The Debt (Sordid Debt Duet #1)

Chapter One

Jarek

Museum of Science. 1 Science Park, Boston, Massachusetts, United States…

Through narrowed eyes, Jarek Farrel studied the towering Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton looming above him. The massive prehistoric predator, poised mid-roar with its razor-sharp teeth bared, cast a long shadow across the polished floor of the Museum of Science. Light from the vast skylight animated the massive silhouette of the extinct apex predator, which took its last breath over sixty-five million years ago.

“With all due respect, Jarek, do you even remember what we’re up against?” Declan Byrne’s voice eclipsed the silence in the cavernous space.

Jarek, referred to as The Dark One in whispered conversations and feared as the Boss of the Somerville Irish Gang in the Boston area, caught the tremor in his underboss’ voice and let it hang in the air, unanswered. His imposing height and powerful build—a complete contrast to the lean young medical doctor he had once been—filled the space between them with unspoken menace. The dove-gray eyes that tracked Declan’s every twitch held nothing of their color’s gentle nature; instead, they gleamed cold and sharp, flecked with shadows of darker intent.

He shifted slightly, the movement causing his long, dark hair to slide across his shoulders despite the restraint of its usual ponytail. The neatly kept beard framing his square jaw and wide mouth added to his forbidding presence, while heavy brows drew together over his straight nose in an expression that rarely softened into anything resembling warmth. Though women often noted his rough-hewn attractiveness, they quickly learned that Jarek’s handsome features masked something dangerous—a truth evident in the way he held himself now, like a predator savoring the moment before the strike.

“Those Russians…” Declan continued, his footsteps clicking against the marble as he followed Jarek past displays of fossilized eggs and ancient sea creatures. “They’re different from others around here. You know more than anyone that they are the most cunning and ruthless bunch of misfits in organized crime. They spare absolutely no one, nor do they have the slightest remorse for the crimes they commit… not even against women and children.”

“That,” Jarek ground out with his jaw clenched tight, “is something I know better than anyone.” Unbidden memories threatened to surface, but he forced them down as he moved deeper into the exhibition.

Around them, life-sized dioramas depicted prehistoric scenes in stunning detail. A pack of Velociraptors stalked through artificial foliage with their curved claws glinting under spotlights. A massive Brachiosaurus stretched its long neck toward fabricated treetops.

But Jarek saw none of it since his mind was fixed on Atlanta’s underground empire.

The Polovskaya Bratva, currently deemed one of the richest ROC groups in the United States, had carved out their territory with brutal efficiency. In the late nineties, their founder chose to immigrate to the United States, where he had cemented his position as one of the most powerful mobsters in the world.

Under Gregor Polov’s iron fist, they had claimed Atlanta as their crown jewel by crushing any opposition with methodical violence. While other criminal enterprises—from Mexican cartels to local gangs—had tried to muscle in, none had succeeded. Polov’s network ran deep, and he had successfully controlled the ROC in Atlanta for over thirty years, all while avoiding prosecution. His influence, which reached every corner of the city, was protected by an army of merciless enforcers.

“So, you understand why I’m worried,” Declan muttered, casting a nervous glance at a passing group of tourists. “Nobody’s challenged that particular Bratva group in over five years. At least, nobody’s fucking lived to tell the tale if they tried.”

Jarek’s lip curled slightly at Declan’s words. The tremor in his underboss’ voice should have concerned him. Declan wasn’t known for being skittish. He was Irish-tough, prison-hardened, and had weathered more than his share of gang wars, but here in a goddamned dinosaur exhibit, he was practically shaking with anxiety.

Twenty years ago, Jarek had shared that fear. He had felt it coursing through his veins like fire. But fear was a luxury he had burned away long ago—replaced by something colder, something sinister and dark, earning him the name ‘The Dark One.’

He paused before a display case housing a collection of raptor claws. His ghostly reflection shimmered across the glass. The vision staring back at him barely resembled the twenty-six-year-old young man who had lost everything to senseless violence.

Good. That young man is dead… just like my family.

“Your concern is noted, Declan.” His calm voice carried the same lethality that made hardened criminals wince. “But fear has no place in what’s coming. And the Polovskaya Bratva’s reputation for invincibility?” He turned to face Declan with eyes glittering like shards of ice. “That dies with Polov.”

The child who darted past Declan barely registered in Jarek’s peripheral vision. What caught his attention was the way Declan reflexively stepped back. It soothed his ego that a hardened mafioso was reduced to prey instinct by mere eye contact.

Good. Fear is a useful tool, even among allies.

Declan’s parched throat was put to work just to swallow. How many times had he seen that same reaction? That moment when someone realized exactly who and what they were dealing with? But Declan wasn’t a street thug or rival enforcer. He was family—or at least the closest thing Jarek had left of one.

“Understood, Boss.” Declan’s voice came out gravelly and, for the first time ever, sounding uncertain. Jarek could practically taste his discomfort as he continued, “It’s just that... Polov miraculously survived three assassination attempts and two FBI investigations. Even that business with the Georgians in 2019. His power has magnified over the years.”

Declan’s hand creeping up to clutch his hidden crucifix didn’t escape Jarek’s notice. It was a tell he’d never managed to break his underboss of after having tried for more than a decade. It was almost endearing. The man who had helped him build an empire still clung to religious icons when uncertain.

“But you’re right. Fear has no place in this. You know I’m always there for you, no matter what… I’m your man.”

Jarek allowed himself a slight nod. This was why Declan had survived so long as his second-in-command. He knew when to swallow his concerns and fall in line. Others had questioned or tried to talk him down. They hadn’t lasted long.

His loyalty was genuine and had been proven numerous times. Declan had stood beside him through everything—through the bloody rise to power, through the gang wars, and through the creation of the Somerville empire. He had earned the right to voice his fears and concerns.

“Indeed, you are, Declan,” he drawled in a deep tone. “But Polov’s survival record? The failed attempts on his life? The Federal investigations he beat? His growing power? None of that matters.” His lips drew back in an ugly sneer.

Those who had tried before didn’t have what Jarek had—twenty years of carefully cultivated rage and hatred, a network that stretched across the Eastern Seaboard, and the kind of patience that came from having nothing left to lose from exacting revenge.

Let Declan worry. Let him clutch his crucifix. Jarek had stopped believing in divine justice the night his wife and daughter had died. The only justice left was the kind that came from a well-aimed bullet—or, as he had come to decide over time, something much more painful and intimate.

“So, what’s the next step? Are we going to infiltrate his territory?” The words ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling as Declan tilted his head back, tracking the Pterodactyl models that hung like dark sentinels above them.

Jarek watched him, remembering that night fifteen years ago, on the anniversary of his family’s death, when the walls he had built around his past had crumbled.

The whiskey had tasted like grief that evening, each glass carrying him deeper into memories he had tried to drown. His wife and daughter’s faces had swum before him—sharp as if they were there. The sorrow at their absence had crushed his chest until the truth had spilled out, a torrent of pain and rage that had left him raw.

Declan had sat there, stone-sober, absorbing every word of Jarek’s descent into darkness. Every detail of how a respectable medical doctor had transformed into Dublin’s most feared enforcer had been torn from his broken soul. The next morning, with darkness in his eyes, Declan had gripped Jarek’s shoulder.

“Your pain is my pain now,” he had said. “We’ll make the bastard pay.”

Now, standing beneath the prehistoric shadows, Jarek knew why he kept returning to this place. Emma loved dinosaurs, but more than that, the museum held echoes of extinct things—like the man he used to be, like the family that had been ripped from him. As the keeper of Jarek’s darkest truths, Declan knew why he preferred meeting there, and he was the only one who understood that vengeance wasn’t just a mission—it was Jarek’s oxygen.

“I know why we’re after Polov, Boss, but I have to admit, your insistence on spreading out to Atlanta instead of widening our local footprint came as a surprise.”

The darkness that perpetually lived in Jarek’s eyes seemed to deepen, turning them into bottomless pits.

“I think you’ve mistaken my intentions, Declan. I have no interest in invading Atlanta or becoming active there.” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “I’m not going to embark on a territorial war with him. That’s a battle that is lost before it even begins. Oh, no. You know my interest in Gregor Polov is personal… and I’m going to hit him where it’ll hurt the most.”

Declan’s shoulders tensed. “It’s about time. I’ve been waiting for this for over fifteen years. I’ll be right there beside you, Boss. I trust you. You know that.”

“Blind faith…” Jarek’s mouth curved into something that might have been a smile on anyone else. “It’s a noble gift, Declan. I just hope you don’t come to regret it.”

“I owe you my life, Jarek. You dragged me from the gutter and molded me into the man I am today.”

Jarek studied his underboss, who was also the closest he had to a friend. He still remembered the shell of a man he had found in Dublin eighteen years ago, a year after he had joined the Irish mob. Declan had been nothing then—a hollow-eyed junkie curled up in a rain-soaked alley with a needle still hanging from his arm and his breath rattling in his chest. Most would have walked past, and most did. But something in those fever-bright eyes had reminded Jarek of himself—someone with nothing left to lose.

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?” The question pulled Jarek from his memories.

“Ireland… the Emerald Isle with all its natural beauty.”

The nostalgia in Declan’s voice hit Jarek like a gut punch. Unwanted memories threatened to surface of him as a little boy running through verdant hills, with the taste of salt air on his lips and the feeling of freedom that had once defined his life—before everything changed. Before Atlanta.

The memories shifted and darkened. It was a different time and a different life when he had a medical practice in Dublin, which he had built from scratch into something remarkable in just two years. He would never forget the pride in the eyes of his wife, Lisbet, when he had opened his own clinic or the way their four-year-old daughter, Emma, would sit at his desk, pretending to write prescriptions with her crayons.

Then came the vacation to Atlanta. Lisbet had been so excited about attending the food festival. The memory hit him with devastating clarity...

September and Atlanta were sweltering with the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer. Lisbet smiled radiantly as, for once, her chef’s whites were traded for a flowing summer dress. She gushed about the fusion techniques she had learned at the festival.

“The way they’re combining Korean and Southern flavors is revolutionary,” she said, her Irish accent more pronounced in her excitement. “Emma, darling, wouldn’t you like Mama to make you some kimchi fried chicken?”

Emma wrinkled her nose but continued to skip between them. The rubber soles of her sneakers squeaked musically against the sidewalk.

“Can I have ice cream instead, Mama?”

The memory of their laughter tasted like ash in Jarek’s mouth. He closed his eyes as the movie reel continued to roll inside his mind.