CROW (Boston Underworld Book 1) (2 page)

Finally, they’ve gone.

When my turn comes about and I stand over his coffin, words fail me, as they often do. Neither of us ever found the right thing to say to another when he was here on earth. What use would it be now?

The white lily in my hand wilts before my eyes. Apart from myself, Carrick was the last remaining Crow. His final wishes weigh heavy on my soul. The burden of making him proud. Carrying on his legacy and his bloodline. How could I deny a dying man his last hope, sputtered between bloody gasps?

It wasn’t false comfort. Every word I uttered to him in those final moments was a promise to him. I will do him proud. I will follow his footsteps to the gates of hell if necessary to keep my word to him. The man who raised me. The man who gave me everything.

On the whisper of a Catholic prayer, the bloom falls onto the glossy wood surface and he’s lowered into the ground. Niall and I repeat the sign of the cross, reciting the code Carrick abided by for the last thirty years. The same code we all abide by.

“Family, loyalty, honor, and blood. Tis the only thing that’s true.”

Niall allows me one final moment and then bows his head.

“Come and take a walk with me.”

The cemetery is somber, cloyed with death and the accompanying grief. The grass beneath our shoes, littered with the dying of the Autumn leaves. I myself have no room in my heart for grief. My peace with death was made long ago. A man does not enter this life with expectations of immortality. Carrick would be honored to give his life for the syndicate. As would I.

It will not do to dwell on it now. Later, there will be time for such things. For now, I dutifully follow Niall up the stone steps of St. Marcellina’s. The solid oak doors open without protest. Wooden pews line the aisle, the air laced with the scent of wine and repentance. At the end of the aisle, I kneel and recite a prayer for the departed.

I do not fancy myself a good man. Like any Catholic, the guilt of my sins often weighs heavy on my conscience. Little does it change who I am. As a small boy of eight my mammy told me I should not be like my father. So it stands to reason I’ve wanted this life ever since. My path was chosen, and I would do it again. Our outfit is ruled by loyalty and honor. Family. The thing I respect most. We don’t deal in society’s scheme of respectable business, but we still have morals. If an act of evil is to stain my soul, it will be for one of my own. We look out for each other. Protect each other. If hell is the price to pay for my sins on earth, then so be it.

This family is the only one I have left now.

After a while, Niall sits beside me and retrieves a flask from his suit jacket. There is no bother with formalities or religion on his part. The man gave up on God long ago. It was only out of respect for Carrick that he prayed today.

He holds the flask towards me, and I take a nip of the good stuff. Niall always has the good stuff. The alter becomes our focal point as silence remains. It’s a quality I appreciate in him. As a leader, Niall’s stoic nature instills more fear than any loud mouthed half-wit ever will.

He reaches into his pocket, and my grand-da’s Saint Anthony medal dangles from his leather glove
.

“He’d have wanted ye to have this, son.”

Tracing the etched gold beneath my fingers, an ache I never knew grows inside of me. He could have chosen any Saint, but this is the one he settled on. Carrick never feared death, but rather losing his soul.

“I know ye’re hurting, Lachlan,” Niall says. “Ye didn’t have near enough time with him.”

“No. I didn’t.”

Fifteen years wasn’t enough time to know a man like my grand-da. I don’t reckon it could be accomplished in fifty, stilted as our relationship was. A quiet man, he was. Strong and proud, but always quiet. Never knew much of being a father figure. Didn’t fancy himself one when I turned up on his doorstep at sixteen. He took me in anyway.

Didn’t bother me much, really. My grand-da was from a different generation. One that believed in keeping the lineage strong and true. I was only too happy to follow in his footsteps. At the age of sixteen, I was inducted into the MacKenna Syndicate. Proudest day of my life to swear that blood oath. He never said so, but Carrick was proud too.

He started out the old ways. Armored trucks and bank jobs. Drugs and gambling. Those things, he knew. The only ways he knew. He brought me into the fold, but it was the man who sits beside me now who made me what I am. He’s been my mentor over the last decade. Took on the role Carrick couldn’t. Together, we’ve moved the outfit into modern times. Every step of the way, Carrick fought it. The syndicate as it stands today, this is not my grand-da’s mafia. Niall believed cleaning up our act was the only way to thrive. Eventually, Carrick came around.

Doesn’t matter now. He’s gone. The Saint Anthony medallion burns against my palm. My bloodline is dead. We’re closer than ever to an alliance with the Russians, but one of our own is lost. It doesn’t seem a fair sacrifice.

Things will change now. Already it lingers between Niall and I. This weight of responsibility. The burden of proving my loyalty to the man beside me and affirming my dedication to the syndicate. Carrick’s shoes won’t be easy to fill, but you won’t find one more eager than me to pay his dues. Niall won’t give it easily. Sean will challenge me for the role. By birth, he has more rights to be Niall’s successor than I ever will. But I want it. The taste lingers on my lips with how badly I want it.

“Do ye believe ye’re ready for what comes next?” Niall asks.

“Aye.”

Blood will be shed. Heads will roll. And there will be wedding bells in the future.

That’s the only part I struggle to get onboard with. But I will if Niall chooses me. There isn’t a thing I won’t do for the syndicate. To seal this alliance and do right by Carrick. I will take my Russian bride, along with my rightful place as Niall’s second in command.

Nothing and no one will stand in the way of that.

“I’d like to run point on this,” I tell Niall.

Dark eyes find mine, glinting with respect. From his hair to his features, everything about Niall is dark. Men cower and exult in his presence. He is hard. But fair, too. This is how I know he will agree to my request.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Silence falls between us as he gives some thought to the matter.

“Ye can go tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” I insist.

His eyes appraise me, weighing my motivations.

“The funeral is today,” I point out. “We won’t be expected. Already, they’ve made arrangements to change the location of a shipment on Saturday. They’re preparing for the obvious.”

Niall drums his fingers against the flask and then nods. “Let the Russians have it for their troubles. A token of our appreciation.”

My fist crushes the medal in my palm with the force of adrenaline pumping through my veins. Bloodlust. Revenge.

I’ve a taste for it tonight.

Niall glances at his watch and then stands up. “Well if ye’re going this evening, you best get on with it then.”

Together, we walk out the front doors. Before we part ways, he slaps me on the shoulder and squeezes.

“Ye’ve lost your grand-da,” he says. “But know that you’ll always be considered me son.”

***

“So this is the place, hey?” Rory stares up at the weathered house from our position on the footpath. “Figures the cunts would live here.”

Not a one of us feels remorse for what comes next. This Armenian gang is only growing in number with each passing day, intent on staking their claim. They’ve stepped on toes. Our toes, to be precise, and the Russians as well. But it isn’t just us. I hear the Italians have been taking issue with them too.

Stepping on toes is one thing. Shooting up the deli where my grand-da was meeting with the Russians? Entirely another. There’s only one price to be paid for such an act.

Ronan takes his rightful spot at my side, and the rest of the lads follow suit.

“How’d ye like to do this, then?” asks Ronan.

“Yeah,
boss
,” mimics Sean. “How’d you want to do this?”

We walk up onto the porch. I haven’t any instructions for them except one.

“Kill them all.”

Chapter Two

Mackenzie

L
eaning forward for balance, I curl my knees in to rest on the back of my arms.

Crow pose.

It’s a simple posture. A two-step process, broken into the most basic of arm balances. And yet it took me forever to master. If I were the type to mentally dissect and examine the reasons behind this- which I’m not- it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out.

The crow symbolizes many things in different cultures. Magic, transcendence, destiny, intellectual awakening. A physical representation of the space between heaven and earth. The interpretations are vast and far reaching. But when the magic and lore have been stripped away, all that’s left is reality. For me, only one interpretation comes to mind. At its most basic, and especially to me, the crow symbolizes death.

My eyes fall shut as I straighten my arms and exhale, sending my legs up into a perfect handstand. Three deep breaths. In through my nose, out through my mouth. My balance has never been better. Coordination is on point. Core strength? Rock solid. I could probably hold this pose for a couple hours if I really wanted to. But before I even get a chance to gloat, Scarlett smacks her gum from across the room.

“You’re losing focus, Mack.”

I smirk and melt into Scorpion pose without a response. She knows damn well I’m as focused as I’ve ever been, but she’d rather die than admit it. Scarlett doesn’t want me to go on my insane pilgrimage. Over the last few months she’s resorted to some pretty creative speeches as testament to that, so the fact that we’re back to this old ploy tells me this is her last ditch effort. It would be sweet if she didn’t look so defeated.

Dressed in the second skin she calls a black dress and tall red heels, there’s no doubt where she’s off to tonight. Out of ten, Scarlett’s a fifteen. A drop dead knockout. It’s too bad she doesn’t even know it. Her brunette
hair is teased to perfection as always, her hazel eyes lined with Kohl, and her cute little glitter clutch is no doubt chock full of condoms.

Scarlett’s a call girl, and another friend I picked up on the street. It just so happened to be her dark alley that two guys pushed me and Tal into one night. I was thirteen at the time, and hard as bricks for my age, but not tough enough to take on two guys. Scarlett was four years older, and a hell of a lot wiser, and also… she carried a knife. She saved me that night, much as it pains me to admit it.

We aren’t as close as Tal and I were, but we’re about as close as two people like us can be I suppose. She’s just another run of the mill kid who fell through the system’s cracks with a story that managed to thaw even my cold heart. If there’s anyone who knows what makes a man tick, it’s Scarlett.

Easing back onto the floor, my gaze finds hers as I stretch out my legs. “The day I lose focus is the day that I die.”

Those were my father’s words, and they’ve never been truer. He lost focus when he got involved with the Russians, and now he’s six feet under. I don’t want to believe I’m destined to the same fate, and yet this world keeps pulling me back in.

“You want to know what I think, babe?” Scarlett crosses her legs and smooths out a wrinkle in her dress.

“Nope.” I roll my neck from side to side until it cracks. “I don’t.”

She continues on anyway. Our usual routine.

“I think you should take all of that money you saved up, give it to that private investigator of yours, and focus on things you can control. Like going to college or doing something with your life.”

“Hmmph.” I snort. “Says you. How come I can do that, but you can’t, Scarlett?”

She’s quiet for a moment, her pretty face falling with defeat.

“You don’t have to do this,” she insists.

“And you don’t have to go out tonight and sell your body,” I retort.

She sighs and finishes for me. “And yet we both will.”

“It is what it is, Scarlett. We’re fucked up. But Talia…”

I don’t finish that thought. There’s no need to. We both know that Talia was the most fucked up out of all of us. She never stood a chance. Even now, speaking her name makes my chest constrict with grief. Scarlett can see it, but doesn’t make a big production of it. She knows me better than that.

“Let me help you,” she offers.

It’s not often I feel warmth in my cold, dead heart. But as my eyes rove over Scarlett’s tiny form on the sofa, I do. Beneath her barbed wire armor lies a heart of gold. She’s far too good to be hanging out with the likes of me, and yet here she is.

“I need you to stay out of it,” I tell her. “You know that.”

What little light that remains in her eyes dims, but it’s for her protection. Scarlett has self-destructive tendencies. She likes to be reckless. It’s her own fucked up way of coping with the things that happened to her. But I do not and will not condone that behavior for her.