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Alfie
Well, shit. That escalatedquickly.
I hurdled over a stack of pallets and skidded into the alley. Moretti’s men were right on my tail. It was my own damn fault, allowing myself to get distracted by that leggy blond barista at the coffee shop when I was supposed to be watching for Marco.
I've always excelled at blending into the shadows. It was a skill honed over years, one that kept me alive in a world where secrets were the currency of life and death. As a member of the McTiernan Clan, secrets were my stock-in-trade. So, when Johnny, one of Connor McTiernan's snitches, ended up murdered in his own hospital bed, it naturally fell to me to dig up who had tipped off Moretti. Marco was the only one of Johnny’s contacts from the Moretti Crime Family that Connor knew about, and I had some pressing questions to ask him.
Because we had a mole in our ranks, and I had a feeling that Johnny’s death was just the beginning.
But I had more important things to worry about right now, like the three mouth-breathers chasing me down the alley. The fact that they hadn’t shot me yet wasn’t giving me the warm-and-fuzzies. That meant they wanted to beat some answers out of me, and my face was way too pretty to be sporting a black eye or two. Or worse.
I slipped in a puddle of something foul-smelling. I almost went down, but I corrected at the last moment, scrabbling around a corner as one of my pursuers went sailing over me.
“Grab him!”
A hand fisted my jacket, and this time I did go down, leaving some skin on the sidewalk as I skidded to a stop.
“Hold him down, Marco.”
Well, hello, Marco. He was the contact of Johnny’s I was supposed to be tailing, but as an elbow slammed painfully into my ribs, I decided I wasn’t in the mood to stick around and chat. I rolled a hip and flipped him off my back, giving him a swift knee in the balls for good measure.
Goodbye, Marco.
Seel flashed as I sprinted down the sidewalk. A knife. Moretti’s guys weren’t playing around anymore. My heart thundered against my ribs, my breath coming in painful gasps. I wasn’t out of shape by any means, but I hadn’t run like this since Tommy and I were kids, wild and nothing but trouble, running from the cops in South Boston. I sure didn’t miss that.
My bruised ribs were becoming a painful stitch in my side. I had to shake these guys off and find some place to lie low for a while. Connor was going to fucking kill me if I got snatched up by Moretti.
“Come on back here, Irish—we just wanna ask you some questions. We’re not gonna hurt you!” One of them shouted at me.
That knife in your hands says different, I wanted to shout back, but I didn’t have the breath to answer. They were gaining on me. So, I did what any sane man would do.
I threw myself into traffic.
Brakes screeched. Horns blared. Only about half the cars tried to stop, but the others swerving around them created a nice mess of things. I dodged and weaved past one car, then another, almost making it across the street before I clipped a cab—I think the asshole actually sped up—and the world summersaulted.
I absorbed the hit on my hip and let my body twist over the hood, landing on my feet. My side hurt like a son of a bitch, but when I looked back, I saw that Moretti’s guys weren’t quite as adventurous. Laughing like a maniac, I threw up a middle finger as I ran down the street. That red light wouldn’t hold them forever.
I ducked into another alley. This part of the city was older, brick buildings dotted with ivy and wrought iron gates. They’d chased me all the way to Beacon Hill.
Shit. This was deep in Moretti’s territory.
I stumbled over a cobblestone. They were going to be on me any minute now. It wouldn’t take them long to discover the alley. The first two doors were barred and shut tight, but the third had a brick propping it open. I kicked the brick out of the way and ducked inside.
It was a bookshop. It smelled, predictably, like dust and old books, a scent that kind of reminded me of my grandma’s house, minus the cats, of course. But there was something there that smelled sweeter underneath the leather and old paper, something dark and sultry that hinted at whispered secrets and stolen kisses behind the bookshelves.
I tried to breathe quietly, melting back into the bookcases. It was unnaturally silent—was this place even open? I double checked the door and inched along the back wall. I was in somekind of a storeroom. Not the greatest, but if I could find a place to wait it out for a few hours—
A footstep sounded behind me, and I ducked just in time for a book to go sailing past my head. I dropped to the ground and rolled, coming up with my knife in my hand to face my attacker, a tiny slip of a girl with big doe eyes and full lips pulled into a frown.
“Who are you? You shouldn’t be here.” Her voice was steady enough, but the hands that held the heavy book shook, undermining what I assumed was meant to be a threatening stance.
"Please," I gasped. "I need your help."
She blinked owlishly up at me, taking in the state of my bloodied and bruised body. Her eyes lingered on my tattoos, widening a bit at the ones across the knuckles.Fuil agus Onóir. Blood and Honor, the code of the Irish mob. I wondered if she understood what the words meant for someone like me.
I didn’t get much time to wonder. The bell on the front door chimed, and three men walked in. It was the Italians. The girl saw me freeze. Without a word, she rushed toward me and took my hand, pulling me toward the back of the storeroom. She opened a door to a small closet and shoved me inside. “What—”
