Chapter One
Sasha
He’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.
It was a shock to everyone, but especially my mother. When they asked me how I did the calculations, I couldn’t explain it. It was just one of those weird things that came naturally to me, and my mother was convinced I would go places with it. So you can imagine her disappointment when I took my talents down to the local strip club instead.
But I can’t be sorry for it, because it means she’s here with me in her final months. And math didn’t do that, but dancing did. It’s the only way I can look my mother in the eyes right now and believe that I’m doing the right thing. Because if I wasn’t dancing, she wouldn’t be here. In her own home. I wouldn’t be able to take care of her the way she deserves. The way that she’s taken care of me my whole life.
My eyes land on her tiny frame in the bed. She occupies barely any space now. It doesn’t matter how many times I see her like this, the sight still hits me like a ton of bricks every time. A painful lump takes shape in my throat and my eyes fill with pressure, but I choke it back as I move towards her.
“Hey, mama.” I lean down and kiss her on the cheek. “How are you feeling today?”
She coughs and stares up at me through cloudy gray eyes. Those eyes that used to crinkle when she laughed no longer hold any light inside of them. Only pain. Her lips are dry and cracked, but she doesn’t even try to budge them. She’s too weak to talk right now. These days have been getting more and more frequent lately, and I know what it means.
She’s near the end. There’s nothing else we can do for her now except to manage her pain. Most of the day, she’s in and out of consciousness. On the days when she can speak, much of it is incoherent.
It’s the most awful way to watch someone you love go. Every night when I come home and see her like this, I feel as though I’m crawling across a bed of nails. But as horrific as it is, I know she’s grateful. Because she’s here in her home, where everything is familiar and peaceful. I wouldn’t let her go to a hospice. It takes most of my income to pay the home nurse and keep up on the rent, but it’s worth every cent. At least in the end, I can say she died where she was most comfortable. Where she was most happy.
It will be the only good thing I’ve ever really done in my life. The only thing I can be proud of. Ma would try to tell me otherwise, but she’s not a very good liar. She still thinks I’m a good girl. That I’m her angel. But she’s wrong.
I used to be good. I went to church. I volunteered. I worked hard in school. I did all of the things that my Ma told me were important, even when I really didn’t feel like it. I’ve been good my whole life, and where has it gotten me? A piece of shit wise guy and a mother with cancer. That’s where.
She’s leaving me soon, and I don’t want her to go. I tell her as much through the tears because I can’t help myself. She squeezes my hand, and it sends me into another one of my outbursts.
“I’m not your angel, Ma,” I tell her. “I’m nothing without you. I don’t want to try anymore. Look at me. Look at you. This isn’t frigging fair.”
Ma understands my craziness. She blinks up at me and a tear rolls down her cheek. I wipe it away as my own eyes blur. She knows where I just came from. She hates that I’m trapped in this world and that I can’t get out. I know she worries about me. That’s always been her biggest concern, that I would get out before she goes. But we both know that isn’t going to happen.
Getting away from the MacKenna Syndicate isn’t going to be easy. I know too much. Have seen too much. If I were to leave, I know who it’d be to hunt me down. I don’t want him to be the one to kill me. I could deal if it was anyone else. But not him. I can’t look into his eyes as I take my last breath. That would be even worse than death itself. It would be the most painful way to go. Because this time, after everything that’s happened… this time, I know he wouldn’t stop.
So for now, I just have to put it out of my mind and focus on what’s important. One day at a time, taking care of Ma. That’s all I can do.
I walk into the bathroom to grab a cool cloth. She likes this, and it makes her feel better. The one small comfort I can give her. I place it over her forehead and watch her watching me. Her eldest daughter. Her pride and joy.
“Do you know what, Ma?” I whisper. “You don’t have to worry about me. Because I’m going to get out. And I’m going to move to California. Near Em. Maybe I can help her with her school work, who knows. I could be like her math tutor or something.”
Her lips twitch, and I can almost see her smiling the way she used to. The smile that lit up an entire room. She was always so beautiful, and now, she’s just an empty shell.
“She says the weather is nice there year round,” I continue. “And I have a friend from high school there too. You remember Sarah, right?”
She blinks, but her gaze is fixed on my face, enrapt. Sarah still lives in Dorchester, and she works in a dive bar and has four kids, but Ma doesn’t need to know that. The hardest part of all of this has been for her to worry about what will happen to me and Em. And I don’t want her to worry. I want her to be at peace. I still feel guilty for my emotional outburst earlier, so I keep going.
“She’s an actress,” I tell her. “Says she can get me some work. Nothing fancy, of course. Just some extra stuff. You know the people that sit in cafes in the background or whatever?”
She blinks to signal that she wants me to keep going.
“I’m going to find me a nice boring guy, too. You know, like an accountant or something. He’ll probably drive a Prius and run marathons on the weekend, when he’s not donating to charity or whatever.”
Ma’s lips are twitching again. She either knows I’m full of shit, or she’s buying what I’m selling hard. It’s difficult to tell anymore, but she seems happy. I resolve to tell her this every day until she goes. And then, and only then, will I allow myself to break down and accept reality.
The chances of the Irish letting me leave are grim. But I have to try. Even if it means I don’t make it. At least I can say I tried. Because behind all the makeup and the stilettos and the glitter and hairspray that girl up on stage is done. Done being a pawn in everyone else’s games. Done with men who use and take and do whatever the fuck they want without any consequence.
The best day of my life will be when I never have to see any of their faces again.