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“You know,” Tommy continued, “I think you like it too much—that’s your problem. I can see it in your eyes right now. I may be a crazy bastard, but you are a black-souled motherfucker, and let me tell you, there’s more to life than this.”
Tommy gestured around him, but I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. The warehouse? Boston? That mess on the floor that used to be a person? At what point did my day take such a sharp left turn that I was now being handed life lessons by Tommy Quinn? If the guys thought I was too hard for the job, then Tommy was downright gleeful about it. The man was always spoiling for a fight, and nothing made him happier than putting the screws to someone.
“All I’m saying, is, there’s more to life than work.” When I continued to stare at him, Tommy made vague outline of a woman’s figure with his hands. “I mean, when’s the last time you got laid? You know, Sloane’s got this friend, tight little piece, mouth like a Dyson—”
“I don’t know what shocks me more, Tommy, your amount of concern over my sex life or the fact that you actually know a vacuum brand.”
“Fuck you, Connor. I’m just trying to make my life a little more bearable. Smiling won’t kill you, you know.” As if to illustrate his point, Tommy grinned. Between the hair buzzed into a close-cropped mohawk, the scar running down the corner of his left eye, and the tattoos, the man looked positively ghoulish.
Thankfully, I was saved from further interrogation into my sex life by Alfie’s reappearance. “Bootsie’s here, and he says Callum needs you both.”
“Something up?” Tommy asked.
Alfie looked over at him. “Yeah. Your little sister is what’s up.”
Shite. So much for keeping that little problem to ourselves.
Lady Divine’s was a two-bit dive bar on the corner of Bolton and D Street in the heart of South Boston, nestled amongst former Southie projects undergoing gentrification. At least, that’s what powers that be liked to call it. Since the eighties, and largely with our help, the neighborhood had cleaned up its act enough to earn the title from politicians looking to add another feather in their cap, just enough to provide a better standard of living for ourselves, but not enough to entice the bougie bistros and hipster coffee shops of the North End.
On paper, Lady D’s was co-owned by Michael Quinn and Callum McTiernan. It ran a small but mostly honest trade, catering to dockworkers at the nearby seaport, and it was perfectly fine as long as you were in the mood for only two things—Sam Addams beer or Irish whiskey. My cousin, Sloane, tended bar there. She was McTiernan through and through, viciously loyal with tattoos and a mouth like a goddamn sailor, but it was still hard for me to talk to her.
Mostly because I was the one who had gotten her twin brother, Aiden, killed.
“Hey Connor,” Sloane said, wiping the bar top.
As always, she tried to meet my eyes, but I avoided it. “Sloane. How’s Johnny’s Ma holding up?”
“Not great,” she said softly. “Johnny’s dead.”
That time, I couldn’t help but look at her, my stomach plummeting to my shoes. I could see so much of Aiden in those emerald green eyes, full of sorrow but not a hint of blame. Not even after everything I’d done.
Sloane poured me a whiskey, but I couldn’t bring myself to drink it. “Callum’s up in the office. He’s waiting for you and Tommy.”
Sloane straightened and walked over to the taps. By the time she’d drawn two tall beers for Alfie and Tommy, any hint of heartache was gone from her face, her usual teasing smirk firmly in place.
“Thanks, sweetness.” Tommy tipped her a wink. It was painfully obvious—to everyone but Sloane, it seemed—the huge crush Tommy had on her. But Sloane only had eyes for one man.
“Hey Alfie.” Sloane lit up like the surface of the sun as she slid him a Wicked Hazy. “Did you see the Sox traded Nowak? Some third-round draft pick from Toronto.”
Alfie made a face. “Clayton?”
“Yep.”
“Shit.”
“Shit is right. And let me tell you, that asshat—” Sloane leaned over the bar, talking baseball stats, cleavage peeking out from the vee in her vintageDropkick Murphystee on full display. Alfie didn’t seem to notice.
Tommy sure did, though.
The big brunette was uncharacteristically quiet as we slipped behind the bar and headed upstairs. I didn’t pay him much mind. I had bigger problems on my mind than the strange love triangle brewing between Tommy, Alfie, and Sloane. Problems in the shape of a hot-headed little doctor with strawberry blond hair.
“Tommy, my boy.” As soon as we entered the office, Callum pulled Tommy into an awkward but sincere one-armed hug. He was a bear of a man, a grizzled rough-and-tumble type with a thick Southie accent and crooked, reddened nose that had experienced a close encounter with a fist one too many times. The smile dropped from Callum’s face as he released him and nodded in my direction. “Connor.”
“Sir.” If I were a jealous man, Connor’s brush-off might have stung. After all, I was his own flesh and blood, not Tommy. But instead, I felt nothing but shame, because I knew I had earned every bit of that.
“Sit.” Callum pointed to one of the chairs. “How’d that thing with Gordie go?”
“Rolled as soon as we put the iron to ‘im,” Tommy said. “Gordie sold us out, it was Moretti’s guys who hit us last night.”
