Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  Heat rushes up my neck when I look up and catch Conor staring at me.

  “Are you okay?” I squeak. “What happened?”

  “It's nothing.” He cringes when I touch his arm. “Just a flesh wound.”

  But it isn't a flesh wound I find when I peel back his shirt to reveal the blood-soaked gauze. “Oh my God, Conor! Have you been shot?”

  He winces again. “I'm fine. Just lay off of it, will ye?”

  My trembling hands fall to my sides and he doesn’t miss it. He sighs and takes back the distance between us by tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry. I've had very little sleep. It's been a long couple of weeks.”

  “Is it the Locos?” I ask.

  Conor shakes his head. “No, I wish it was but it's something else. Another issue we have to deal with.”

  “You’re bleeding.” My fingers inch toward the wound again. “Will you at least let me help you get cleaned up?”

  His eyes meet mine, and they are too damn pretty for such an ugly world. But it’s the reverence I find in the depths of those irises that fires right for my heart. It never really occurred to me until now that he doesn’t have anyone to take care of him either. And it hurts to think of him that way. Lonely and alone. He has his mafia brothers and his job, and that’s his whole life. But before we came along, this house was just an empty four walls where he came to sleep.

  “Where do ye want me?” he asks.

  I glance around the room, looking for a spot. “How about the kitchen table? That will probably be easiest.”

  He walks into the kitchen while I head to the bathroom and dig through the cupboards, hoping for a few first aid supplies. Instead, I’m surprised to find that Conor is stocked with an entire collection, and they aren’t the cheap kind. Everything in here is hospital grade. It takes me a few minutes to work my way through it all, gathering what I need before I join him in the kitchen again.

  “You have a lot of stuff in there.” I toss the supplies on the table.

  “Part of the job,” he says.

  I reach for the first package and pull up a chair beside him, avoiding his watchful gaze while I work. At least, that’s the plan. But when I do finally look up, he’s grimacing.

  “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

  “No, it’s fine,” he says. “It’s just the blood. Believe it or not, I still get a bit squeamish around it. Never really cared for it.”

  “Who does?” I reply.

  He shrugs. “Aye, I guess that’s true.”

  We’re both quiet for the next few minutes while I clean and re-dress the wound. There’s an intimacy to helping a man like Conor when he’s in a vulnerable state. I doubt that he allows just anyone to see him this way. He’s too stubborn and proud for that.

  The wound is in his shoulder, but even a couple inches to the right and this could have ended much differently. He was lucky this time, but what about next time? What if Conor just didn’t come home?

  It wasn’t all that long ago when Muerto would come back to the compound, drunk and bloody from his latest wars on the street. And every time, I found myself thinking that maybe that would be the night. Maybe he would bleed out, and I would finally be free. I hated myself for thinking that way. I hated wishing death on anyone. But when his death meant my freedom, it was the only hope I had to grasp onto.

  As I tend to Conor’s wound, it occurs to me that the opposite is true. I don’t want anything to happen to him. Just the possibility that something could terrifies me, and he recognizes it when I take a deep breath, trying to pull myself together.

  “Alright there?”

  I apply the last of the tape to his fresh gauze, allowing my fingers to edge just outside the boundary of his skin. “What happens to us if something happens to you?”

  He reaches out and toys with a piece of my hair, curling it around his fingers. “That’s not going to happen.”

  My lip trembles and pressure builds behind my eyes, and I feel ridiculous for getting so worked up about this. “But what if it does?”

  “Ye’re mine now,” Conor says with an authority that can’t be argued. “No two ways about that, Twigs. When you married me, you married into my family, and my family protects its own. Regardless of whether or not I live to see another day on this earth, no harm will ever come to ye. Crow and my brothers will make dead sure of that.”

  I force a neutral expression for his benefit, but inside everything hurts. What Conor doesn’t understand is that his words don’t ease my worries. Because the question I was really asking was what happens to us… if he’s not a part of us anymore.

  To admit that out loud would be to admit that I’m already letting him inside, and I can’t do that. He isn’t the kind of guy who gives his word lightly. He told me he would protect us, and I believe him. But he never promised to care.

  “You haven’t been coming home,” I say lightly. “Is it because you’ve been at the club?”

  “I’ve been all over,” Conor sighs. “That’s my job, Ivy. The lads need me, and I’m there. That’s how it works.”

  My throat is thick with all the things I can’t say. “That makes sense.”

  Conor is quiet again, and I don’t know how to navigate these silences with him. He takes control of the situation, reaching out for my hand and weaving our fingers together. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “I haven’t had anyone count on me in a long time.”

  My gaze moves over our linked fingers, and the weight in my chest feels lighter, if only a little. “It’s okay, we’re fine. We have everything we need.”

  “Things won’t always be this way,” he assures me. “Rory’s got us into some shite right now. The skirt he’s been chasing has him wrapped up in her war against mankind, but it’ll blow over soon enough.”

  “Alright.”

  “Why do I get the feeling ye say that even when everything isn’t alright?” Conor asks.

  “It is. I have no reason to complain. You’ve given us a roof over our heads. Food. A safe place for Archer.”

  “But?” he presses.

  Heat blooms in my cheeks as I consider how much to reveal. “I just think maybe we should be honest about expectations from the beginning. I think I have a pretty good grasp on how it works in your world. The wife stays at home, and you guys go out and do whatever, right?”

  Conor’s lips tilt at the corners. “You mean with whoever, aye?”

  I don’t get a chance to answer because he reaches out and drags me into his lap before I can give it too much thought. I’m not under any illusions about the size of my frame, but in his arms, I feel even smaller. He feels like a shelter, a safe space, and a disaster in the making. But I can’t stop this pull I feel when he’s near. And when his fingers graze my arm, it lights a fire inside of my belly I don’t know how to put out.

  “I meant what I said when I told ye that I haven’t been with anyone for years before you.” He leans into my throat and breathes me in. “And I’ve no intention of running off now to stick me dick in everything that has a hole in it. Why would I, when I have you warming my bed at home?”

  I relax into him and breathe him in too. It feels reckless to allow myself comfort in his words, but I do.

  “I don’t know what the Locos got up to,” he adds. “But our guys are solid. And when we give our word, we bloody well mean it. We are loyal to each other, and ye best believe we are loyal to our wives. If any one of us got caught cheating on the missus, the others would have our nuts for it if she didn’t get to them first. So, don’t think that because Muerto did it, I will too. I’m nothing like that piece of shite. Okay?”

  “I know you aren’t,” I admit. “I just… I guess I wanted to hear it from you.”

  Conor nods against me, and even though he’s the one that’s wounded, his fingers move over the base of my spine, soothing me in a way that nothing else ever has.

  “How’s our boy?” he asks. “Settling in okay?”

  Our boy.
r />   The words unthaw the coldest corners of my heart, and even if it’s wrong to let him say it, I like those pretty words from his lips. I like them so much I want to hear him say them over and over again.

  “He’s doing good.” I turn into him and lean against his chest. “But he’s been asking where you are.”

  “Tomorrow.” He tilts his head toward mine and murmurs against my lips. “We should do something with him tomorrow.”

  “Right.” The whisper gets caught somewhere between us, and then swallowed when Conor’s lips sink into mine. Already, I’m used to Conor taking what he wants, but this kiss is different. When he kissed me before, it was a means to an end. To claim me. Possess me. Own me. Fuck me. But something has changed between us on a deeper level, and I can’t deny it. It’s leisurely and passionate. A kiss that could go on forever. I’m breathless and on the edge of sanity when he rolls his hips against my ass, allowing me to feel what I do to him.

  “I want you,” he grunts. “Say you want me too.”

  I can’t even pretend that I don’t. I cave forward, dragging my fingers through his hair and arching my biting hard nipples against his chest. “I want you too.”

  He groans and nips at my throat as his hand tangles in the mass of my hair. “Say it again. Make me believe it.”

  I submit to his request, even louder this time. Conor burrows into my collarbone and grazes the sensitive skin with his teeth.

  “No, that won’t do. I want to hear ye say it when ye’re full of my cock.”

  21

  CONOR

  “CONOR?” Ivy blinks up at me shyly, and I don’t respond. I don’t want her to speak right now. I don’t want anything other than these few seconds of quiet.

  My eyes roam over the naked artistry of the woman sprawled across my bed, sopping up every detail of her curves. She’s soft in all the places that I’m not. Inches of milky skin and a hypnotic beauty that I’m quickly becoming addicted to. The subtle bows of her hips taper off into a narrow waist and a valley of silky flesh, rounded out by two plush breasts topped with pink nipples. I have a notion to taste them first, but that wouldn’t satiate me. I want all of her. Every intricacy of her body. Every freckle, every scar. There’s an urgency inside of me to memorize her wounds and lay claim to her vulnerability.

  Muerto owned her, but he never possessed her. With him, she was a bird in a cage, ready to fly away at the first opportunity. It isn’t enough to fuck her and tell her she’s my wife. I need to make her mine in ways she will never question or doubt. I want her cage door open, but her mind content to stay right here with me.

  I peel off my shirt and unbutton my pants, dropping them to the floor. Ivy’s chest expands when her eyes move over the bulge in my briefs, and I wonder if she’s aware how dark her eyes can be when she’s hungry. I palm my dick through the material and toss her a lazy smile. Her body tells the truth her lips refuse. She has nowhere else to be right now, except for in my bed, with my cock balls deep inside her.

  My calloused fingers feather over the delicate skin of her ankles, and she shivers when I trace the expanse of velvet all the way up to her knees. She feels like warm honey wrapped in silk, and I hate that any other man has ever touched her. She’s mine, and she always has been. I just didn’t know it until now.

  This cancerous craving breeds deep within, poisoning me from the inside out. I want her words, her thoughts, her smiles and her tears. I want everything from her. It’s a fool’s errand, but it doesn’t stop me from feeding the flames.

  All day, she’s corrupting my thoughts. I imagine her here, in my bed, laying against my pillow. Her scent burned into my sheets. I have ideas about her riding my cock, kissing me, soothing my aches after a long day. And it only gets worse from there. I think about her proudly wearing my ring, showing the world who she belongs to when she’s swollen with my child. These are things I never thought I would want, but fuck if I don’t want them with her.

  When our eyes clash, I can’t bring myself to admit my weakness. The second best thing I can do is bow down between her spread legs and plunge my tongue into her wet pussy. She whimpers, and I sop up her sweetness. Everything else falls away. There’s nothing else between us. It’s just Ivy, vulnerable to me. Giving herself to me. Riding my face while she grabs handfuls of my hair and comes on my mouth.

  “Conor.” Her back arches up off the bed, broadcasting her perfect, fuckable tits. I’m starving, manic to taste them when I crawl up her body and latch onto the first nipple in my reach. She hisses, and I pull her flesh deeper, greedy for more while I fumble with my briefs. I fetch my cock and bump against her tight pussy, blundering through the whole performance like it’s my first time.

  “Chrissakes,” I grunt against her. Ivy’s lips curve into a smile as she pets my hair with one hand and reaches down to guide me with the other.

  I coast into my own little slice of paradise, and it stirs the delirium in my brain. I want to blame it on the pain pills flooding my blood stream, but I know it isn’t that. I’ve missed this. And being inside her now, I can’t remember why I ever thought it was a good idea to go without.

  “Fuck ye’re pretty.” My hips crash into hers and she takes it like a champ while her nails dig into my back. “You haven’t a clue what you do to men, do ye?”

  Her eyes are soft and open as they study my face, seeking out the truth behind my ramblings. I don’t want to look away, but she feels so fucking good wrapped around my dick. My eyes are too heavy, and I don’t know if I’m falling into a coma or intoxication when my balls draw up and my entire body shudders.

  “Fuck.” My arms give out, and I collapse on top of her, dick jerking and pulsing as I flood her with what feels like a year’s worth of my come.

  Her fingers feather through my hair, and I can’t move. Don’t want to. I stay there, softening inside of her, dragging my lips over hers in an unhurried kiss until we are both too weak to go on.

  “Stay with me tonight,” she whispers against my neck. “Please?”

  I roll onto my side and drape an arm around her waist. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, Twigs.”

  22

  IVY

  MY HEAVY EYES blur the room around me as I roll onto my side, straining to listen for the whimper I was certain I’d heard from down the hall. A shadow paints the walls of the bedroom, moving quietly. Conor is already up out of bed, throwing on his briefs.

  “It’s okay,” he assures me. “It’s just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.”

  He doesn’t wait around for me to protest, and the last thing I see is his naked back retreating down the hall. My mouth is dry and sticky as I drag myself upright, trying to calm my racing heart. Archer stops crying when Conor’s soft voice floods the room, but I won’t be sane until I see it for myself. It’s a mother’s natural instinct to go to him. I need to make sure he’s alright.

  In a pinch, I throw on Conor’s flannel and it hangs all the way down to my knees. Buttoning it haphazardly, I squeak down the hall on my tip toes and lean against the door frame as I peek in on them.

  Archer is curled up against Conor’s side, his tiny hand securing a place around Conor’s bicep. Soft words fill the silence of the dimly lit room while Conor flips through the pages of Archer’s favorite book, reading about the adventures of a boisterous puppy.

  My heart feels like it’s going to explode. Or maybe it already has. This can’t be real. My son isn’t sitting next to this mobster, soothed by the lulling sound of his voice. Except that he is. Archer watches Conor’s face with a reverence that bleeds into the very marrow of my bones. I can see it happening. Archer is falling for him too.

  I duck back into the hall and let that sink into my gut. I don’t know what I’m doing. This man is not who I would have chosen for Archer to love. He lives a life of violence and chaos and everything that I’ve been desperately trying to escape. And yet, nobody has ever been so gentle with my son.

  Soft, silent tears splash against my cheeks as I slide down t
he wall and curl my knees inward. I feel like I’m going insane, and the worst part is, I want this. I want this so badly I can taste it. I want Archer to have this strong, enigmatic man in his life. To guide him, protect him, shelter him. But most of all, to love him.

  It seems so far from reality, but I can’t argue that it’s happening right now as I listen to them interact. When Conor reads the last words on the page, I hold my breath, waiting for something to prove me wrong. But instead, all I hear are Conor’s hushed words.

  “Alright wee one, let’s get some sleep, aye?”

  The room falls quiet, and for the next ten minutes, I wait for Conor to come out, but he doesn’t. When I finally peek around the corner, I wipe my bleary eyes as a smile curves my lips. Conor’s large frame is draped over the length of the tiny twin mattress, protectively shielding Archer from the metaphorical monsters under his bed. They are both fast asleep, curled into each other as deep, peaceful breaths fill their lungs.

  And it occurs to me right then, I am so fucked.

  In the early light of morning, the bed dips when Conor returns to me. A sturdy arm wraps around my waist and pulls me close, tucking me into a body that I could swear was built just to refuge mine. He buries his nose against my neck, breathing me in while he rubs his cock against my ass.

  In the back of my mind, the voice of sanity tries to remind me that this isn’t normal. This crazy lust-drunk feeling is chemically induced by my traitorous body and I need to be stronger, smarter. But somewhere between last night and this morning, all logic has been sacrificed to the gods of war. Body, heart, and soul- they are at odds with each other, and in the end, I fear that Conor will conquer them all.

  “I’ll give you one go at what I’m thinking.” Conor’s calloused palm slips up beneath the sheet to cup my breast, my nipple stabbing at his hot skin.