CROW (Boston Underworld Book 1) (9 page)

Hitting the lights, I lock up and step out into the cool Boston air. Instead of going left, back to the car that’ll take me to Slainte, I turn right. These streets are familiar now. They feel like home. And even though the weather is cooling as Autumn takes hold of the city, I don’t mind the walk. The fresh air is the only thing that can breathe life into the stagnant energy inside of me.

***

The spent casing rolls against the marred wood of my old desk, twisting this way and that. No matter how much I stare at it, I can’t wrap my head around it. It needs to be brought to Niall’s attention when I meet him next.

He’s not going to like it. With everything else going on right now, this is the last thing he’ll want to contend with. With the territories as unstable as they are, this alliance with the Russians means everything. There is power in numbers if only for show. The problem with numbers though, is always questioning loyalties. We don’t have the same business practices. But evolving to the times means overlooking such things. They have the Ghost, and we need him, bastard that he is.

These are all things I’m well aware of. I won’t stand to let my grand-da’s death go unpunished. But going to war right now isn’t an option. With the Armenians flocking to the East to get themselves a piece of the pie, all of the factions are up in arms.

The door to my office swings open and Ronan stalks inside. He arches a brow when he spots the bullet on my desk, and I snatch it up and place it in my pocket.

“Right, lad?” I ask.

He tosses a file onto my desk with a scowl.

“Detective James sends his regards.”

The urge to open the file straight away is strong. I smother it down. Ronan’s hovering over me like a bloody prison guard and I could do with a bit of privacy for this.

“What the feck’re ye doing, Crow?”

I reach for my glass of Jameson and take a drink, eyeing him over the rim. His intentions are good. They always are. If there’s a lad I trust in this world without a scrap of doubt, it’s Ronan Fitzpatrick. He followed me here at sixteen, earning his way into the syndicate on his own accord. He’s fought and killed and done anything I’ve ever asked of him. We’re as close to brothers as two men can be.

For this reason alone, I answer his question.

“I’m giving her a job.”

“I don’t trust her,” Ronan says.

“You don’t have to.”

He grunts his disapproval at the same time another knock sounds on the door. This office may as well be a bleeding department store.

“Come in,” I call out.

Mandy pokes her head in and smiles.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Aye, ye are.” Ronan can barely contain his distaste for this woman.

“Nah.” I grin back at him. “What do ye need Mandy?”

Ronan stalks out of the room, and the guilt ebbs away as he leaves. I don’t like keeping things from him, but it’s for his own protection. The less he knows about this, the better. When I turn my attention back to Mandy, the relief is short lived.

“So, what is the calamity this time?” I clip out.

She flinches from the coldness of my voice and then pouts her lips.

“Why does Sasha get more sets than I do? She’s on the schedule…”

“Ye know better than to come to me with this shite,” I cut her off.

Undeterred, she walks around my desk and sits on it, arching her back in an effort to draw my attention to her tits. It might have worked on me before, but I’ll never touch her again.

“You look tense.” Her voice is soft in a way I’m sure she means to be seductive. “I can fix that, Lachlan.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I remark. “Besides, aren’t there any willing pricks out there for you to have a go with tonight?”

She flips her hair over her shoulder and flattens her lips.

“They can’t do it like you can.”

“Yeah?” I grin up at her, playing the game she wants.

She nods and flashes a shy smile. I thought those were real once too.

“Yeah, Lachlan. You know it’s true.”

“Well you would know.” I finish off my whiskey and spin the glass around my finger. “Ye’ve had a ride with the whole lot of them.”

Her brown eyes harden and I look away. Should’ve sacked her a long time ago. But since Sean is so fond of her, I keep her around. A bitter reminder of what happens when you trust a female. If I were to send her packing now, it would only open him up to other distractions. Distractions like Mackenzie. The glass in my fist starts to splinter when I realize I’m crushing it in my grip.

“You act like you can’t even stand to look at me,” Mandy says.

There are tears in her eyes now as false as everything else about her. Loyalty is the only thing that’s true in this life, and if your woman isn’t loyal, there’s no place for her in your bed.

“Have ye only just figured this out?” I ask her flatly.

She reaches out to touch my face and I shove her hand away. “Fuck on out of my office and go to work.”

She snarls under her breath but does as I ask. When the door closes behind her, I pour another round of whiskey.

Fuck her.

Fuck all women, really. Can’t trust them, or anyone for that matter it seems. Even our own goddamn alliance. The thought of marrying a girl I don’t know does my head in. I don’t fancy the idea at all. I’ve seen Viktor’s daughters a time or two, maybe. But I can’t recall them for shite. And no matter which one I choose, she’ll be guaranteed to hate me.

I scrub my hands over my face and my eyes move back to the file in front of me. An unfamiliar twinge springs up in my chest thinking about what’s inside. It could be anxiety, paranoia, suspicion… any number of those things. But it doesn’t feel like it.

With a quick flip, I’m staring at a photo of the blue-eyed girl that’s currently doing my head in. Black hair, pale skin… the song that comes to mind was written just for her. She really is fucking righteous. Just like Rory said. I don’t want him talking about her like that.

She feels like she’s mine already, and I can’t have that. I want her gone. Need her gone. Out of my life and my mind. She’s a distraction I don’t need right now. A wildcard. Also, she’s too young for me anyway. Twenty-two years old. A seven-year difference, but in my world, it may as well be three decades.

My thumb traces over the photo before I push it aside. What I really need to see lays within the guts of the file. My eyes scan over the documents, strangely riveted by what I find.

The girl is tough, I’ll give her that much. Turns out she had a reason to be. A ward of the state at thirteen, followed by a slew of foster parents before she ran away. What the hell does a thirteen-year-old girl have to do to survive on her own? I’ve no doubt I wouldn’t like to know.

Her father was an underground boxer. Done in a back alley and left with the mark of the Russians. That’s what the file says, but I know the Russians very well. The sign carved into Jack Wilder’s forehead was the brand of only one man. Ivan Malikoff.

Fecking prick.

This is why he wants her dead. The Russians don’t have quite as many standards as our outfit. Some of the smaller factions do, but the whole umbrella encompasses more members than most countries have armies. It’s more of an anything goes sort of unit, depending on who’s playing the role of governor.

But it sets me to wondering. Is this why the girl is trying to get a job here? It literally felt like someone was playing a goddamn joke on me when Ronan told me she was sitting out in my club. Since my meeting with Detective James I’ve had eyes on her. So for her to walk right into Slainte and demand a job… it was the last thing I ever saw coming. Everyone knows the Russians visit here often. It’s common knowledge. Is she trying to avenge her father’s death? Or would she even have a clue that Ivan was the one who did him in?

These are questions I’d like the answers to. When I pick up her photo and stare at it one last time, I tell myself that’s why I’m letting her into our world. I don’t trust her, there’s no bones about that. I’ll need to keep a tight leash on her.

I text Ronan to come to my office. Efficient as always, he appears two minutes later.

“Aye?”

He stands in the doorway, looking at me like I’ve gone a bit mad. I suppose I have.

“The girl,” I tell him. “Put the word out over the city. Mackenzie Wilder is under the protection of the MacKenna Syndicate.”

Ronan’s eyes flash, but wisely he chooses not to argue. The man rarely does. He’d rather pout about it for days instead.

“Anything else?”

I sit back and drum my fingers over my desk. “Also, tell the lads that nobody is to touch or talk to her.”

Chapter Seven

Mackenzie

T
he room I’m staying at in Roxbury is one of those crappy pay by month sort of joints. It’s got an entire smorgasbord of seedy characters hanging around, and the accompanying strange noises throughout the night. In fact, I’m pretty sure the room next door to mine is where all the johns in the city are coming to get their rocks off. But it’s cheap and rat infested and, well, I’ve slept in a lot worse places. Nobody knows I’m here, not even Scarlett.

And yet when there’s a knock on my door at six o’ clock sharp, I’m not in the least surprised. When I squint through the peephole, Lachlan and one of his men are loitering on the other side. I had no doubts he’d be checking out my digs, but I didn’t expect him to come straight to the door.

I open it with a smile and lean against the doorjamb. “Well would you look at that?” I muse. “Fancy seeing you here, Crow. Stalking me?”

He pushes right past me, doing a quick once over of my room. “That mouth is going to get you in trouble.”

“I’ve got no doubt about that,” I agree.

He gestures to his man, who promptly goes about the business of checking my room for bugs. I watch without protest as he waves the device over every crevice he can think of. This is part of Lachlan’s tough guy front, letting me know there are no boundaries in his world. If he wants to walk into my room and have his lackeys go through my shit, he will. My notes are hidden in the bottom of a box of tampons. The chances of them actually looking through this is nil. Men are pretty predictable in that aspect.

I feign disinterest while I take a seat and let my eyes roam over Lachlan. He’s wearing low-slung jeans, a black button up and a leather jacket again. Complete with scuffed leather boots and a chain that hangs from his hip to his pocket. He definitely has that whole dark lord of the underworld look going for him. His body is muscular without being too bulky and when he moves, his shirt clings to his abs, stretching the material. That’s something I’ve always enjoyed looking at on a man. The squareness of their hips. Makes me wonder what he’d look like out of the clothes.

A thought I shake off rather quickly.

When I look up, Lachlan’s eyes flash. He’s caught me staring, and he knows it too. I shift in my chair and turn my attention towards the still open door of the motel room.

“It’s clean,” his guy declares.

Lachlan makes another gesture, and the guy disappears out the door, leaving just the two of us in the stifling room.

“Are you done yet?” I ask.

“Not nearly.” He stalks over and leans down into my space, tilting my face back to him.

Shit. He’s so close my heart is beating crazy fast. He really doesn’t have any sense of boundaries at all. And this kind of closeness… it freaks me out. But when I look into his eyes, I seem to forget all about that. Today they are the color of seafoam. Soft and alluring as he tries to pry out my deepest secrets.

Desperate for somewhere else to look, my eyes dart to his lips. It’s the wrong choice. I still remember what they felt like on mine. Soft and slightly askew, I decide that’s what gives him a boyish sort of quality. That crookedness and slight imperfection of his smile. It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget. As if he can sense my thoughts, Lachlan’s nostrils flare and his eyes swirl with a dangerous prism of colors. It’s like a jackhammer to my protective shield.

My brain is on the fritz. I know this man staring down at me is bad. So very bad. I know it’s possible he could have done this very same thing with Talia. He could have lured her in and then made her disappear when she didn’t play by his rules. Even if he didn’t, it’s likely that he knows the man who did. This mysterious Russian. They are probably friends, no doubt.

So why am I responding this way to him?

“Tell me why ye’re living here,” he says.

I pull away and attempt to regain my composure. “Okay, but stop touching me.”

“Ye don’t like it?” he asks.

It seems like a genuine question, which only confuses me more. Since when do guys like him care whether a woman likes it or not? I roll my eyes as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, waiting for my reply.

“I’m just here temporarily,” I say. “Don’t want my ex to find me.”

“Roxbury isn’t exactly a long way from Southie,” Lachlan notes. “I’ve seen you fight. Ye don’t seem the type to run scared.”

Shit, he has me there.

“Well…” I hedge. “I might be from Southie, but he’s not. And he’s completely off the rails. There’s only so many times you can try to make a guy like that see reason.”