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Jack
“Never though’ I’d see the day,” my father’s voice rang through the hallowed halls of Boston’s finest, “when my son called me for a bailout.”
Frank O’Connell staggered into view. He was all blurred edges, hungover as hell. He’d lost a bit of his gut, but the puffiness around his face was permanent from the alcohol. He reeked of it as he neared, forcing me to swallow the bile in my throat.
The fluorescent lights of the precinct were blinding. I leaned my head against the bars, gritting my teeth. My ribs were healing, but my migraine had amplified over the past few days. Gunshots echoed inside my skull, driving me insane. Twelve people were dead by my hand, yet I was no closer to finding my brother’s killer. Carnage. That was all I had unearthed.
“I didn’t fucking call you,” I growled.
Keys clanked against metal. I opened my eyes as Officer Donovan unlocked the door to the cell, which I had to myself. Knowing who I was, they’d separated me from the other inmates in the drunk tank.
“Is that any way to treat the man who just saved yer skin?” Frank asked in a singsong voice, winking at Donovan.
I pushed past them, rounding the corner to the other cell. The victim of last night’s brawl was looking worse for wear. He held an ice pack to his swollen eye, glaring at me with malice. I flipped him off as I passed his cage, trailing my finger on the bars. I couldn’t remember what he’d done to anger me. Given the week I’d had, it wouldn’t take much.
Frank signed the paperwork, but it was for show. It would go straight into the shredder when we left. He hadn’t paid to get me out—he was paying for their silence.
Miraculously, it was the first time I’d seen the inside of a cell—and for something as petty as a pub brawl. If they had any idea how many people I’d killed since Thursday, they’d be shipping me back to New York to serve life and then some.
“Tom’s in the car.” Frank grunted, working to catch up as I slammed through the precinct’s glass doors.
I eyed the Jeep, wondering if I should even get in. Abhorrence was an understatement when it came to my father, but it’d be smart to cool off for a few days. God only knew how many people were searching for me. My own men, definitely. Nicoletti would be hunting for someone to answer for the massacres. Organized Crime was another, but they’d be easier to dodge. Police were predictable and had to follow protocol.
The one person not looking for me was her, which was bittersweet. I wanted her to hate me, but it still stung. I had to block my mind from going down that route. I needed to finish what I started, then I would allow myself time to lick my wounds, although there wasn’t enough time left on earth for me to recover from losing Emma. Men like me didn’t get second chances. When we committed, we gave it our all. Emma Marshall might not know it, but she’d always have my heart. I’d never love again.
“I hate you, Jack.”
I hopped into the back of the Jeep, shivering at the harrowing memory. Tom glanced at me over his shoulder, nodding once. I must have looked wrecked, though I’d won last night’s brawl.
Frank clambered into the passenger seat, passing back a fifth of whiskey. “Hair o’ the dog?”
I eyed the bottle, imagining hitting my father over the head with it. Instead, I took it from him.
Frank chuckled, the sound like a semitruck failing to start. “Though’ you might need it. Ye gonna thank yer father, boyo?”
I poured the liquor down my throat, wincing from the cheap brand’s burn. I was normally pickier with my choice of drink, but not today. I would take anything to ease the pain in my head. As well as the ache in my heart.
“Fuck off, Frank.” My voice cracked with the heat from the alcohol. I took a few deep breaths, then tilted the half-empty bottle back again. I didn’t recognize the street Tom was driving down, although we were likely headed to Frank’s trailer park.
Frank’s expression betrayed the slightest sign of concern. “I know it’s the pot callin’ the kettle black, but you migh’ wanna slow down, boyo.”
I ignored him as the alcohol sluiced into my belly, dulling my senses. If I were going to lay low in Boston, I didn’t want to be conscious for it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emma
“Is this where you guys grew up?”
Mick pulled into a dilapidated trailer park in the neighborhood of Roxbury. Dumpsters were overfilled with garbage, attracting droves of flies. There were potholes every ten feet, forcing me to take hold of the leather seat. Broken-down cars littered the skinny driveways. Shattered windows, liquor bottles, cigarette butts, torn screens—I’d never been anywhere like this.
It wasn’t even dawn, but people sat outside on lawn chairs. They drank from paper bags, joints pinched between their fingers. A few residents stopped talking, staring as we passed them. Mick parked in front of a periwinkle-colored trailer with a Jeep beside it.
“No,” Mick answered, unbuckling his seatbelt. “We grew up somewhere much worse than this.”
I exited the vehicle, my boots crunching on the gravel driveway.
It wasn’t a secret that I’d lived a sheltered life. I’d known the O’Connell boys had been raised in squalor, but seeing it firsthand was eye-opening. Jack had grown up in a place worse than this? I wanted to grab him and get the hell out of here as soon as possible.
