Authors: K. Ryan
If I'd blinked I would've missed it, but it happened. Moretti actually backed down in this silent Mexican stand-off. I know exactly what he has on my dad. The cheating. The lying. The illegitimate daughter he abandoned. The dead mistress. I know all of that already. And it's all the more reason for Moretti to send his stormtroopers in to put a stop to the illegal betting that happens at our bar and shut it down once and for all.
But he doesn't. Every single Friday and Saturday, everyone in Boston knows what goes down in Na Soilse and every single Friday and Saturday, it's business as usual without so much as a sniff from Moretti.
So the question is, what does Roark Callahan have on Val Moretti?
"I DON'T CARE, Jack," my mom shakes her head and folds her arms over her chest. "I'm officially putting my foot down. You're not doing it."
And here I thought she'd missed the part where I'm a 30-year-old man perfectly capable of making my own decisions. I need my mom telling me what to do like I need a hole in the head.
"She's right, son," my dad's grim eyes meet mine from across the office in the bar. "It's just not a good idea. You're not 100 percent right now and you won't be in time for the fight tonight or tomorrow. We have to cancel."
"Bullshit, we're canceling," I snap back and knock my head back into the wall. I might as well just start pounding my head against the wall with the way they're ganging up on me. "I don't lose."
My mom's face twists in remorse. "Jack, it's not losing if you—"
"It's the same thing," I cut in roughly. My eyes land on Brennan, who nods in support. "If we cancel, it's no different than me going down in the ring, which isn't happening."
What I can't say out loud is that I need this tonight. I need to let that beast inside me free for a little while because if I don't...I'm not going to let myself think about what could happen if I don't. Besides, the sight of the two of them standing here, telling me what to do, judging me for my decisions—the hypocrisy in this room reeks.
The walls are closing in on me now and I can't stay in this room anymore. I can't stop thinking about him cheating on her, having a baby with someone else and then pretending like it never happened. Going back to his wife and his kids and acting like he's some sort of damned martyr.
Roark Callahan. Patron saint of adulterers and deserters.
A hypocrite if there ever was one.
And my mom? What does that make her? The patron saint of doormats?
"Yah know what?" I growl as I push off the wall. "I say I'm good to fight, that means I'm good to fight. You think I've never taken a few hits before? Today was nothing compared to other days and other fights. I'm fighting tonight and that's it."
My dad opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.
"And while we're at it—I've been doing some thinking and I think I wanna get in the ring with the Gianottis' new guy. They've been sniffing around here long enough. Let's set it up and end this once and for all."
And, of course, in the process, I'd also be setting up a way to get closer to the Gianotti brothers without them being none the wiser. But right about now, I don't care if they ever find out.
"That's the worst idea I've ever heard," my dad murmurs and rubs a hand over his mouth. "Making any kind of deal with the Gianottis is a road we don't want to go down."
"We'd get a shit-ton of money. And bragging rights."
My mom moves closer and her fingers fold into my hand to grip it tight. "Since when do you do anything for money? You know better than that."
"It's not really about that," I have half a mind to yank my hand out of hers, but I don't want to hurt her. I just can't stand to be around her right now. "I'm fighting tonight. And I'm gonna fight the Gianotti's guy, too."
With that, I shove my way out of the room that's suffocating me and pound my fists together. In less than an hour, I'm swinging my fist around, connecting with skin and blood and I feel alive. I'm unleashed. Untethered and flying high on all cylinders. For the first time, being in the ring isn't about proving anything. I just need to hit something. I just need to hurt something.
And even though my dad's sworn up and down he'll never put me in a room with the them if he can help it, I don't need his help. I'm not sure I ever did.
Come hell or high water
, I think to myself as I slam my fist into my opponent and send him flying to the ground,
I'm gonna get to the Gianottis.
Rae
"I think that sounds like a good plan," I nod carefully to Jack, who just twists his hands around his steering wheel one more time.
"That's because it is a good plan."
My eyes lift to the truck's ceiling, but I don't miss the light chuckle that echoes across from me. We've got the fundraiser on Saturday night all worked out—each detail planned down to the T, and for good reason, too, but that still leaves us with the rest of the week. For the past two days, we've tailed the mayor through every available space in his schedule and all we have to show for it is more pictures of the mayor coming and going.
That's really all we have, which isn't really anything. I'd feigned another attempt at lunch with him on Monday and we'd tailed him to yet another ominous meeting in a wonderfully sketchy bar called The Tap House. The problem with having to sit outside the bar, parked a safe distance away no less, is that you can't see anything.
The license plates on the other car was a dead end too. After some quick registry searches and forking out a whole $4.95 for the results, we'd learned the Cadillac Jack and I saw that first time outside the warehouse was registered to William Rossi. Since Rossi is probably the most common Italian last name in existence, the only one we could find in Boston with any real relevance is a businessman who mostly deals in restaurants and real estate. Unless we can figure out what they're meeting about or how that could be connected to the Gianotti brothers, that doesn't really help us.
Focusing on this is easier than asking him questions about all the cuts and bruises he showed up with on Monday. I didn't ask and he didn't offer an explanation. The explanation was all over the news anyway.
Jack's gruff voice jerks me out of my thoughts. "How long do yah have to stay at that fundraiser thing anyway?"
"I think the official name is
fundraiser gala
."
His nose crinkles up a little in disgust and shakes his head. "Of course that's what it's called. How long do yah have to stay there to put in an appearance? A half hour? An hour?"
"I don't know," I sigh. "Too long, probably."
As if on reflex, I bring my bad knee up into my chest and lift it up just enough to give it a decent stretch. I blow out a deep breath as some of the tension leaves my knee and when I glance at Jack, I find him observing my movements with careful rigidity. Maybe it's embarrassment, maybe it's the fact that he's watching me so closely, or maybe it's just the fact that he knows exactly how I got my injury, but I feel like I have to explain.
"It just gets a little stiff sometimes," I tell him softly.
He nods almost imperceptibly, but his eyebrows still thread together, his eyes never fully tearing themselves away from my knee when he finally speaks again.
"You been to many of those things before?"
My eyes squeeze shut as the memories of fundraisers, voter events, and various city-sponsored dinners past rushes over me and I fight back a shudder. "So many I lost count."
He cocks an eyebrow at me and his lips quirk up in a smile, my knee seemingly forgotten for now. "That bad, huh?"
"It's always the same people, just a different night, different dress, sometimes different food and music. I'm really just there for decoration and so the mayor can flaunt what an upstanding and moral family man he is."
Jack huffs out a laugh and takes a long pull from his vape pen just for good measure. He rolls down the window of his truck a little so he has room to exhale the vapor. "Sounds painful."
"It is."
He huffs again and some vapor twirls out of his nostrils. "I bet they've got people walking around with trays of fancy food that tastes like shit, huh?"
That gets a laugh. "Yep."
"And I bet everyone walks so stiff from looking down their noses it looks like they all have sticks jammed up their asses."
Another laugh vibrates from my throat. "Yep."
"And I bet they play real shitty music too—like classic gangsta music."
Now I have to cover my mouth I'm laughing so hard. "Classic gangsta music?"
He doesn't miss a beat and swipes through a few screens on his phone. I lean over in my seat just enough to see him pulling up something on Youtube, but not close enough that I crowd his personal space. He clicks the play button and the familiar doo-wop strains fill the truck, "
Walk like a man, talk like a man, walk like a man my so-o-o-on."
Jack flashes me a victorious grin and snaps his fingers, bopping his head and then drumming a hand on the steering wheel to the beat. But he doesn't stop there. He hits another button to cue up another video and starts bobbing his head again as, "
Oh, what a night! Late December back in '63..."
plays through the speakers on his phone.
"Come on," I laugh. There's no way to mask my smile or my laughter. He's made his point, but I swat him on the shoulder anyway. I just can't help myself.
"Hey," he makes a show of flinching when my hand makes contact with his shoulder. "You know the Jersey Boys are gonna be all you hear on Saturday night. It's just a fact."
"I'm pretty sure they're The Four Seasons.
Jersey Boys
is a musical—"
"Yeah, yeah," he waves a hand in the air to cut me off. "Same difference. You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I do," I laugh again and now it's my turn to mess around on Youtube. Before long, "
Come fly with me....come fly, let's fly away..."
rings out from my phone and Jack's shoulders start shaking with laughter.
I'm still smiling when my phone buzzes in my hand and I glance to see a text from Bennett that reads,
We still sleuthing tomorrow??
"Benn wants to know if we're still on for tomorrow."
Jack spares me a glance from playing with Youtube on his phone. "Do mobsters listen to Sinatra?"
I lift an exasperated eyebrow and he just shrugs.
After I pound out a quick reply to tell him as much, I toss my phone back into my purse and glance around Jack's shoulder to get a better look at the entrance of the restaurant the mayor went in about twenty minutes ago. From the looks of it...it's just too hard to tell. Who knows what he's doing in there if we can't get in there ourselves and actually see who he's meeting?
"So things must be going pretty good with that guy, huh?"
My attention turns back to Jack and I smile in spite of the fact that I probably should be more worried. "Seems like it. All he can talk about is Aiden this and Aiden that and Aiden's so hot. He seems pretty happy though, even if it's new."
"That's a good thing, right?" His mouth dips into a frown and his eyes dart to the restaurant only once.
"Of course it is," I lift a shoulder. "He just doesn't have much luck when it comes to relationships is all. I guess neither of us really do."
Jack's lips curl up into a smile at the not-so-subtle mention of my past, but he lets it slide. "And you think he might be putting the cart before the horse with this new guy?"
"I just don't want to see him get hurt again."
What I don't tell him is that Bennett has a tendency to go all in with a guy before they even really get off the ground. That just seems a little too personal, given my current company. I'm supposed to be watching that restaurant like a hawk, not messing around on Youtube with Jack or doing anything else with Jack for that matter, and I can't let myself forget that.
Jack's phone rings two seconds later and I freeze when I hear him say, "Hey Brennan. What's up?"
It's also that moment my sister chooses to text me,
Hey Rae, do you think you could close for me tonight? Jen's b-day is tonite and she wants to go out??
Jack glances at me out of the corner of his eye as I stare down at my phone. All my attention is focused on the conversation happening to my left and I strain to hear more of the low voice on the other end of the line.
"Yeah, I know," Jack nods into the phone, his eyes focused in front of him. "But Pop doesn't have to know about it....sure, but I still wanna meet with them. Just set it up, bro. That's all I'm asking. How 'bout tomorrow night?"
I glance down at the Lucy's text again and sigh. It's not like I have anything going on tonight, but still, a little consideration on her part would be nice. My finger hovers over the keyboard on my phone because I'm still eavesdropping on Jack's conversation with our brother. Even
thinking
that, I still don't know how I feel. Still don't know what it means.
"I don't know," Jack continues, but not before glancing at me one more time. "Sure, tell Shannon I'll be there tonight. I don't have to bring anything, do I?" He laughs into the phone and shakes his head. "That's what I figured. See yah tonight."