Rake: A Dark Boston Irish Mafia Romance (The Carneys Book 1) Page 3

  He won’t like that. A tremor of fear passes through me.

  The police haven’t found the men who assaulted me. They checked in with James Carney after I told them that his goon had warned me off organizing his staff. Nothing stuck to him, of course.

  He’s got half the city in his pocket anyway.

  It’s another reason why I want to finish what I started. If I can’t get justice in one way, I’ll get it in another.

  “That’s incredible, Sasha!”

  I offer a wan smile to Gary. It’s more than he deserves. “It’s another beginning. We’ll still have to get the staff through the election process, and if Carney doesn’t crush that, through the negotiations. Still, it feels like a victory.”

  “It absolutely is. You should be proud. No one would’ve faulted you for running the other way.” Gary pauses, that shadow of guilt crossing his face again. His gaze drifts to the window. “Shit, it’s really coming down now. Looks like this storm’s going to dump about a foot of snow. Won’t be long before the busses won’t be able to make it across the Mystic Bridge.”

  It’s time for me to get going, then. I need to get to the grocery store. By the time I’m ready to leave work, it’s close to white-out conditions—impossible to see more than a few feet in front of you. I need to get the bus back home to Everett. I don’t have a car, but I wouldn’t drive in this snow anyway.

  My office, like the casino, is in Charlestown, just across the river from home. Only a few miles, but a world of difference. Charlestown has gentrified in a way Everett hasn’t. Everett is still a very blue-collar city, overly packed with people, and home to all of the industrial blights no one else wants in their backyard, like the liquified natural gas terminals.

  If those ever blow, they’ll take Carney’s casino with them.

  That’s a satisfying thought.

  I turn off my space heater, bundle up, and trudge out into the snow. It’s a quick walk to the bus stop. My shin starts its familiar ache. It’s annoying, but I’m lucky that’s the worst physical souvenir I retained.

  I woke in Mass General Hospital two days after the assault. I hadn’t been found until early the next morning, and I’d been lucky to survive that long given all the internal bleeding and the swelling in my brain. My doctors were stunned I not only survived, but with time and physical therapy, made a full recovery.

  There’s a scar on the back of my wrist from where the nylon cord shredded my skin to the bone, but it feels like a friend to me. It knows what we went through.

  My shivering intensifies, and it’s not from the cold. There’s no one lingering around the bus stop, but something’s set off my fear response.

  Is it real this time? It’s only six o’clock in the evening, but the dark of winter and blustery snow makes it hard to see clearly. I hate not being able to differentiate if my gut is telling me something important, or if it’s something completely innocuous triggering my PTSD. I thought only soldiers got that, but my doctors tell me it’s a very real thing for people who went through what I did. I can’t remember any of the coping mechanisms they taught me right now, though.

  Bile rises in my throat. My senses heighten as the world around me slows. I can’t stay here. I need to move.

  That’s fine. I can climb up the hill toward home and walk until the bus catches up with me. Being on the move usually calms some of the panic.

  But then I hear footsteps behind me and I’m too terrified to look back. No matter how fast I walk, I can’t seem to outpace whoever follows me. Fear claws at my throat but I fight to keep my thoughts clear. Not getting distracted: that’s what got me into trouble last time.

  Finally, I decide to ditch this road lined with vacant industrial parks and slip into one of the fancier neighborhoods.

  There at least someone might hear me scream and think it’s out of the ordinary. Not like in Doherty Park.

  My leg protests as I hustle through the side streets, hoping that the dense clusters of brownstone buildings and the possibility of witnesses convince whoever’s following me to give up.

  That’s when I hear the laughing. Christ. That nasally cackle has been the soundtrack of my nightmares for months.

  Does Carney know about the application already?

  I didn’t tell the casino staff I was going to file to protect us. Does Carney have a contact at the NLRB? Or did Gary sell me out? Either seems impossible to believe. The NLRB is federal, not local, so hopefully beyond Carney’s grasp. And Gary is too vanilla to be a double agent.

  It’s probably just more fallout from the petition card process. Not every staff person wants the union, and we suspect it’s the ones who don’t who dropped dimes to Carney in the first place.

  But it doesn’t matter as I sprint through the snow, running wildly toward any hint of another person. I was scared running from my attackers back in July, but this is a new level of fear.

  Now I know what it feels like to have my bones shattered and the brutal months of recovery that follow. I know how sleep is something to fear now, exhaustion preferable to the night terrors that make me bolt awake, screaming and sweating.

  My ankle buckles as I hit a divot in the sidewalk that’s been obscured by snow. I don’t fall, but it slows me. My body screams with the effort of trying to push through the pain, but I feel his hand snag my coat. It’s over.

  “Goddamn, you’re a fast one,” he says, yanking my body against his. His hand is over my mouth again, and I bite down hard, tasting the salty leather of his gloves.

  He laughs. That fucking laugh.

  “Can’t feel it, Cinderella. At least you kept both shoes on this time.” He squeezes my face with one hand, holding me immobile as he fishes in his pocket for something.

  Please, God, let someone come out of their house. Please.

  But the force of my will has never been strong enough to save me.

  When I first got back to work, someone walked me to the bus stop every day or drove me home to help keep me safe.

  But as the outward evidence of my assault faded, their sympathy did as well. They congratulated me for being brave and not living my life in fear. And I wanted so badly for that to be true that I pretended to believe it too, fighting the good fight and taking the bus every day, even when it was dark and I was petrified.

  Fight through the fear.

  Face it and it will go away.

  But it never went away, and my bravado just feels like foolishness now.

  He pulls a hood over my head.

  “It looks just like a nice hat, don’t worry. Not many people out in the storm.” His tone is conversational, like this is an ordinary winter stroll. Panic makes my limbs go numb, and I fight to stay conscious.

  “Lucky for me,” he continues. “Not so lucky for you. Probably why you don’t like casinos. Not a place for people with bad luck.”

  He chuckles at his joke. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as much as I want to hurt this man, not even the one who did the beating. My brain screams at my body to fight back, but I can’t move. I can’t move and I hate myself for it.

  He drags me along, and I’m not sure if my legs are even touching the ground at this point. My brain floods with images of all the horrible things that will happen to me when this little trip ends, and I can’t decide if it’d be better if we got to our destination sooner rather than later, just so it’ll be over with.

  Maybe anticipation is worse.

  He pulls me up some stairs into a building. I can’t see where.

  No, the anticipation isn’t worse and I know it. Something shakes loose in my brain and my muscles respond to my commands. I thrash against him, kicking and clawing.

  “Almost there.” He grabs me by the neck and hauls me up several flights of stairs.

  I can’t scream. The blood can’t reach my brain with the pressure he’s putting on my neck, and the fight drains from me too. White pinpoints of light are the only thing I can see.

  Is the pounding sound my brain begging for
blood or someone banging on a door?

  “P.J.? What the hell?” The new voice is deep and rich.

  “I have a little gift from your father.”

  I’m shoved into a warm space, blood rushing to my head with the pressure gone from my neck. My knees give in and I tumble onto a hardwood floor in a heap. I count slowly as I breathe. The conversation goes on as if I’m not even there, lying on the floor with a hood over my head gasping for air. What’s going to happen to me?

  “The little lady here’s been causing trouble, and she ignored a very polite and direct request to butt out of your family’s business,” P.J. says. “And your father thought you’d want to handle this directly. Though if you want, I’m happy to help.”

  P.J. pulls me up by the back of my coat. I move with him like a rag doll. “She’s cute,” he says. “We’d have a good time. Well, I would anyway.”

  A pathetic whimper escapes my lips at the implied threat.

  “Jesus Christ, P.J. Leave her and get out. I’ll take care of things here.”

  Do I want to be left with the man who orders P.J. around like it’s nothing?

  “Okay, but if you don’t deal with her, your father will find out, and then I don’t have to tell you what comes next.” P.J. shoves me back on the ground.

  “Are you threatening me? Because that’s not a good idea.” There’s a commanding edge to his voice. Though I want P.J. out of my life more than anything, I’m afraid of what’s going to happen next. I fumble with the hem of the hood, but my fingers are too cold to function properly.

  “Of course not. I’m threatening her. Your father, though. He was threatening you both. See ya.”

  The door opens and then clicks shut.

  I’m completely numb and barely process the hood being pulled gently from my head. It takes several rapid blinks to clear my vision. I’m in the living room of an apartment. The normalcy of the space is rattling.

  The man standing in front of me is absurdly handsome. He’s tall, with an angular, masculine face lined by a well-sculpted beard. Thick, dark wavy hair hangs over eyes so blue they’re almost black. He stares at me, leaning against a leather couch.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  His question is so ridiculous I almost start laughing. Just like P.J.

  “I know you,” I slur. “You’re Finn Carney.” My teeth chatter, feeling slowly returning to my face.

  “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. And you are?”

  “You have to be kidding me.” I let out a hysterical laugh. “I’ve been kidnapped and dragged to your apartment. This isn’t a fucking meet-cute.”

  I can sort of feel my toes now. My ankle throbs and is going to hurt like hell when the panic fog lifts all the way. A distraction from all the other bruises I’m sure I picked up on this journey. Drowns out the ache in my shin, too.

  “Unfortunately not,” he says. He runs his eyes over me in a way that makes me blush though I can’t say exactly why. “But it looks like we’re stuck together until we figure this out, and it’d be a lot easier if I knew your name.”

  “Figure this out? Figure what out? Just let me go,” I demand.

  He sighs and sweeps a hand through his hair. It’s ridiculously attractive hair.

  “I wish I could,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “But that wouldn’t be great for either of us. P.J. is waiting outside, most likely.”

  The thought sobers me. I’ll never be free of that monster, will I?

  “You strike me as an intelligent woman,” he continues. “So why don’t we work together on some kind of mutually beneficial solution that doesn’t involve you getting hurt any further?”

  Is he serious? I don’t want to work with a Carney on any goddamn thing.

  “Or you could call the cops,” I spit.

  “I don’t see that helping much at all.” He folds his arms across his broad chest. “My father has people everywhere.”

  Fuck. I’d thought as much but hearing the confirmation from Carney’s son cements the fear in my gut. I’d wanted to believe there were more good guys than there were bad guys out there.

  How can I work for justice in the midst of so much corruption?

  “This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night either, but it doesn’t look like either of us has much of a choice,” he says drily.

  “So sorry to disturb your plans.” My voice drips with vitriol that scares even me. I don’t care if he’s right. His cool response to this situation is disturbing and tells me everything about his family’s business that I need to know.

  They project a genteel, refined image, but what lies beneath is ugly and terrifying.

  Darker and more twisted that I’d imagined.

  The same holds true for this handsome man in front of me. What does he have to lose if he lets me leave? P.J. mentioned his father threatened him. With what? And what would he do to me to escape that threat?

  My leg is twisted painfully beneath me. Now that the feeling is finally returning, my ankle screams, throbbing as I grab the front of my boot and try to maneuver into a less painful position. Are my boots always this heavy? I clutch my ankle, grateful that my boots have kept out the cold, damp snow at least. Fighting back both exhaustion and tears, I pull my knees in close to my chest to find what warmth and comfort I can.

  He watches me struggle and furrows his brow as he registers the pain I’m in. It’s a momentary flash of humanity, but it’s gone in a second.

  “I’m sorry.” He says it like he’s not used to apologizing. The prince of a mafia family doesn’t have to apologize often, I guess. “I probably seem cold, but I’m used to the reality of my father. Pragmatism will save us both pain. I don’t mean to minimize what you’ve been through tonight.”

  “Tonight?” My voice wavers. “Do you have any idea what your father has put me through? I’m lucky to be alive.”

  My eyes search for any sign of remorse, but there’s none. His face doesn’t move—he’s like one of those marble statues of Adonis.

  Distant.

  Unreadable.

  “Not many people come away from standing up to my father unscathed, Ms.?” His hand moves as if of its own volition to a scar that cuts through his eyebrow. It’s the only imperfection marring his otherwise perfect face.

  Maybe I don’t know the whole story here.

  “Sasha,” I offer reluctantly. “Sasha Saunders.”

  “Ah, the union organizer,” he says, easing down onto the hardwood floor next to me. It’s not a graceful descent. He’s not someone who’s used to lowering himself like this. “P.J. bringing you here makes a lot more sense now.”

  “Please do let me in on the secret, then, because I have no idea what’s going on.”

  He smirks at me.

  God, I wish I didn’t find him so fucking attractive.

  “May I?” he asks, indicating my boots. “Seems like your ankle is bothering you. Besides, the snow isn’t good for the floors.”

  I can’t tell if that last part is a joke or not.

  “It’s better to leave it on until I can get some medical help.” My voice is small. “It’ll keep the swelling down.”

  He drapes one of his big, elegant hands on my boot. “That’s not going to happen tonight. I can’t let you leave until we’ve figured this out.”

  He sounds annoyed. Like he can’t believe I haven’t just accepted my fate. I won’t give him permission, but I don’t bother protesting as he unties the laces and eases my boot off. I suck in a breath at the sharp intrusion of pain.

  My socks are purple with pink bunnies on them. They’d been a gift from my late Grandma Goldie. Watching him peel that embarrassing sock off my foot nearly breaks me.

  Suddenly, I’m glad I shaved my legs even though it’s winter. What a stupid thing to think right now. Annoyance surges through me at the thought, so out of place in this dangerous situation.

  He probes my injury with gentle fingers. My foot is ghostly white, with the starburst of a brui
se beginning to swell around my ankle bone.

  “It doesn’t seem broken, but it’s a bad sprain.” He flicks his dark eyes at me. “Old injury?”

  “Not so old.”

  Turns out having your ankle tied at an angle to a fence for hours is bad for it.

  He blinks slowly as he processes what I’ve said. He shifts uncomfortably, though whether from the knowledge of how I was hurt or from being on the floor, who knows.

  “Ah. I see. Well, I’ve always been pretty lanky and I twisted my ankles a lot as a kid. I can wrap this up for you.”

  “Lanky is not the word I’d use to describe you.”

  He lets out a husky laugh, his fingers lightly tracing my ankle. It sparks a bizarre longing deep inside me. What is wrong with me?

  It’s not fair for God to make a ridiculously attractive man like this and make him a Carney. Not that devastatingly attractive men are ever interested in me. Not even mediocre ones like Gary are. But still.

  He’s taking my other boot off now, and I don’t fight him. He closes a warm hand around my frozen foot.

  “Let’s get you into something dry, and I’ll make dinner while we think about next steps.”

  I’m trapped and I hate it.

  But if James Carney doesn’t know he’s going to be served on Monday, and this is just a reaction to more whispers about union activity, I’m not any safer at home. This way at least my little brother won’t be in harm’s way.

  Another lesson life has taught me lately: I don’t have to like this to accept it.

  “Fine,” I say, trying to push to my feet.

  He takes me by the elbows. I can feel the sinew of the muscles of his forearms through the material of his shirt. He’s not bulky, but he’s big. And given how easily he lifts me, he’s strong. I try to put weight on my left foot and stumble against him.

  “Careful,” he says, holding my arms still.

  He shifts so he’s next to me and slides an arm around my waist. He smells like the oaky embers of a fire that’s just gone out. Still warm, nearly intoxicating. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline draining from me. His mouth is next to my ear. “Slowly now.”