Sparrow (2 page)

I pressed my lips into a thin line. My job had nothing to do with Irish mobsters. I didn’t need the Feds crawling up my ass every time someone farted in my direction and certainly had no interest in the framework of gang leaders and soldiers. I was a lone wolf, who hired a few people to help him out when help was needed. I had no buffer between me and my clients, colleagues and enemies. And most importantly, I sailed smoothly under the radar. Didn’t need to hide behind a dozen soldiers. When I needed someone gone, I handled them myself.

And Father McGregor had to pay for his sins. He was already supposed to be dead—collateral damage. But he hadn’t shown up where he was supposed to when I took out the guy he’d ratted my dad out to. Billy Crupti. The asshole.

So now I had to do this in a fucking church.

“Be quick,” he requested.

I nodded grimly.

“You were always his child. Had the Irish mob gene, the ruthlessness in your blood. You had no fear. Still don’t.” He sighed, extending his hand to me.

I stared at it like it was a ticking bomb, finally shaking it. His palm felt clammy and cold, his handshake weak. I pulled him into my body for an embrace, and clasped the back of his neck with one hand.

“And I’m so sorry,” he continued, sniffing into my shoulder, his whole body quivering as he struggled to hold back the tears. “Lapse of judgment on my end. I knew that he’d kill them, both of them. But at the time, I thought I’d be doing everyone a favor.”

“It was money, wasn’t it?” I whispered into his ear as we clasped each other, me pulling a knife from a sheath at my waist. “Billy paid you?”

He nodded, still sobbing, unaware of the knife. Someone had to pay him off, and pay him good to spill the beans about my dad. Someone who wasn’t Crupti, who couldn’t even afford the fucking special of the day at his local diner.

“Not just for the money, Troy. I wanted Cillian out of this neighborhood, out of Boston. This place had suffered enough under the realm of your father. Our people deserve some peace.”

“
Our
people are not your fucking subjects.” I dragged the knife along his neck until I found his throbbing carotid artery and slashed deep, immediately shoving his body backward into the booth so that the spray of blood wouldn’t touch my newly tailored suit. “You should have minded your own business.”

He gagged and jerked on the confession floor like a fish out of water, losing buckets of blood. The scent—sour, tinny and thrilling—fogged the air and I knew it would linger in my nose for days to come.

When his spasms died down, I got down on one knee, staring back at his brown irises, still open, still filled with horror and regret. I pulled out his tongue and cut it from his mouth.

This was gang-member code for a snitch. Let the police try and figure out what the fuck Father McGregor did to deserve it and which of the hundred Boston gangs killed him. There were too many of them to count and hell knew they were intertwined with one another more often than not. Gangs had taken over the streets, filling the void left when my father was dethroned from his seat as the Boss of Boston when I was still a kid.

Ironically, in trying to give them peace, Father McGregor had sentenced his parishioners to lives of panic and fear.

The streets were still chaotic—some would say more than ever—with the crime rate picking up at an alarming speed. Keeping an eye on the Irish Mob, I assumed, was far simpler than trying to tame dozens of gangs running the streets.

I knew the police would never get anywhere near me with this murder case.

And I’d also known where I’d bury father McGregor’s tongue. In his own backyard.

I casually wiped my knife clean on his pants leg and pulled off the leather gloves I was wearing, shoving them in my pocket. I took out a toothpick and put it in my mouth. Then I rolled down my sleeves and retrieved my suit coat. When I got out the door, I glanced around for potential witnesses, just in case.

The neighborhood was deader than the man I had just dealt with. Going for a stroll wasn’t really our thing in South Boston, especially not around noon. You either worked hard, took care of the little ones at home or nursed a fucking hangover. The only witness to my visit to the church was a bird, sitting on an ugly power line up above, eyeing me suspiciously from the corner of its eye. It was a bland looking sparrow.

I crossed the road and got into my car, slamming the door behind me. Taking out a Sharpie from the glove compartment, I crossed another name off my list.

1 – Billy Crupti

2 – Father McGregor

3 – The asshole who hired Billy?

I sighed as I looked at number three, shoving the crumpled yellow paper back into my pocket.

I’ll find out who you are, motherfucker.

I looked out the window. The sparrow didn’t move, not even when a gust of wind sent the power line dancing and the bird lost its balance. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Fucking sparrow, of all birds.

I fought the urge to throw something at it, revved up the engine and spat the toothpick in my mouth into the ashtray after it was thoroughly chewed.

I thought I saw the stupid bird still following my car with its tiny eyes as I stopped at a red light and looked out my side mirror. Averting my gaze down, I checked for blood traces. There weren’t any.

McGregor was dead, but the void in my stomach didn’t shrink an inch.

It was alarming, because in order to keep my promise to my dad, I had another name to handle that wasn’t even on my list.

But this wasn’t a person I was supposed to kill. This was a person I was supposed to resurrect.

I, of all people, needed to be her savior.

Other people—normal people, I guess—would have never agreed to sacrifice this part of their lives for their father. But other people didn’t live under Cillian Brennan’s shadow, didn’t feel the urge to constantly step up their game to be equal to their late legendary sire. No, I’d follow his wishes. And I’d even make it work.

All I knew when I drove away from my childhood church were two things:

My father had sinned.

But I was to be punished.

The sparrow is associated with freedom. At one time, sailors got a tattoo of a sparrow for every five thousand nautical miles they traveled. Sparrows were believed to bring good luck. Sometimes the sailor got his sparrow tattoo even before leaving the docks, hoping it would act as a talisman and help bring him safely home again.

SPARROW

Three years later

“IS IT POSSIBLE TO
feel your heart breaking, even if you’ve never fallen in love?” I stared back at the woman in the mirror, chewing on my lower lip until the tender flesh cracked. I looked like a stranger.

Sorrow slammed into me like thunder. Sorrow for the man I would never meet, for the first love I would never experience, for the romance I would never have. For the butterflies that would never take flight in the pit of my stomach. For hope, happiness and anticipation, things I would never feel again.

“I didn’t spend three hours doing your makeup so you can munch on your lipstick like it’s a bag of chips, sweetheart.” Sherry, the makeup artist, fussed around me.

Just then, the hair stylist, a gay man in his late twenties, marched into the room, carrying a bottle of hairspray, and sprayed my hairline again without warning, spritzing the cold liquid all over my eyes. I blinked, fighting the burning sensation both on my face and from the inside.

“You done harassing me yet?” I hissed, stepping away from the mirror and walking to the other side of the luxurious presidential suite.

My first stay in a five-star hotel. And it made me feel like a glorified hooker.

I retrieved a champagne glass I was pretty certain wasn’t even mine and downed the whole thing in one gulp, slamming the glass against the fancy silver tray, fighting the urge to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand so that Sherry wouldn’t kill me. The glass broke into two pieces, and I grimaced, looking back at the crew Troy Brennan has appointed to make me look like the perfect little bride.

“I’m sure Mr. Brennan will have no problem footing the bill for this...too.” Sherry waved her hand, her overdone platinum hair stiff as a rock on her head.

She had a cleavage so deep you could almost see her belly button. She looked like a showgirl from one of the joints Pops used to work at, not exactly the kind of person I’d take fashion and makeup tips from. Then again, I had no say in anything about this wedding.

“As long as you didn’t hurt yourself,” said Joe, the stylist, wiggling his index finger at me. He pried the broken stem from between my fingers with his free hand. “Don’t want you bleeding all over the dress. It’s a vintage Valentino, mind you.”

I didn’t even pretend to look like I knew what a vintage Valentino was. Why would a girl from my tough South Boston neighborhood know anything about couture? Ask me about coupons and how to sneak into the subway for free, and I’d tell you all about it. High fashion, though? Yeah, not for me.

I rolled my eyes and walked into the bathroom to wash my hands. If I had nicked my finger, I wouldn’t want to infuriate Brennan by staining the costly rental dress. The counter was littered with hair products and makeup, as well as creams, spa essentials and my cell phone. I jumped when the phone bleeped with a text.

Eying the group in the other room, I eased the door mostly shut.

Lucy:
Still not gonna make it to class today? Boris is teaching us how to make stock. x

Me:
Sorry. Caught a bug or something. Been throwing up all night. Text me the recipe when class is over.

Lucy:
You got it, babe. Hope you feel better.

Me:
Have a feeling the worst is yet to come. x

I put the phone down and prayed, for the millionth time that day that Lucy would be too busy to read the society page tomorrow. Troy Brennan was the kind of guy to show up in the local news for all the wrong reasons. He was trouble—hot trouble, flash-fire-on-the-stove hot trouble—and I knew that his wedding would likely be spread all over the local news like salmonella from a dubious food truck the minute he said,
I do
.

And me? I’d never attracted too much attention. My social life was as active as a dead turtle. I didn’t have many friends. Those I had I’d kept oblivious to my shotgun wedding. I was pretty frightened of the groom, embarrassed with myself for agreeing to do this in the first place and too confused to deal with their potential (and understandable) questions.

Sadness pierced my heart when I turned on the faucet. My fingers brushed my engagement ring under the stream of running water. It had a diamond the size of my fist at the center, and two, smaller ones on each side. The band itself was plain, a thin platinum shackle, but the weight of the bling—literally, figuratively, freaking mentally—screamed nouveau riche to the sky and back. It also yelled money, power, and look-at-me pretense.

But there was one thing it didn’t even whisper—
my name.

Me, Sparrow Raynes. Twenty-two. The child of Abe and Robyn Raynes. An avid runner. A tomboy. A lover of blueberry pancakes, hot chocolate, sweet summer air and unapologetic boyfriend jeans.
That kid
. The girl who sat in the first row of every class and fiddled with her lunch box during school breaks because no one wanted to hang out with her. The woman who never cared about fashion. The poor chick who thought money was overrated, glitzy cars equaled small dicks, and that happiness was Irish stew and
Kitchen Cutthroat
reruns under the covers.

This ring belonged to someone else. A Real Housewife of Whatever-suburb. A trophy bride of certain tastes and status. A girl who knew who Valentino was and why his dresses were so goddamned expensive.

Not. Me.

I turned off the faucet and took a deep breath, running my fingers over my incredibly stiff hair.

“Just deal with it,” I prompted myself quietly. Marrying a wealthy man who was known as one of the most sought-after bachelors in Boston was hardly considered a punishment. “Not your choice, but roll with the plan.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. First-World problem or not, the last thing I needed was for
him
to take care of me. A soft knock on the bathroom door made me swivel my head in its direction. Sherry’s face, plastered with makeup and a fake smile, peeked through the cracked door.

“Mr. Brennan’s here to see you,” she announced in her syrupy-sweet, insincere voice.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I gritted out, clenching my fists together and allowing the monstrous ring to dig into my flesh. The pain was a welcome distraction.

“Trust me, it’s even worse luck to piss off your future husband.” I heard his iron-cold tenor cutting through the air outside the door.

I took a step back, hugging myself protectively. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, looking so much bigger than life and any of the pep talks I kept drilling into my head.