All of the Lights (14 page)

Strong, weathered hands grip my shoulders and then I hear my dad's low voice in my ear: "You can do this. Don't give up. You keep fighting."

I nod once, my eyes sharpening on my opponent. He's doing the exact same thing I am right now: readying himself for the next round, preparing for more blows, and gearing up for that sweet victory. My eyes close for just a moment so I can create the visual I need to push through this: my dad, both the living and the dead one, pounding his wrapped fists together, circling the ring and raising his arms in victory as the crowd roars.

The crowd means nothing now. The buzzing in my ears fades away. It's wiped away and I have a clean slate as I pound my gloved fists together. There's a rage within me that only comes out when I'm in the ring, when I can become the monster I'd never let loose anywhere else.

And now, when the bell goes off to signal the next round, that monster creeps in, twisting and curling around my limbs and that's it. That's all I need. It takes hold and doesn't let go until I've pummeled my way through my opponent and he's a bleeding, near-toothless, barely-recognizable mess on the mat.

My dad lifts my arms in victory, but I don't need the rest of it. The adulation, the slaps on the back, the cheers, the shots, the women—that's not why I'm here.

It's the moment when we're all in that little room at the back of the bar, the same one we use to prep and wrap my hands—that's the moment I relish.

Brennan flanks my right as my dad holds the door open for us. Father Lindsay is right on our heels when I hop up on the table and slap off my gloves. They've got smiles on their faces and it's because I got us here. I brought home the win and with it, a shit-load of money. We're all together in this room, me covered in blood and sweat, and my brother, my dad, and my priest surround me. This is why I fight. This is what makes unleashing that monster worth every second.

"I knew you'd pull it out!" Brennan shakes his head, but that smile is reserved for times like these when everything is right with the world for once. "You scared me for a second, bro, but you were like an animal out there!"

My dad doesn't share the same enthusiasm, even if his mouth is still spread wide in celebration. It's the slight crinkling by his eyes that gives it away—he's worried. He knows I could've lost or worse, completely gotten my head bashed in beyond repair. And here I've been worried one of these days I'm going to bash the other guy's head in beyond repair.

"You alright?" he asks softly and I know he doesn't just mean the open cuts on my face. He's talking about my head. Am I all there? Am I going to be more present next time? Am I going to get myself killed next time?

For a moment, I almost tell them about the distraction that's loomed over me like a dark cloud. I haven't been the same since the night Moretti sent the Gianotti brothers to blast the front of our building and everyone in this room knows it.

It's just not for the reasons they think.

There's no way they could possibly know unless I tell them, but that would mean having to look my dad and my brother in the eye and somehow explain how I found myself within ten feet of Raena Moretti.

God, that name. It's a curse around here. I shouldn't even think it, let alone say it. But she's somehow managed to slip in through the cracks and got my head so twisted around I'm lucky I even know which end is up.

Everything I know about her up until these last few weeks should have taught me to hear nothing but bullshit when she opens her mouth. Unfortunately, I think I might believe her. I think she might actually be serious about wanting to get Sean out of prison. Whatever her reasons, I still don't trust her, but I think I believe her.

That's the craziest thought I've ever had in my entire life and I just can't share it now. Besides, the less people who know I even had any contact with her the better.

Even though the fundraiser at the parish went off without a hitch, we still have the protest to worry about next week. All the plans are set, everyone knows what they're supposed to do, and all we have to do is show up at the ribbon-cutting of Val Moretti's latest project and show him we're not going to let him get away with turning our community into an Italian enterprise.
 

The last thing either Brennan or my dad need is for me to tell them that Val Moretti's daughter is sniffing around Southie.

So, I tug on the most reassuring grin I can muster and shrug it off like it's nothing. Brennan seems to accept that at hand, but my dad's ever-watchful eyes follow my mechanical movements as I clean myself up and get ready to head out for the night. He's not convinced—the deep creases worrying his forehead say as much. I do the best I can to reassure him and clap him on the shoulder.

"I think I saw one of Gianottis' guys out in the crowd tonight," my dad calls out softly as I toss my shirt over my head. "Put Brody on it, but the shit slipped out before he could get to him."

Brennan and I meet each other's gaze and everything I'm feeling is mirrored on my brother's face. The Gianottis have some serious balls to get anywhere our neighborhood, let alone our businesses after what they pulled on us three weeks ago. If they think they're going to intimidate us like this, if Moretti thinks this is going to get him anywhere, they obviously don't know us very well.

"Let them watch all they want," I shrug it off and Brennan follows suit. "They wanna bet, let them bet."

"Maybe," my dad muses, but he rubs his jaw in thought, the same way he always does when he has a bad feeling about something. "There's been some talk that the Gianottis are lookin' to expand their market outside of the North End. I guess they're finally backing a fighter they like...maybe they were scopin' out the competition."

"So what?" Brennan tosses back and he nudges Father Lindsay a little with his elbow, making the old man huff out a laugh. "They want Jack to fight their guy? Fine. More money for me, my campaign, and the parish."

Father Lindsay shakes his head. "I hope you're referring to tithes and nothing else."

Brennan's hand flies to his heart. "Of course, Father. What else would I mean?"

Father Lindsay's eyes lift up to the ceiling and he shakes his head. For now, this discussion will have to be shelved for later. After all, the celebration is already underway out by the bar and at this point, I'm just grateful that everyone's forgotten about the fact that the fight could've kept going south on me pretty quickly.

Brennan and I leave the two old men alone, who already have their heads bent together in low murmurs, and head out to face the rest of the night. The crowd parts for us, still hopped up from my narrow victory and even though the air has had some time to settle, the scent of rust, sweat, and barley lingers, thickening the atmosphere. Electricity shoots around the room and all it does is set me on edge.

This is the part I don't like—the part where I have to face everyone else.

I smile politely at Payton as we pass by and she just rolls her eyes at me. It's not like I don't deserve that after the awkward family dinner she had to sit through, not to mention falling victim to my mom's matchmaking attempt, and things between us have been chilly at best since.

Cheers follow us as we take our victory lap all the way up to the bar, where one of the bartenders, a good shit named Patrick, slides an ice-cold beer my way. The festivities are probably going to last until well after closing time, but I force myself to tolerate about ten minutes. I'm tired and I'm sore and all I want to do is crawl into bed with a few bags of ice and a handful of ibuprofen.

Of course, these guys don't really get that.

"Hey," I clap Brennan on the shoulder. "I'm gonna take a breather outside for a second."

His blue eyes sweep over me in cool appraisal—he knows this game. He knows I don't want to stay, but that I also don't want to piss anyone off, especially anyone that's just made a good chunk of change off me. The fights organized here are legal, but the betting that happens here? Not so much, but nobody really cares about that. I help them get paid and that, I guess, is all that counts.

"You sure you're alright, bro?" Brennan narrows his eyes a little as if that will help him cut through the wall I've put up ever since that Friday night.

I just lift a shoulder. "Yeah. I'm alright. I just got some things to see to."

"Ah!" One of Brennan's buddies points at me with a beer in his hand. "Gotta go get that victory prize, huh? She better be a real stunnah. Where're yah meetin' up with her?"

"Don't take her back to your place," another one chimes in, his words slurring enough he wobbles from his stool. "You don't wanna have to kick her ass out in the morning."

"Nah," says yet another drunk bystander. "Dumb broads are used to the walk o' shame. Who cares?"

And that's my cue to get the hell out of here. The rest of the night is going downhill real quick and I don't really want to be around for it when the shit hits the fan. If them thinking I'm heading out to meet up with a girl gets me out of here with little resistance, I'm good with that. So I throw a mock-salute over my shoulder as I push through the side door that leads out to the alley.

Almost immediately, a flash of auburn hair, forest-green eyes, and a soft smile clouds my mind.

Shit. That happened way too fast.

And now I'm pissed as hell. I'm pissed that I'm still thinking about her. I'm pissed that she's determined to do this by herself. I'm pissed that she could find something and will probably have no idea what to do with it. I'm pissed that Sean might have a shot at actually getting out of prison and I'm just going to be sitting here, waiting and hoping that the girl who put him there can do it on her own. It's just complete bullshit.

There isn't a doubt in my mind that one of the many, many enemies her dad has made through the years is responsible, but how do you go about proving something like that? Where do you even start? All I know is she won't be able to do it on her own and I don't want her to.

As a last resort, I slip my vape pen out of my pocket, still shaking my head at the memory, and take a long, healthy pull. My head dips back and a slow stream of vapor flows from my nostrils. Finally, calm settles over me, pulling me back down and into an easier, quieter rhythm. The entire alley is cast in darkness and only the glow from the streetlamps next to the building gives me any kind of illumination.

Right about now, I prefer the darkness.

That's about as long as my self-imposed solitude lasts because the side door swings open again. I blow out another stream of vapor, letting the nicotine work its way through my system and shove that monster back in its cage, and finally turn my head to the side to find out who this new intruder is.

The familiar black pants, shirt, and white collar step through the little light and I can't muster a frustrated huff even if I wanted to.

Father Lindsay flashes me a quick, sympathetic grin as he closes the short space between us. I already know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.

"So," he murmurs when we're standing shoulder to shoulder in the alleyway. "Your da is worried. Asked me to come out here and see what's been botherin' yah."

I just lift a shoulder, but when he squints and tilts his head to the side, studying me with those all-knowing eyes, I can't deny it.

"You've been off for a few weeks now," Father Lindsay's adding insult to injury now, "and let's be honest, Jack—you're lucky yah came out on top tonight. Could've easily gone the other way. And your da isn't the only one who's worried. This isn't like yah, so why not tell me what's really goin' on, huh?"

Well, now I'm officially screwed. I might be able to lie to everybody else in my life, but there's no way I'll ever be able to lie to a priest.
Nice work, Dad,
I think as I shake my head. Maybe if I just treat this like any other confession, like Father Lindsay is shrouded behind a screen, I'll be able to air my dirty laundry and clear my conscience.

"This stays between us?"

He cocks an eyebrow at me as if to say,
Really?

I huff out a laugh and rub my sore jaw. It hurts to laugh and it hurts to talk, but I don't have the luxury of silence and solitude anymore. Then the words just come tumbling out.

"If you had the chance to get your brother out of prison, you'd take it, right?"

The question hangs in the air as Father Lindsay's head snaps in my direction.

"Even if it could be dangerous and even if it could be a dead-end," I push through it. "You'd try, wouldn't you?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Yah. If I had the chance, absolutely, Jack. Where is this comin' from?"

I suck in a harsh breath and ready myself to drop the bomb. Of all the things he's expecting me to say, the truth isn't even on the radar of possibility for him, so I swallow hard and let it fly:

"Do you know who Raena Moretti is?"

Father Lindsay's eyes are glued to the concrete, his forehead etched together with frown lines, and finally, he moves. It's only to dig his cigarette pack out of his back pocket and he takes his time to light one up, fumbling with his lighter a little before he finally takes a few long puffs. It's only after a long stream of smoke fumes from his nostrils that I hear his voice again and it's barely above a whisper.

"Yah," he nods to the cement. "I know who she is."