Boston Underworld: The Collection Read online

  I’m Shipping Up to Boston Dropkick Murphys

  PROLOGUE

  MACKENZIE

  I HATE COPS.

  I really, really do. Especially around here. You never know whose payroll they’re actually on. Dealing with them over the last six months has done nothing to improve my image of them.

  Fucking cops.

  They won’t give me the time of day. When I filed the missing person’s report, they barely even glanced at the details. Follow ups? Nonexistent. Now every time they see me at the station they’re rolling their frigging eyes. They don’t give two shits about some missing woman with a questionable reputation. Just like thousands of others in this country, she’s been sucked into a black hole never to be seen or heard from again. Their families and friends are left at the mercy of a system that divvies up investigative hours based on who looks the prettiest on print or who shouts the loudest to the media. Talia has nobody shouting for her. Only me. And that means it’s up to me to find out what happened to her.

  It was the same story with my dad. Forget that he was brutally murdered. He deserved it because he was a nobody boxer fighting in the underground. He associated with bad people, and therefore he got his just penance. That’s how the cops deal with things in this city. That’s how they dealt with my father’s death and the thirteen-year-old kid he left behind. Sweep it under the rug and file it away under cases that actually matter.

  I was a kid then, so I had no say. But I’m all grown up now- at the ripe old age of twenty-two- and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this happen again. The last nine years have forged a woman with a heart of steel. I’m not backing down this time. Whatever it takes to find her, I will do it. This is more personal to me than it’ll ever be to any of these office monkeys.

  Which is why I’m now sitting in said office of some poor schlep who works for the FBI. Really, all these robots are just overpaid cops too. Still, I feel bad for this lady sitting across from me. Agent Cameron is her name- as evidenced by the name plate and various other propaganda strewn across her desk. There are always clues about people’s inner workings if you look close enough. And what Ms. Cameron’s office tells me about her is that she wants to feel important. She’s probably dedicated her best years to the job. But she’s stuck in an office shuffling papers and that frigging nameplate is all she has to show for her career.

  The lines of bitterness are etched into her overtired face. She doesn’t look like she’s had a day of fun in her whole life. But then again, have I? Maybe that’s what bothers me about her. I see a bit of myself reflected in her eyes. A desolate future of nothingness and only my cats to go home to at the end of the day.

  I imagine this woman has plenty of them. Her lackluster red hair is still stuck in the style of the eighties, and her gray suit does absolutely nothing for her pale complexion. She pushes her glasses up the ridge of her nose and takes a sip from a mug that proclaims she’s been to Disneyland. At least she has that going for her, I guess.

  “Look, uhm…” She glances down at the paperwork before her to find my name. The same name I’ve already told her twice.

  “Mackenzie,” I repeat.

  “Yes, Mackenzie.” She straightens her posture and sighs. “I understand your frustrations. Really, I do. I know it might not seem like it, but the investigation is still ongoing. I can promise you, it’s being handled.”

  Anger boils inside of me like lava, threatening to spill over and destroy everything around me at any moment. I swear these assholes are pre-programmed to say the same thing on repeat. And I’m so sick of this same old song and dance. All my life they’ve been spoon-feeding me this bullshit. Foster carers, social workers, police, and everyone else telling me they know what’s best. I’ve been ping ponged around the system so much I barely have the energy to fight it anymore.

  That’s what they want. They want me to go back home and give up. They assume that eventually, as the months roll by and turn into years, the pain will fade and I’ll just forget she ever existed. But that isn’t going to happen. I won’t give up on her, ever.

  I take a deep breath and shove the worn photograph across the desk. A four-by-five snapshot of a rare candid moment. Talia is smiling and glancing over her shoulder with the purest eyes you’ve ever seen. She’s never been much of a smiler, honestly. Too many demons. But I caught this one on film, and it’s something I’ve always treasured. I want them to know she was a real person, with real feelings. Plus, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my research, it’s that the news outlets love to talk about the girls with a pretty smile.

  “Just look at her face,” I plead. “Look at this girl. Not her file number, but her face. She’s not a street walker, or a call girl, or whatever the hell it is you think that makes her less important. She doesn’t do drugs, and she isn’t a criminal. Her name is Talia Parker.”

  My lip trembles, but I go on. I’m not a crier. If my dad were here, he’d be telling me to get my shit together. Emotions are a luxury that Wilder’s can’t afford. That philosophy bled into our relationship too, staining or strengthening it, depending on how you look at it. He told me not to cry, so I didn’t. He told me not to care about anyone, so I didn’t. I squashed it all down and locked it up deep inside of me. Truthfully, I feel too much. But you wouldn’t know that about me. Nobody does.

  Because I’m always in control.

  The way Agent Cameron’s looking at me right now though, you’d think I was hysterical. I don’t care what she thinks. I just need to get through to her.

  “We grew up together in foster care.” A strangled laugh bursts from my chest. “I know it’s such a cliché, right?”

  My voice is maniacal now, as are Agent Cameron’s eyes as she watches me come unhinged. I forge on anyhow.

  “If you read her file, then you know. You know she’s already slipped through the cracks once. Please…”

  To her credit, Agent Cameron does actually look at Talia’s face. She takes it all in, for at least a good minute. It makes me feel better, this one small act of kindness. Most of the others couldn’t even do that much.

  “She’s a very pretty girl.” Agent Cameron clears her throat and pushes the photo back towards me. “And if we find anything else, I promise you we’ll be in touch, Miss Wilder.”

  The walls are closing in on me. Everything is fading, shrinking, condensing. I want to scream. To punch something. To act like a complete lunatic. I want to tear this lame office apart and stomp her nameplate into the floor.

  Instead, I take another breath. That isn’t going to help my case.

  “What about the evidence I brought you?” I demand.

  Agent Cameron frowns and shuffles through Talia’s bank statements and all of the information I could gather so far, which isn’t a whole helluva lot. I’m grasping at straws. I know that.

  “This isn’t exactly evidence,” she says. “All this proves was that she made cash deposits into her bank account every two weeks. Without a check, we have no way to trace who that money was from.”

  “It’s from them.” I ball my hands into fists. “I can promise you.”

  Her lips flatten, and I know she’s about to kick me out any minute.

  “What about the other girls?” I press. “Don’t you think it’s strange that the missing person cases in this area have spiked over the last year? They’re all young, pretty girls. They have to be going somewhere.”

  “I can assure you we have all of our best agents looking into it,” she says. “But at present there’s no connection for any of these girls to Slainte. Your friend is the only one who even had ties to the club, if what you say is true, and even so, there’s no evidence to that fact.”

  “Send an agent in undercover,” I urge. “Then you’ll see. You’ll find out what’s really going on there.”

  “We don’t have the resources for something like that,” she says. “And without any inkling of proof, our hands are tied.”

  Proof.

  That’s
what it always comes down to. Of course they aren’t going to leave proof. They’re the fucking mob. What do these people expect, a giant neon sign that says we do underhand business dealings here? I’m sure the feds are already aware of it. Everybody in this city is. But that’s the problem. You never know which one of these assholes is on their team.

  I tap my foot and dart my eyes around the office like a junkie. I hate these confines. These gray walls and the smell of recycled air. Proof. Where else can I get proof?

  My eyes snap up to Agent Cameron’s, and I make my boldest suggestion yet.

  “Send me in,” I say. “I’ll go undercover. No need to pay me. You can just liaise with me or whatever the hell you call it.”

  She presses her lips together and the shutters come down over her eyes.

  “We would never authorize anything like that Miss Wilder,” she says firmly. “So please don’t go getting any bright ideas.”

  She grabs the requisite white business card she’s going to send me packing with and stands up. I follow, because it’s clear there’s no help to be found here.

  “If you think of anything else that might help the case, you can call this number,” she offers.

  I take the card and crumple it in my fist as I give her an icy smile.

  “Thanks for your time,” I tell her.

  When I walk out the door and fling myself into a cab, I come to my own conclusions. Agent Cameron is wrong. And there on the creaky vinyl with a cabbie who smells like salami, I find a smile in the bleakness. Because whether she condones it or not, I think my idea might just work. In fact, I think it’s the brightest frigging idea I’ve had in six months.

  1

  LACHLAN

  THE CITY of Boston is washed out, the sky a blanket of gray. An Irish goodbye for the grand-da I never had the chance to truly know.

  One by one, the lads come forward to speak their final piece. Niall and Ronan remain by my side, quiet. Condolences are carried away on the Autumn breeze, faintly spoken, and seldom heard. My bones are heavy, clothing soaked, and all that remains is the crispness of an air that only comes after a storm.

  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 altar 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.