing to her.

  I could make her all the promises in the world about how well I am going to take care of her, but she needs to feel it herself.

  She needs to feel like she did it herself.

  And until then, she is trapped in the headspace of her past.

  When she falls asleep on the couch, I move her into my bed. As her head lulls against my chest on the walk down the hallway, she curls her fingers into my shirt and breathes me in.

  “Mine,” she murmurs in her sleep.

  It’s a hot knife to my chest.

  I want Scarlett, still.

  I love Scarlett, more than anything.

  But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust her.

  I don’t know if she’ll ever be free from her past and ready to live in the present with me.

  So when I lay her down and cover her over, I don’t join her. And until I know what tomorrow brings, I can’t let myself go there.

  Not now.

  And maybe not ever again.

  “I got you something.”

  Scarlett takes the box from my hands and opens the top, revealing the crimson dress inside. Her fingers move over the material, and she blinks up at me.

  “Wow, Ace. You did good.”

  “The devil should wear red,” I answer.

  She smiles, and her fingers move over the intricate beading and layers of material.

  “Very Gatsby-esque.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  She unzips her other dress and pulls it off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor below her. She’s all black lace and legs and tits and ass, and I’m hard as fuck watching her shimmy into the new one I bought her.

  She struggles with the crossing straps on the back and gestures for me.

  “Can you help?”

  “Aye.”

  I fix it for her and zip her up.

  And then, to keep myself focused on the task at hand, I get straight down to business. I retrieve the case that came with it, and I swear Scarlett gets excited even looking at it.

  She knows it’s too big to be jewelry inside, it could only be weapons. And I would bet all the money in my bank account that my little hellraiser has some wet panties right about now.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Patience.”

  I spin her around and open the case, retrieving the two black knives first. And then delicately, I trace the material around the base of her neck with the tips before I find the hidden sheaths beneath the straps of the dress.

  When they are secured, Scarlett spins around to have a look in the mirror, reaching her arms back to test them out herself.

  “Now this is my kind of dress,” she says, with nothing less than awe in her voice.

  “It’s one of a kind,” I tell her. “Made just for you, Bonnie.”

  She walks back towards me, and her eyes are hungry. When she reaches for me, I trap her wrists and plant her arse in the chair instead.

  “I’m not done yet.”

  I kneel down next to her this time, retrieving the lace thigh holster I ordered for her too. I slide it up over her delicate ankle and calf, my fingers brushing along her skin as I go. When my hand disappears beneath the material of her dress, she shivers and I clamp my fingers down around her flesh.

  Her eyes lock onto mine, pleading for more.

  My other hand moves up beneath the dress, securely lodging the small pistol inside.

  She releases a breath then, and so do I.

  But it’s not over yet.

  I know what my little hellraiser really likes to play with. So I secure another sheath on her opposite thigh, made for her brand new stiletto knife. Just as sexy and dangerous as Scarlett herself.

  “I don’t think you’ve given me enough weapons,” she laughs.

  “Aye,” I agree. “I’ve got a couple more.”

  I show her the matching stiletto heels. Aptly named after the very same dagger that rests aside the soft, warm skin of her creamy thigh.

  They are silver with black decorative spikes.

  But Scarlett, being the curious kitten that she is, knows better. When she reaches out to touch one with her finger, I try to stop her, but it’s too late.

  She pricks herself, and crimson oozes from the end of her finger as she pulls it away.

  “Jesus,” she says.

  “Obsidian,” I explain to her as I reach for her finger and bring it to my lips.

  I soothe her wound with my tongue, tasting her in the most primal of ways.

  “You never told me you could get all these gadgets,” she murmurs, and she is so hot for me I can only imagine the kind of fucking we could do right about now.

  “I’ve got my resources.”

  She leans into my space, trying again to lure me to those deadly red lips of hers. But I pull away, shoving the case of weapons into her lap instead.

  My dick is practically sawing through my jeans, and I know she knows it too.

  She can smell my arousal, so close to her. Practically taste the pre-cum dripping from the head of my cock as she licks her lips.

  There is no distracting her right now, even with weapons.

  “Rory,” she says, her voice soft and sweet. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  I stand up and turn away from her because I can’t resist her when she’s like this. My resolve is fleeing, the longer we are alone, and I really wish her friend would hurry the fuck up and get here already.

  “Tell me later,” I say gruffly.

  “What if there is no later?” she whispers.

  “Scarlett.”

  This time I do turn and meet her gaze.

  “If there’s one thing I can assure you of, it’s this. I’ve loaded ye down with weapons, but ye have no need of them. I will be right there beside you.”

  “And when it’s done?” she asks.

  What she means is what will happen to us. But I don’t have that answer for her yet. So I tell her the only thing I can.

  “We will walk out of here together,” I assure her. “And you will be safe.”

  She nods, and even the excitement over her weapons is gone.

  I kneel before her again and help her into her heels, cautiously.

  “These will rip out a jugular with one swipe,” I tell her. “So use them carefully.”

  “I will,” she promises.

  “Pick out anything else you’d like,” I say. “And leave the rest for your friend.”

  She examines the rest of the objects in the case. Lipstick peppersprays and hairpin daggers, rings with hidden blades.
But she doesn’t take anything else.

  “You’re right,” she says, setting the case aside. “The only weapon I need is you.”

  38

  SCARLETT

  WHEN GOING TO WAR, it’s important to have soldiers who know how to fall in line. Also, good shoes.

  Storm is late, like I knew she would be.

  But she’s ready to roll, so I forgive her a little. At least until she starts eye-fucking Rory again across the room.

  “Lay off it already,” I tell her. “He’s nobody’s puppet.”

  “Except for yours.” She smiles sweetly. “I bet you he’d do whatever you told him to. And who says I’m trying to get with him, anyway? Maybe I just like to piss you off.”

  “That’s probably more accurate,” I agree. “Did you bring the stuff?”

  She tosses a large suitcase onto the hotel bed and opens it up.

  “Pick your flavor.” She gestures over the rainbow of wigs and disguises. “We got cherry, vanilla, black licorice, chocolate, even an assortment of bubblegum if you feel frisky.”

  I grab a short blonde wig and a brown one too, holding them up to examine them. Rory’s watching me now, waiting to see what I pick.

  “Should I be Daisy or Jordan?” I ask.

  “You should be Scarlett,” he whispers in my ear.

  And then he reaches for a chin length hot pink wig instead, dangling it between his fingers as he hands it to me.

  “And wear this one.”

  The heat radiating off him from behind digs into my back. I make a mental note to give Storm an IOU for the wig later on.

  “Take these too,” Storm instructs, handing me a small case. “They’ll really pop with that pink.”

  I open it up to find some vivid blue colored contacts.

  Over the next twenty minutes, we apply the finishing touches to our hair and makeup while Rory gets ready in the bathroom.

  When he walks out in his costume, it’s my turn to be all hot and bothered. He’s donning a white dress shirt and black vest, complete with a shoulder holster and fedora. He’s the hottest gangster I’ve ever seen.

  “Look at you in your native habitat.”

  “Figured you like that,” he says.

  He smiles, and it’s been a while since I’ve seen it, and I’ve missed it.

  It’s easy to forget, in the fun of dressing up, what we’re really here for.

  But the solemn reminder comes with the alarm on his phone.

  “Ten minutes,” he says.

  We go over the plan one more time. Storm and I need to lure Quinn and Duke away from the party. Considering the army of private security detail they’ve both hired, it won’t be easy.

  There’s a knock at the door, and I glance to Rory.

  He gives me a nod, telling me it’s all good. And when he opens the door, he has his own small army on the other side.

  Crow, Reaper, Dom, and Conor.

  I don’t know how comfortable I am with the idea of them helping, and judging by the look on Crow’s face when he glances at me, I doubt he believes I deserve it either.

  “When one of us goes to war,” Crow says, “we all go to war.”

  It’s his way of telling me not to fuck with Rory anymore. I don’t bother telling him otherwise because actions speak louder than words. He’ll believe my loyalty when he sees it for himself.

  They all filter inside, taking over the room and going over the plan with Rory.

  “Alexei will kill the lights on our cue,” Crow says. “Dom’s taken care of the backup generators, but you’ll only have about a five-minute window to get them outside. Rory showed you both where the cars will be?”

  “Yes.” Storm and I say in unison.

  “What about the security?” Reaper asks.

  “Alexei will take care of it after,” Rory answers.

  “Well then,” Crow says. “No time like the present. I have a baby to get home to, so let’s get on with it.”

  39

  SCARLETT

  AND THOUGH SHE be but little, she is fierce- Shakespeare

  The ballroom is a sea of excess. Champagne and diamonds and strings of pearls and feathers falling from the sky. The men stroll with big fat cigars hanging out of their mouths (unlit, of course) and women sparkle in gowns soaked in wealth. Music roars from the speakers, loud and fast and hard.

  A Little Party Never Killed Nobody.

  Quinn’s family is hosting the party for their youngest daughter (sixteen) and she’s piss drunk already. Socialites and celebrities abound, relaxed and playful in their natural habitats.

  “What the fuck have we just walked into?” Storm asks from beside me.

  “Welcome to my world,” I tell her.

  “There’s a lot of security here tonight,” she says, and it isn’t an exaggeration.

  I honestly don’t know how we ever thought we could pull this off.

  But when I glance at Rory, my faith is restored. He is calm, steadfast, ready. The way he looks before a fight.

  This is what these boys do for a living.

  They fuck shit up, and they pull off impossible feats all the time. I don’t know how many jams I’ve seen them get out of in the short time I’ve known them, but one thing is for certain. Quinn’s army can’t compete with mine.

  Storm and I walk to the bar, and my eyes bounce around the room while we wait for our drinks. There are a lot of drunken rich pricks here, but none of them are Quinn and Duke.

  “Where are these clowns?” Storm asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  We drink and dance with a couple of guys who ask us before Rory cuts in. He’s been watching me from across the room, not giving anything away.

  He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that they haven’t made an appearance yet, but I am.

  We only have a small window of time before they get on that plane and fly off to god knows where. I don’t want to wait anymore.

  This is it.

  This is the golden opportunity, and if we don’t get them now, I fear that we never will.

  “Smile,” Rory whispers in my ear. “Ye’re having the time of your life, baby doll. It’s the last time you’ll ever have to pretend.”

  I smile. And lean into him.

  For the next two minutes, it’s just us. His palm on my lower back, his other hand in mine. Rory’s a good dancer, and this doesn’t surprise me. He never half-asses anything.

  He smells like sunshine and sea-breeze. And he looks like my future.

  But in true Brodrick fashion, he doesn’t give me what I want.

  The moment the song is over, he releases me.

  “Keep after it,” he says. “It won’t be much longer now.”

  Storm and I make another pass over the room and head back to the bar. But before we make it, the lights go out.

  Like planned.

  Only, they weren’t supposed to go out until Rory’s guys gave the signal.

  A gun digs into my back and a voice whispers in my ear.

  “Miss me, Ten?”

  Quinn.

  It’s motherfucking Quinn.

  He’s still as delicate as ever, dragging me across the floor while someone else manhandles Storm too.

  The room is black and pure chaos, people shouting for each other. Amongst the melee, Rory’s voice calls out for me too.

  “Open your fucking mouth and she’s dead,” Quinn hisses. “But if you go quietly, we’ll let her go when we get outside.”

  I do what they tell me.

  Crow and Reaper and the guys are outside. And I know exactly where.

  I hope they are ready. Because it sounds like we’ve got a few other guys hot on our tails as well.

  “Feel like taking another trip to New Haven?” Quinn asks after he pushes me into a stairwell. “It’ll be just like old times.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Hear that, Duke?” he taunts. “Told you once wouldn’t be enough. She wants me.”

  “I wouldn’t touch her with my
dick again even if she begged for it,” Duke says. “But this one though…”

  There’s a commotion beside us, and then a grunt before a body tumbles to the ground and down the stairs in front of us.

  I can’t be certain if it’s Duke or Storm, but my money’s on Duke.

  Everything breaks into chaos then. There is scuffling and shouting and Quinn is dragged away from me and ushered down the stairs. Someone from behind us takes his place, seizing my arm.

  I jam one of the spikes on the back of my heel into his calf.

  “Jesus fuuuuuuuuuuck,” he squeals.

  The fight is on.

  He grabs my hair and tries to shove me forward, and I slice him again with the other heel. He lets go and I reach for the knives in the back of my dress.

  When he comes at me again, I start slicing, anywhere I can reach. There’s scuffling beside me, and I don’t know if it’s Storm or someone else. I only know that I have to get through this prick before I can find out.

  The first knife lodges into his flesh, and my hand slips off the grip when he retreats. And then there’s the telltale sound of a gun cocking.

  The lights flicker back on. Duke and Quinn are long gone, but their hired guys are still here. Storm is alive and well and holding her own just fine. She’s got one of them pinned down with a spiked stiletto aimed straight for his throat.

  I would stop to enjoy the show if the other guy wasn’t pointing his loaded gun straight at my head.

  The jig is up.

  “Let her go,” I tell him. “And I’ll come willingly. I’m the one they want.”

  “Who her?” he gestures at Storm.

  And then he pulls the fucking trigger.

  The stairwell is dead silent, and except for the ringing in my ears, I can’t hear anything as she grabs at her arm and stumbles backward into the wall.

  There’s blood on her dress, but I can’t tell where she’s been hit.

  I think I said her name, but I’m not sure.

  I’m not sure of anything. My legs are trying to move, but my brain is paralyzed. Another guy comes up from the bottom of the stairwell and grabs her, jamming a gun to her head and dragging her backwards.

  The door opens behind me, and I hear angels singing.