5. Kieran
Chapter 5
Kieran
I ’m a bleeding eejit. What was I thinking coming to sit down next to Summer Smith? I haven’t sat at my bar in years. But when I saw her eyeing me earlier, all sense of reason went out the window.
For a moment, I forgot Summer was my daughter’s teacher. Stupidly, I let the idea that she might be enjoying herself run away in my mind. But the sobering reality comes crashing down when I glance over to see Marco standing at the entrance.
Finn and Callum have halted him, but I raise my hand with a smirk and wave him toward me still.
There’s no need to make a scene. Considering most of those dining in my bar don’t know who we truly are. And for some reason, the thought Summer might discover who I am gives me pause.
I’m not ashamed of who I am. In fact, I relish in it. That’s why, as the leader of my organization, I still fight and pull my weight. Because I am the Mob. When it’s succeeding so am I.
I like to contribute.
Plus knocking a few people out is an added perk.
Cormac hates it. He’s always nervous I’ll get knocked out and never wake up.
I like to think he’s genuinely concerned about losing me, but a part of me wonders if he doesn’t selfishly hope to avoid becoming the head of the Mob.
And then there’s Aoife. And with her … am I being selfish?
Summer swallows and turns to look where I’m waving. Her darker features mimic Marco’s, annoyingly so, and when he does a double take to admire her, I want to shove his arse right back out the door.
She leans over to whisper something to her friend Shelly, and I find myself fixated on where her dark brown hair kisses the back of her neck between her shoulder blades. The way it caresses her tan skin as she shakes her head at something her friend says.
I clear my throat in time for Marco to slide onto the seat next to mine, and my attention redirects from Summer to the beefy bald man next to me.
Voice low, I grit out, “Marco. What could ye possibly be doing in me bar?”
He glances at his watch. “It’s ten p.m., Kieran. And it’s Wednesday.”
I trace the top of a tapped white-oak keg in front of me, contemplating.
He wants to enter some men of his into the fight tonight. You’d think with his annoyance within the city and poor practices as a slimy organization I’d be opposed to that. But they bring money, which supports the Mob and our families.
They also bring well-funded and well-stocked men willing to put on a show for those keen to bet. It’s a win-win. Marco knows to keep his underaged girls out of my area of town. And—as per the last man who sat beaten to pulp in my supply closet and sent to fight for his life down below—he knows I’ll do it again.
I nod, then glance to where Summer fishes her lemon out of her drink. It’s clear and bubbly, so I’m assuming it’s club soda. For some reason, a weight lifts off my chest knowing she isn’t consuming any alcohol tonight. Not because I’d report her to the board or some asinine notion like she seems to think. No, it’s because of the frat-looking boys sitting down the bar from her that can’t seem to avoid repeated glances.
Does she normally avoid drinking? Or maybe since it’s a school night, she is opting to forgo the intoxicating beverage.
“Ye have a good night, Miss Smith,” I say as I stand from my seat and tuck my hands into my pockets. She avoids eye contact with me and nods subtly with the straw between her teeth.
Turning back toward Marco, I notice him studying her, and I gesture with my right hand back toward where my office is. “This way. We can speak privately.”
He lifts his chin and follows me back beyond the bar. I glance toward Cormac, and he steps in line with me as we make our way to my office.
“It’s not every day ye stop by,” I say, reaching for the handle then push open the door.
My office isn’t grand, in fact it’s rather bland. A desk stands proud front and center with a brown leather chair tucked in behind it. There’s never a time I don’t face the door. Here, in this office, or in my study back home.
Two tufted leather chairs match the one behind my desk and flank the left side, sitting against the wall. In the corner, a wilting fiddle leaf tree Lizzy thrusted into my life and has ignored sits desperate for water.
Like I said, rather bland.
In two strides I’m in front of my desk, and I flip the photo of Aoife and me on the yacht over, face down. The thought of Marco’s slimy eyes on her …
But I’m a businessman, so I round my desk, sit my arse in the chair, and watch as Cormac ushers Marco to a seat.
Cormac is usually handsy, and he shoves him down hard enough that the seat lets out a puff of air. Marco bats him away.
“Call off your dog, O’Donnell. I just want to talk.”
“Aye. I figured as much. What is it ye want then?”
He sniffs, pulling his suit jacket tight around his chest. “I’ve got a few men that want in.”
I smirk. “In what?”
“Shit. Don’t play games with me Kieran. They want in the fight rotation.”
I purse my lips, staring at the black mole sitting on his upper lip. When I don’t say anything, he continues on.
“Come on. More men, more bets, more money.”
“Ye going to put yerself in the ring with me?” I ask.
“Ha,” Marco blurts out at the same time Cormac snorts. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I get in the ring with you.”
“Aye. But it’d be grand,” I say.
“Fer God’s sakes, Kieran,” Cormac whispers under his breath.
The idea Marco might jump into the fights is exhilarating for me, not so much for him.
“All right. Ye can bring yer men to start next week. I’ll give ye forty percent of the pot if they win.”
Marco practically growls. “Fifty. They’re my men, Kieran.”
“Aye, but it’s me bar.”
“Forty-five,” he tries again.
“Done.” I stand, extending my hand from across my desk, and Marco rises from his own seat to meet me. We shake on our deal. Then Marco lingers, hovering over my desk and some nonsense paperwork regarding liquor purchases.
“Who’s the girl you were talking to at the bar?”
My head rears back slightly, and I’m confused. Then my stomach takes a nosedive before my blood boils. Why’s he asking about her? Is he interested?
I examine the smattering of scars over my knuckles on my right hand before opening and closing my fist. I let the question hang in the air between us before answering. “She’s a teacher over at Ardenbrook Academy.”
“I see,” he says, then shrugs. Combing a hand through his nonexistent hair, he turns to move toward the door. “We’ll be seeing you next week.”
Cormac opens the door for him, and he leisurely strides out while I stare at the brown spots on the tree in the corner.
“It’s almost time, Kieran.” Cormac pauses in the open doorframe to glance at his gold Rolex. “Better make your call.”
* * *
“—if we read two, no three books a week from the liberry Miss Smith said we earn a pizza party.”
I blink and look down at the piece of paper with seventeen tally marks on it. In the short two-minute conversation, my daughter has mentioned Summer Smith seventeen?—
“She was wearing a pretty red shirt that ties in the front. Tommy said she looked beautiful. I hope I can look beautiful someday, too.”
Make that eighteen times. The ballpoint pen I’m using runs out of ink, and I toss it on the desk while picturing Summer in a red blouse. Why have I never noticed Aoife talking about Summer Smith before? And why do I suddenly catalog each mention of her?
“Ye’re beautiful now , Aoife. Just the way ye are. Do ye think ye should get back to bed?”
“But Miss Smith is really pretty,” she says instead of answering my question.
Pretty doesn’t do Summer Smith justice. I’m sure I could look up twenty other words for pretty, and none would suffice.
“It’s time for bed, Aoife. I love ya.”
I had Allie wake her so I could talk to her, as per my ritual before every fight. Even though it’s almost 11:00 p.m., missing a goodnight has never been an option.
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
She tosses the phone down without hanging up because I hear Allie scramble for it and end the call.
I thumb over to my voicemail, listening to a few messages, one in particular. Then opening the locked drawer in my desk, I secure my phone along with my wallet in there.
I don’t take my phone down below with me. Quick and easy access to my things at 3:00 a.m. when the fights are over is paramount. Cormac has a conniption when I hang around too long with adrenaline-filled men itching to prove themselves if they lose. He’s afraid they may challenge me privately.
I leave my office and walk down the hall to another door secured with biometric access. My men and I use the restaurant’s access, but it’s not the only door. There’s another entrance around the building in the alleyway. The steps begin at ground level and descend toward a door with a keypad. It takes a particular rotating code to get in.
When the door opens, lights blink on to illuminate the concrete steps down into the arena’s level. And by arena, I mean an underground cement level similar to a parking garage. It’s enormous but lacks the finesse of a legit ring.
Anticipation and apprehension fill me as I make my way down and through another set of locked double doors. The smell of smoke and week-old rank sweat wafts to my nose, and suddenly the fine clothing I’m wearing, the expensive watches and shoes, is worthless down here. Down here I’m just another fighter, ready to get into the ring.
Through the doors there’s a hallway to the right, leading to the locker rooms for those who compete. Typically, it’s for the fighters, but occasionally you’ll find their backers playing helicopter mom—unable to leave their side and giving them motivating speeches.
Across from the locker room is a medical bay with the Mob’s full-time doctor. He’s my personal physician and attends to all my men, as well as my daughter. I avoid hospitals as much as possible, and don’t make it a habit to see outside doctors.
His job during the fight is to make sure the fighter doesn’t die. That’s it. Broken arms, busted noses, dislocated shoulders—it’s all part of the deal and we don’t help with those things.
Death inevitably happens, though.
Again, it’s all part of taking the chance.
The floor is rough, stained with dried blood and dirt as I make my way through to the locker rooms. Cormac wanted me to have a private space to change and prep for my fights, but I don’t do this to be elevated above the rest. No. I want to be down in the muck with the rest of them.
Boxing. Fighting. Both saved me after I became leader of the Mob. I’m not your average boss barking orders and living the high life with private jets and multiple fancy cars. While money flows from an endless fountain, it’s never meant much to me. The bonds, the family, loyalty, and power. That’s what it’s about.
I push open the locker room door, and I’m greeted by Katsuro’s naked ass. He’s a member of the Japanese Yakuza and a quality fighter, but there’s only so many times I can see the man’s balls without losing my lunch.
I avert my eyes, veering over to my locker. “Put a towel on, Katsuro. No one wants to see that.”
“This spectacular masterpiece?” he says, pulling on his black boxing shorts. He looks up to grin at me, the dark of his eyes twinkling with mischief, then he runs a hand through his jet-black hair that hangs shoulder length. With a smack, he slaps the lightning bolt tattoo running over his biceps. “Going to be a good night?”
“Aye,” I answer pulling out my boxing shorts. The dark green stands out with the white shoes I wear, but there’s never been another color. Not for me.
The locker room door bangs open once again, and the murmured chants of a crowd gathering slithers through. Ace strides in sporting gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt with his hood thrown up over his head. He ignores Katsuro and me, making a beeline straight for his locker.
Ace is from the streets of Boston. Rumors say the young kid got involved with drugs at seventeen. He went from a well-cared-for middle-class family situation to a high school dropout on the streets real fast. From what I understand, boxing saved him. Seems to be a common theme in this circle.
Cormac suggested I bring him in. Allow him to earn a position within the family. But for some reason it doesn’t feel right. He’s off the drugs and working a nine-to-five at a nearby gas station. The kid doesn’t need mob business riding him. He’s only twenty. Maybe twenty-two.
He looks a lot closer to Summer’s age than mine.
Shite. This woman is a menace to my thoughts.
Several other fighters roll in. A mix of Yakuza, druggies looking to make a buck, and a few of my mob men. Nix, Fisher, and Max all mess around and roll out their shoulders. Soon we’ll have some Cosa Nostra to add to the lineup.
There are two long benches bolted to the floor, and I plant my ass on one as I slide up my headphones to block out the sounds. Bass punctures the controlled intensity swirling around me, and the boss I am is stripped away with each head roll I do.
I zone out, focusing on the resolve that floods my veins. I think of Aoife, and the lengths I would go to protect her. To avoid exposing her to anything or anyone involved in this life. As long as I’m alive, I’ll do more than fight in this ring … I’ll fight for her.
With my nerves steeped in liquid fire, I wrap my hands, carefully molding the mesh around the back of my hand and across the top of my palm before moving it around my knuckles.
Joe, our master of ceremonies—although technically he’s an everything guy—comes into the locker room. While in his sixties, he’s full of charisma with a distinctive voice that carries, powerful and precise. Employed by me solely to handle the fights, I joke with him about leaving to work as a legitimate ring announcer. He’d never go, though. He lives for the underground world. It’s less performative. Grittier and raw.
He nods at me, while posting the fight lineup for tonight. While several of the men hurl themselves toward the sheet of paper on the wall, I hang back. Resting my elbows on my thighs, I lower my head to my hands and close my eyes, breathing in and out methodically. I visualize the fight, regardless of who it’s with. My thoughts move through evading attacks and picture landing successful punches. I dig deep to compose myself, then stand to find Katsuro smirking in front of me.
“It’s you and me tonight, Kieran,” he says. “I’d say I’ll go easy on you, old man, but you know me. I’m not wired that way.”
I pretend to snore and shake out my arms to loosen them up. “Ye’re a bleeding eejit if ye think ye’ve got this in the bag.”
He chuckles. “I’ll see you out there.”
Nodding, I grab my hoodie and gloves from my locker, then toss the generic black sweatshirt over my head. Headphones around my neck, I pull the hood up and over my head and saunter out of the locker room.
Spectators, backers, and made men chant and yell, the noise reverberating off the walls. I follow the other fighters to the staging area. Three bags hang for warm-up and a few jump ropes keep the blood warm and moving while we wait for our individual fights.
I scan the diverse crowd of people. Some dressed to the nines in $40,000 suits and others in leather jackets and jeans. Doesn’t matter where you come from, or what you have, the ring makes you honest.
My gaze lands on the ring. It’s not the spotless kind you’d find on a televised fight with pristine ring ropes and undefiled turnbuckles. Our ring is worn, with layers of splattered blood and grimy sweat from the weeks before. It’s improvised, but better than most underground rings outlined with chalk.
The crowd’s energy is palpable, and as the night moves forward, the rowdier they get.
The first fights are pretty uneventful. But Joe whispers in my ear that the pot for Max and Ace is one of the highest for the night. That right there is good news.
Katsuro has moved away from me now. As we warm-up separately, we pause the friendly banter from the locker room until a tap or knockout.
Smoke rises from the cigars in the room, blurring the harsh lighting over the ring.
My thoughts drift to Aoife for a moment before my memory recalls her— the woman I see during my fights. I sway back and forth, my stomach roiling with the anticipation of seeing her again. Unattainable and alluring, this silhouetted woman has me chasing her mirage like an addict.
A ding that sounds like it’s underwater lures me back into focus, and before I realize it, I’ve walked to the ring while Joe introduces both Katsuro and me.
Cormac grimaces when he sees me and offers a smack to my bare shoulder. I toss my sweatshirt at him, and he curses me up and down under his breath.
I smile when I step into the ring, suck in the stale air, and swallow the body odor clinging to it.
Joe stands in the center, gesturing for Katsuro and me to meet in the middle.
Katsuro lifts his arms in the air to ramp up the crowd, and they eat it up. I don’t miss the tic in his jaw, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to keep from smirking at me.
We meet forehead to forehead, and while we’re both tall, he beats me out.
Joe slides a hand between us. “Fight fair.”
“Never,” I say.
“Don’t count on it,” Katsuro whispers.
The last thing on my mind when the bell dings is how much I hope I see her .