REAPER (Boston Underworld Book 2)

REAPER

A. Zavarelli

Boston Underworld #2

Reaper © 2016 A. Zavarelli

Cover Design by Kassi Snider of Formatting by KassiJean

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Playlist:

Lonely Day- System of a Down

Magnetic- Flyleaf

Your Guardian Angel- Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

Battlescars- Guy Sebastian

Say Something- A Great Big World

Boulevard of Broken Dreams- Green Day

Perfect- Pink

Animals- Maroon 5

If I Ever Leave This World Alive- Flogging Molly

Broken- Seether and Amy Lee

Angel- Theory of a Deadman

Love the Way You Lie- Eminem &Rihanna

Set me on Fire- Flyleaf

Jar of Hearts- Christina Perri

My Darkest Days- Perfect

Thread- Flyleaf

Stand by You- Marlisa

I Will Follow You into the Dark- Death Cab for Cutie

All or Nothing- Theory of a Deadman

All Around Me Flyleaf

My Demons- Starset

Stand by You- Rachel Platten

Prologue

Sasha

“
I
don’t like you going out with that guy,” Ma says.

I bend down to zip up my boots so she can’t see the expression on my face.

“It’s fine, Ma. I can handle him.”

“I just don’t understand, Sasha.” She launches into another one of her tirades. “I raised you to be a good girl. You were always such a good girl. You had the smartest, brightest future ahead of you. A real chance to get out of this neighborhood and do something with your life. Now you’re wrapped up with these guys…”

She glances at my sister Emily across the room as if the very mention of the word mafia might influence her too. The disappointment is plastered all over both their faces every time they see me with Blaine. They don’t know why I do what I do. They’ve got no idea, but it’s better that way.

Safer.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to blink away the pressure behind them.
Five things
, my father’s voice echoes inside my head. Find five things you can smell, hear, see, and touch.
Ground yourself, Sasha.

So I do.

Nobody knows this about me. That I do this almost ten times a day. I’ve always been wound too tight. My Ma didn’t know how to handle it, like many other things, so she left it up to dad. His voice calmed me. The humble voice of a hardworking man who loved and provided for his family. If he were here right now, he’d know exactly what I should do. Exactly how to stop me from drowning.

But he isn’t here. He hasn’t been since I was twelve and he died from a heart attack on Emily’s birthday. Now it’s just the three of us, living like a house with no foundation. 

Ma falls into another coughing fit, and my stress comes back full force.

“You need to go back to the doctor,” I bitch at her. “You’ve been hacking like that for weeks. I don’t like it. You smoke too much.”

She throws her hands up and curses at me in Portuguese. Although she moved from Brazil at a young age, she still uses her native tongue frequently when she gets hot headed. Which is pretty much all the time.

“I smoke too much because I’m always worried about the two of you.” She reaches up and tugs on her hair. “You give me all of these gray hairs. Make me look like an old woman.”

I laugh and shake my head, even though it’s really not funny. I’m worried about her. But she loves to blame us for her gray hairs.

“That could have something to do with all the cigarettes,” Emily chimes in.

Ma shrugs both of us off and pats my cheek with her hand.

“My beautiful daughter,” she says, her eyes shining with love. “I only want the best for you.”

“I know.” I reach up and clasp her hand with mine.

The moment is ruined when there’s a knock at the door. My gut churns, and Ma shuffles over to open it. Blaine’s inky black gaze settles on her while his lips curl up into a smile. To anyone else, it would appear polite and even charming, but to me that smile belies exactly what he only wants me to see. The evil swirling just below the surface, seeking any opportunity to leak out and obliterate his grand illusion.

“Mrs. Varela.” He bows his head and kisses Ma’s hand. “You look more beautiful every time I see you.”

Ma gives him a stiff but respectful smile, but I know Blaine can see the fear in her eyes. I see it too. He gets off on that fear. On knowing that there’s nothing me or Emily or even my Ma can do. Men like him always get what they want. The problem is, it’s never enough. I’ve been keeping his attentions occupied, but the more he comes around, the more his gaze wanders.

He’s looking at Emily again right now. The ever present panic in my chest flares as his eyes rake over her. It takes all of my willpower not to let him see it bothers me. She’s going to college next week. Just one more week, and then she’ll be safe. One more week, and he can’t hold her against me.

“Don’t be too late, Sasha.” Ma kisses me on the cheek, and I conjure up a smile for her.

“Stop worrying,” I tell her. “And call the doctor.”

She nods, and Blaine escorts me out to his car. He’s whistling as he walks, and it fills me with dread.

Once he’s in the driver’s seat, he twists to look at me. His fingers invade my space and pinch my chin in a bruising grip. I don’t recoil, but I have to work at hiding my repulsion.

“Your sister’s growing up quick, hey. Anyone taken her for a ride yet?”

“She has a boyfriend,” I lie.

His rough fingers trace over my cheek and down my neck, lingering on the bruise he left when he last saw me. His dark eyes admire his handiwork for a moment before shooting back to meet mine.

“You better be a good girl, Sasha,” he says. “I’m growing tired of your attitude.”

He leaves the rest of the words unspoken when he puts the car in drive and turns on the music. I don’t need to hear his threats laid bare. I’m well aware of what he’ll do.

I turn my gaze back towards the window and wish he’d never set eyes on me.

***

He’s here again.

Staring at me. Always staring. Watching, considering… waiting. For what I don’t know. He never says a word. Not one.

To everyone else, yes. Just not to me.

I often think he hates me for reasons I can’t understand. But then he turns those mournful whiskey colored eyes on me, and I want to believe there’s something else concealed in their shadows. He’s the only one who sees past the fake smile on my face. Like he understands that the laughter echoing from my chest when Blaine cracks a joke is as fake as his whole persona.

False hope.

That’s what I see when I look at him.

I’ve never believed in fairytales. There is no white knight in my story. Only me. And I’m not the girl who gets the prince. I’m the girl he bangs because he can.

Blaine isn’t the first guy. They all tell me how pretty and sweet I am. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see pretty. I don’t see sweet. I see broken and dirty. Shame and self-loathing. The whore that Blaine uses as his own personal punching bag. The things I’ve had to do in this life aren’t pretty or sweet, and neither am I.

I’ve made peace with that.

Damaged souls have their own beauty. A dark, terrifying beauty. The same type of beauty I recognize in Ronan. He isn’t like those other men. The ones who tell me how much they want my body. The filthy things they want to do to me. For a girl who went from a nerd to a knockout almost overnight at the age of thirteen, I used to think those words meant something. The boys told me anything they thought I’d want to hear. And they believed a few kind words thrown my way entitled them to have me for a little while. But only for a little while.

They always throw you back in the end.

Because you’re nothing to them. Just like me.

When it comes to Blaine, I’m even less.

The day that he saw me and decided I was his, my fate was carved in stone. My regret and hatred churn inside of me like a toxic poison, blackening everything that exists around me.

I no longer see good in the world. I couldn’t tell you exactly when it stopped, only that it did. My heart flat lined long ago. Keeping myself locked in this void is easy. And yet the despair seeps in all too often.

But then Blaine brings me here, and I see this man with the sad brown eyes, and a sliver of sunlight breaks through my otherwise dark existence.

In his eyes, I see something different. He’s deadly and quiet. Closed off and mysterious. He doesn’t talk like the rest of them, just for the sake of talking. But I know who he is and what he does.

The Reaper.

That’s what they call him in the MacKenna syndicate. The name speaks for itself. And yet this man- this cold-blooded killer- he can’t find it within himself to speak to me. His cheeks flush pink every time I look his way, and then his jaw strains with the force of his anger.

It makes me want him in ways I shouldn’t. It makes my heart stop and start every time he walks into the room. Like a rusty old engine, I’m in disrepair, and I feel like this stranger is the only mechanic for the job.

A silly notion. One for silly little girls who still believe in fairytales.

One thing I know for certain is that this killer- the Reaper- isn’t my white knight. In fact, in this story, I very well suspect he may even be the villain. Because if Blaine ever finds out how I feel, it will certainly be the death of me.

Chapter One

Sasha

H
e’s sitting in the pit tonight. Watching me as I make my way around and help Kaya with drinks. Slainte is packed this evening and the VIP room is at full capacity. It has been ever since the Irish started working on an alliance with the Russian mob. Something I’m not technically supposed to know, but everyone does.

It can’t be helped when you work for them. I don’t usually serve drinks, but we’re understaffed tonight. The way I serve these men is by dancing for them. Putting on a show up under the glitzy lights of the stage and making them feel like I could fulfill their every fantasy.

I’m an excellent liar. A master of manipulation. I’ve got it down to an art now. The way I look at them and tilt my head just so. They’re thinking about all the dirty things they want to do to me. I’m thinking about my dying mother back at home. About how I hate this life and everyone in it. I’ve got so much hate bottled up inside of me it’s only a matter of time before it blows.

But I can be anything they want me to be when I’m up on that stage. A saint or a sinner. The girl next door or the one on the street corner. The only thing I can’t be is myself.

Because that girl disappeared a long time ago, and I couldn’t even begin to tell you who she is anymore. That’s the problem with lies. Eventually they start to feel real. Eventually, you start to believe them too.

I’m one big hot fucking mess wrapped in pretty lies. The Boston Underworld set its claws on me three years ago and now it doesn’t want to let me go. It’s a cold and lonely place living forever in the shadow of the man that invited this chaos into my life.

I’m so over all of it. The mafia guys. The clients. The ogling and the comments and the grabby hands. While their wives are no doubt at home tending to the children they come here to ogle my tits and slap my ass. I’m exhausted and running on fumes.

I’ve tried to be a good girl my whole life. Just like Ma wanted me to. But now, now I’m ready to do bad. Ready to say fuck this world and everyone in it, consequences be damned. The only thing anchoring me to my sanity at this point is my mother, but once she’s gone I’m all out of fucks to give.

Which reminds me that I need to get a Red Bull before it’s my turn up on stage. The pill in my pocket is beckoning me. Dexedrine, my new favorite vice. They were my sister’s, but now I’m using them as uppers just to stay awake.

I follow Kaya to the bar and add my drink to our order, which the bartender brings first. I don’t usually drink before dancing, or even after for that matter, but lately it’s the only thing getting me through my stage performances. While Kaya’s attention is elsewhere, I toss the pill into my mouth and wash it down with the vodka concoction. But when I open my eyes again, she’s staring at me.

“You look like shit,” she notes.

“Thanks, honey.”

She shrugs. “Just telling it like it is. When’s the last time you actually ate something?”

I try to remember, but I can’t. This morning, probably. I’m thinner than usual, I know that much. But it isn’t really on my list of things to give a shit about right now. My mother is dying. Fucking cancer.

The room spins as the pill enters my bloodstream and hot wires my nervous system. My attention pings around the bar while we wait, observing the blur of laughter and noise. All these people, having a good time. Fuck them. Fuck the mafia. And fuck cancer too. I want to get out of here. Away from this life and away from the blood and gore and darkness that has enveloped every aspect of who I am.

And most importantly, away from him.

Ronan.

The biggest fucking liar of them all. Pretending like he doesn’t give a shit. Pretending like he doesn’t see the way I look at him. Or the way he looks at me for that matter. Like he wishes I would disappear. I’m his biggest regret.

And still, my heart beats for him.

The man who shares my secret. The man who holds my life in the palm of his hands. Sometimes, I think I could love him. But most of the time, I just hate him. For making me weak. For tempting me to stay. For wondering when he’ll finally make good and kill me too.

I don’t know how it’s possible to have feelings that are such polar opposites. I want to slap him. I want to scream in his face and force him to acknowledge me. His cavalier attitude towards me is worse than any of the pain Blaine ever inflicted on me. I’m not even worth his attention. A moment of his time. And yet, when he walks into the room, everything else ceases to exist.

I know he’s here tonight. That’s why I can’t focus. His dark energy hums through the building before I ever even see him. There's always this thread between us. Connecting us. Linking us. I don't know if it's the secret or something else altogether. I don't know if it can be severed. If I even want it to be. He’s like a trip wire, rigged to detonate a category five hurricane of emotions inside of me. But I’m a masochist of the highest order, so I let him obliterate me. Again and again.

I doubt I’ll ever learn. 

When Kaya and I take the drinks and head back to the VIP lounge, that’s where I find him. When I pass by his table, he glances up at me. There’s already a drink in his hand. A double shot of Jameson, neat. Never anything else.

I should keep moving. Maintain the course on autopilot. Because any other option is likely to send me careening into a state I don’t want to be in.

I stop anyway.

I can’t help it with him. I can never help it with him. We have a silent agreement, him and I. One where we avoid each other and pretend the other doesn’t exist. Only, I never really agreed to it. But I think there’s also an unspoken stipulation that if I break this arrangement, he’ll probably have to kill me.

I generally don’t provoke him. But tonight, I’m feeling reckless. And on edge. And I want to push him. I want to send him speeding into a state of discomfort for once, just so I don’t have to be alone. I want to chafe at the already raw wound festering inside of me.

My eyes move from his glass to the hands that rest atop the table. Strong. Masculine. Elegant. Those hands take life. Those hands wouldn’t hesitate to take mine too. And yet, in an odd twist of fate, those very hands gave me my life back.

Sort of.

My pulse kicks into overdrive at the memory. I’m firing on all synapses. Wired and worn in his presence, fully prepared to crash and burn. The room around us is in chaos. But at its epicenter, where he and I are together, everything is still and quiet.

Like a magnet, he lures my gaze to his face. There isn’t a man in this room that can rival him. Olive skin. Well-defined jaw. A strong nose and lips so sinful I want to bite them and make him bleed. Only so I can taste his darkness. Only so that I can say for certain he is human. Because sometimes, I don’t know. Is he a man, or is he merely a machine? Programmed with only the burning need and desire to kill like they say.

I’ve seen him kill. I’ve tasted his rage too. Tasted it so fiercely that some of it spilled over onto me, tainting me with the mark of the animal that lives inside of him. I crave that animal. I crave everything about this man with his perfect suits and his complete lack of human emotions. Maybe, just maybe, I envy him too.

What it must be like not to feel anything. Anything at all.

I want that for myself.

My pupils are dilated, and when they sweep over him tonight, he’s distorted. Even in a blurred state, he’s faultless. You’ll never find him in anything other than a suit. His skin is sometimes shadowed, but only one day’s worth of stubble at most. His hair is shaved at the sides and worn longer on the top. He’s clean cut, well-manicured and polished, and the complete opposite of the flaws that stitch me together.

Beneath his black-framed glasses, child-like brown eyes appraise me. They are fringed with thick dark lashes which he often tries to hide behind. Because he knows those eyes betray him. Those eyes fracture his cold veneer with an underlying innocence. There are times, like right now, when he can be downright benevolent. They skim over my body in a speedy appraisal and then darken. It’s never hunger I find there, but madness.

Oh, I love that madness. Because madness is better than nothingness. Madness means he isn’t completely immune to feelings. Madness means it isn’t apathy he feels when he has to look upon me.

Fucking asshole.

“Hi, Ronan.” My voice is laced with sweet venom, and I hope he hears it. “So nice to see you too. Yeah, my mom’s doing great, thanks for asking. Dying, but you know, that’s life. Oh and Em’s great too, in case you’re wondering.”

He blinks at me, and for a second I almost think I’m hallucinating. Because I could have sworn a frisson of guilt flashed through those brown irises. But it quickly turns cold under his stare, and I feel the sudden urge to hug myself.

I don’t know why I’m being such a bitch to him. But he’s irritated with me and I want to irritate him too. These pills make me act crazy, but it’s either that or collapse from exhaustion. I want to pick a fight with someone, and right now that someone happens to be him. He doesn’t respond though. He never responds.

He adjusts his collar and glances towards the door, mentally seeking an escape. In his eyes, he counts the steps to the door. He always does that. He doesn’t think I notice. But I do. The numbers are there in my head, and I’m counting right along with him.

I make him uncomfortable. It isn’t hard to guess why. I’m sure he often contemplates ridding the one loose end that could unravel him. I have no doubts whatsoever he regrets the thing that happened two years ago. To hammer that thought home, he dismisses me by dragging his phone from his pocket.

One of the clients snaps his fingers, and it breaks me from my reverie. The moment I leave the table, Ronan is up and out of the door.

***

When I stumble into the run-down apartment in Dorchester that I call home, I can barely keep my eyes open.

The place isn’t much to look at. It’s the same apartment I’ve spent my whole life in, with a mother who worked hard to keep the water-stained roof over our heads. There are two bedrooms, a parlor, a kitchen, and the most basic of furniture.

We never had nice things. After my father died, Ma spent her money keeping me and Emily fed and clothed and healthy, and that was pretty much the extent of it. But the place was always neat and tidy, and it always felt like home.

Now there is dust collecting on the furniture, and a musty smell that I can’t seem to rid no matter how much I air the place out. My clothes from work are scattered around the apartment, along with the various pill bottles and medical equipment mom needs.

Emily’s in California, on a scholarship to UCSD, so most of her stuff is gone. Without all of her pink girly things around, everything is washed out in gray. It’s the same place I’ve always lived. But looking at it now, it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

I plod into the kitchen and find Amy sitting at the table, flipping through a magazine.

When Ma got too sick, I had to hire a home nurse for when I couldn’t be here. Amy was the woman for the job. She’s sweet and kind and very good at what she does, and she makes Ma as comfortable as she can these days. Plus, she makes me food, so basically she’s the only one keeping me alive at this point.

“How is she?” I ask.

“She’s actually awake right now,” Amy answers. “And pretty lucid, if you want to go see her.”

I toss my bags onto the kitchen table and seize the opportunity with gusto. There aren’t very many of these moments anymore, so I take them as they come.

“Thank you, honey.”

“No problem,” she says. “I’m going to head out for the night. Supper’s in the fridge.”

“Okay, drive safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Amy slips out the front door and I throw on a sweatshirt before heading into Ma’s room. I don’t want to smell like perfume and liquor when I visit with her. She knows what I do for a living, but it doesn’t mean I have to throw it in her face. I try not to if I can help it.

My mother had high hopes for me. As a child, she affectionately deemed me her ‘little calculator’. I worked hard in school and made the honor roll every year. But when it came to math, it was always my worst subject. I’d failed so many homework assignments that the teacher finally pushed Ma to hire a tutor for me. And when the tutor came to help me, I learned I wasn’t bad at math at all. In fact, I could do any calculation she threw at me, so long as it wasn’t on paper. Before long, I was doing calculus and university level math equations.