5. Cillian
Chapter five
Cillian
I t’s been a month since I met Nova on my last trip to New Orleans. Since we don’t use that port as much as we used to, I haven’t needed to make my presence known. For the first time since we took over the Port of Boston, I find myself wishing I spent as much time at Port NOLA as I used to.
I’m still baffled by the fact I didn’t simply take my wallet back from her and threaten her within an inch of her life for stealing from me. They would have been empty threats, but she wouldn’t have known that. Or maybe she would have. There was something about her that I still can’t put my finger on, but it was as though she saw the man I am. Instead of running scared like most would if they were to find out what I did for a living, she was intrigued—and anything but intimidated. We played cat and mouse with each other, having to glean answers from each other through the questions we volleyed back and forth. It was more fun than I’d had in longer than I can remember, and dammit if I wasn’t completely enchanted with the little thief. Like so many things about her, that simple fact confounds me and would have me chasing my tail trying to figure it out. Normally, I detest unanswered questions and loose ends. Instead, I’ve accepted that I’ll never understand how and why I was delightfully disjointed for an entire evening in her presence.
There was something about her that reminded me of who I used to be before I was taken under the wing of Cormac Monaghan. She possessed the same wild fierceness I had when I was a kid who was pickpocketing my way through Boston to make ends meet.
When I was fourteen, my mom was diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer. We’d moved from the small town in Minnesota years before, and though my mom had friends, she didn’t have family around. Not that she had much back in Minnesota, save for a drunk brother-in-law and a nephew who turned out to be one of the worst men I’d ever known. Honestly, had one of the members of the Black Roses MC not taken care of him, I would have—blood or not.
After my stepdad took off after my mom’s cancer diagnosis, we were left completely unprepared for what life would be like without his income. The lack of emotional support for me and my mom was never an issue. I’m pretty sure the man had one foot out the door for years before he finally left, but if we didn’t figure out a way to make some money ASAP, we were going to be more fucked than we already were. Being that I was fourteen, there wasn’t much I could do legally. Sure, I had a couple part-time gigs washing dishes in a few restaurants under the table, but since it wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up, I couldn’t complain about the less than minimum wage I was making to the labor board.
My life of crime started innocently enough. I had a friend in school who used to brag about lifting wallets and how easy it was. We were hanging out one day, and I watched him do it. He pretended to trip over himself and fell into a distracted businessman in a nice suit. The guy was kind of a dick about it, and when my friend righted himself, he came away with the wallet from the man’s pocket. He dared me to try, but I said hell no.
At first .
A couple weeks later we got the eviction notice on the small apartment we moved to when my stepdad bailed.
The next time I hung out with this particular friend, I peppered him with questions. How did he pick his targets? How much did he usually get? How did he get rid of the wallets? All the things I thought I needed to know to become a pro and fast. I studied every move he made when he showed me on another unassuming person on the street.
Then I tried.
And I got away with it.
There was a rush that came along with the theft. A rush and a sense of relief. Maybe I could actually bring home some real money to keep the roof over our heads. So I did it again. And again. After school, when I was supposed to be washing dishes, I was out lifting wallets. I had nimble fingers and was quick on my feet. Being in downtown Boston, there were plenty of people on the street who were distracted enough from either being on their phones or hurrying from one place to another. It was easy pickings.
Until I lifted from a man who would ultimately change my life.
The good thing about the Boston streets late on a Friday afternoon is everyone around is in a hurry to get home and start their weekend. Devon, my friend who started me on pickpocketing, had to stay late at school to make up some assignments he missed, so I’m on my own.
I usually stick to a five-block radius and switch those up every few days. I don’t need shop owners getting used to my face—just in case. As I sip the soda I bought from a corner market, I spot two guys in nice suits making their way down the street. One is talking animatedly on the phone while the other listens intently. They step into a florist shop, and I spy the man who isn’t on the phone pull his money clip from his pocket and pay for a bouquet before sliding his clip back in.
Bingo.
They walk out of the shop with one of the men still on the phone. I flip my ball cap around so it’s covering my face and quickly begin walking toward them with my head down as though I’m in a hurry to get somewhere.
“Tell the asshole if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll have Cormac’s money by end of day tomorrow,” the guy says as I slam into the man carrying the flowers.
“Shit, sorry.” As I crash into him, I lift the money clip from his pocket, smashing the flowers between us.
“ Watch where you're going,” the man on the phone says to me, and I throw him the middle finger before hurrying off.
Fucking prick.
I’m about fifty feet from them before I hear the man with the flowers. “That punk stole my wallet.”
Looking behind me, I see the angry faces of the two men in suits as they push their way through the busy sidewalk, making a beeline toward me.
Shit.
I take off in a sprint, sure that I’m faster than the two guys behind me. Without wasting the time to turn around, I bolt around a corner…and straight into a delivery man with a case of whiskey. How do I know it’s whiskey? Because when I collide with the man, the case goes flying out of his hands as I’m launched backward, falling on my ass. The bottles crash to the ground, several smashing open, causing a rapidly growing puddle to soak into my jeans as I lie flat on my back, only cushioned from the fall by my backpack. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop the wind from being knocked straight the fuck out of me. The smell is familiar, and memories of my deadbeat stepdad with a rocks glass in his hand while sitting in an old recliner race through my mind.
The delivery driver is flat on his ass as well, stunned by the collision as I sit up and try to catch my breath.
“You okay, kid?” he asks, gingerly hauling himself from the pavement.
He walks over to me, his boots crunching through the glass, and extends a hand to help me up. I grasp his forearm on autopilot—and because I don’t want to cut my hands to shit on all the broken glass surrounding me.
“Grab him,” one of the men I was running from calls as he turns the corner.
I try to rip my arm free from the delivery driver, but his grip is too strong.
“You little shit. Do you have any idea who you just stole from?” the asshole who told me to watch where I’m going spits at me.
Seconds later, the man with a now crushed bouquet of flowers turns the corner.
“You know this guy, Mr. Monaghan?”
“No, but I have a feeling we’re going to become acquainted real fucking quick.”
He walks over to me, the delivery driver's grip still holding tightly around my forearm, and rips the hat from my head.
“Jesus Christ, how old are you?”
My jaw is clenched tightly as I refuse to answer.
The man, Mr. Monaghan, simply shrugs. “Have it your way.” He then turns toward the delivery man. “You okay, Mickey?”
Mickey nods. “I’ll clean this up.”
“Come on, you little punk,” the other man grits out, grabbing my other arm and yanking me from Mickey.
“Let go of me, you prick.” My attempt to wrestle my arm away from this guy is futile as he drags me through the back door of a bar and into an office, away from the prying eyes of its customers.
“Don’t be too rough on the boy, Sully,” Mr. Monaghan states as Sully yanks me into a chair.
“Stay,” Sully directs, pointing one of his meaty fingers at me.
Mr. Monaghan casually strolls around the wide oak desk I’m sitting at, then takes a seat in the high-back leather chair behind it. Sully takes a stand in front of the door, probably to ensure I don’t make a run for it. I’m not small for fourteen by any stretch, but these guys each have at least fifty pounds on me, and by the looks of it, they aren’t afraid of knocking a few skulls together. Since I’d rather those skulls don’t include mine, I decide to sit quietly. My eyes flit around the small office while Mr. Monaghan studies me. It’s not much to write home about, just a brick-walled space, two chairs in front of his desk, and a few pictures on the wall. There’s a framed photo of a couple who look to be old as shit. Two men are holding shotguns in one picture, and there’s another that has the man in the first picture with who I’m assuming are his wife and two sons. Below that one is a more recent photo of a couple. I recognize Mr. Monaghan with a woman and two boys—one who looks about my age.
“Do you know who I am?” Mr. Monaghan asks.
“Mr. Monaghan,” I reply, shrugging my shoulder. What does he expect me to say?
“You're a disrespectful little punk,” Sully hisses from his place in front of the door.
I turn my head toward him. “Better than a glorified guard dog,” I reply, indignation lacing my tone. They grabbed me and shoved me in this office, but I’m the one who’s supposed to show respect? Yeah, fuck that.
“Sully, cut the kid some slack,” Mr. Monaghan says before turning his attention back to me. “How old are you?”
I stay silent.
“Come on, kid, it's a simple question,” Mr. Monaghan says.
“Fourteen.”
“I have a son that age. You in school?”
I nod.
“Live around here?”
I nod again.
“Real talker,” he chuckles to himself. “You got a name?”
“Yeah.”
Mr. Monaghan rolls his eyes, but his lips twist as though he’s trying to hide a smile. “You mind sharing it?”
I take a deep breath. The guy obviously isn’t going to call the police on me. Thank God, because that’s the last thing my mother needs to deal with.
“Cillian Doyle.”
Mr. Monaghan smiles and sits back in his chair. “Well, Cillian Doyle. I’m Cormac Monaghan. Since that name doesn’t seem to hold any weight with you, I’ll tell you what I do. I run the Irish mob in Boston.”
Fuck me . I just lifted the wallet of a goddamn mob boss.
He must see the look of surprise mixed with fear on my face, and he shakes his head.
“Don’t worry, I’m not in the habit of cutting fingers off thieves. That was my grandfather’s way of handling things.” He nods toward the pictures on the wall I was just studying.
I don’t know if he thinks that statement is supposed to make me feel more at ease because it most certainly does not.
“Why are you on my streets stealing wallets?”
“Why would anyone? I need the money.”
“You trying to save up for some new video games or something?”
I wish my life were that simple. “My mom’s sick and my dad took off.” Maybe if I’m honest with him he’ll cut me some slack, as in let me go with nothing more than a warning. One can hope.
Mr. Monaghan tenses his jaw a few times and shakes his head. “What kind of father would abandon his kid and wife like that?”
He doesn’t seem to be asking me that question, more like he’s disgusted with the entire idea of it, but I answer anyways. “To be fair, he was my stepdad. And a shitty one at that.”
The look he gives me isn’t pity, which I’m grateful for. It’s thoughtful, as though he’s trying to figure out what to do with me. I suppose being a mob boss means you have to make examples of people who steal from you, but I hope to God I met him on a day when he’s feeling lenient as far as punishments go.
“You make much doing it? It’s pretty risky to steal from people without eventually getting caught.”
“That thought has crossed my mind several times in the last ten minutes, yeah,” I reply.
“What’s wrong with your mom?”
“Cancer.”
Mr. Monaghan thins his lips and looks at one of the pictures on the wall. “My grandmother died of lung cancer,” he says.
We sit in silence for a few moments as he looks at the picture of who I’m assuming is his grandmother before he sets his hands on the desk and folds his fingers together.
“Listen, the last thing you should be doing is some penny-ante shit that could get you pinched. So, I’m going to make you a deal. You’re going to work for me.”
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead in surprise. What the hell does the head of the Irish mob expect me to do?
“I’m no drug dealer.” I’ve heard stories about other criminal organizations having high school kids selling drugs at their schools to their classmates. I’m not interested in that shit. I could care less if people like to party, but I’m not trying to get kids addicted to the shit that’s floating around the streets.
“Good to know. But that has nothing to do with what I’m offering. You’re going to be my personal messenger and collector. Run errands that I need, things like that.”
“You want me to be your errand boy?”
“Better than a pickpocket who’s liable to get arrested. Where would your mom be then?”
I think about that for a few moments. He’s not wrong. What I do is risky, but it keeps a roof over our heads and food in our fridge. “How much you pay?”
“How much do you make?”
“Usually eight hundred a week.” No, I don’t, but it would be nice if I did.
“I’ll double it,” he says with a shrug.
“Just for running errands?” There’s no way that’s all he expects of me with that kind of paycheck.
“Yup. If you keep your nose clean and stop running around stealing wallets, we have a deal.”
That kind of money is tempting as hell, and I’m not exactly in a position to turn it down. “Okay, Mr. Monaghan. You have a deal.”
He stands from his chair and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Glad to have you on board, Cillian.”
I don’t know why Cormac decided to take a chance on me all those years ago. Maybe he saw a little bit of himself in me like I did with Nova. Maybe I caught him on a good day, but from then on, I became a member of the Monaghan family, not just the organization. Once Maeve found out that my mom was sick, she took it upon herself to send me home with home-cooked meals anytime I had to stop by the house to meet with Cormac. Then, not too long after that, Finn and I started working together. Cormac wanted his son to learn the business from the ground up since he would be taking over at some point. We hit it off right away, bonding over our love of the Yankees, which was a rarity considering we lived in hard-core Red Sox territory. My mom and I had a standing invitation to join the Monaghans at church every Sunday, followed by brunch at the Monaghans’, and Sully would usually come pick us up at our little apartment on the south end, then drop us back in the evening. And when my mom died right after I turned nineteen, it was the Monaghan family standing next to me at her funeral, with Maeve on one side of me and Cormac on the other, keeping me from falling apart.
A knock sounds on the security room door at the casino, startling me out of my thoughts, and Finn peeks his head in as I turn in my chair.
“When do you take off for New Orleans?” Finn asks.
I check my watch. “About seven hours.”
Finn blows out a breath. “What are you still doing here then? Go home and get some sleep before your flight.”
“Just finishing up a few things, Dad, ” I reply with a smile. About a week ago, Finn let me in on a little secret he hadn’t announced to the family yet regarding him and Alessia expecting a mini Monaghan in a few months.
“Don’t start with that shit. I’ve been telling you for years that you need to get more rest.”
I wave off his concerns as he steps further into the room and has a seat next to mine in front of the monitors.
“Fuck, I hope this shit with Farina gets settled soon,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’d rather Alessia give birth during a time when we didn’t have to worry about an all-out war with the remaining Italian Mafia in Massachusetts.”
Since killing off the head of the Cataldi organization a few months ago and partnering with the Amattos, Alessia’s family, things have been quieter, almost peaceful. Well, if you don’t count taking out the head of the New York Bratva. Thankfully, the new head of the Bratva out that way has a strong connection to us, considering his sister is living with Finn’s brother, Eoghan.
“It’s a dangerous life,” I say.
“Yeah, but this shit with Farina makes it more dangerous.”
“It’s not like you’re directly involved. I’m working on this with Liam.”
Finn shoots me an annoyed look. “Seriously, Cillian? This whole little operation might be between you and Liam but don’t think for a second you wouldn’t have the backing of the entire Monaghan organization if shit went sideways and Liam needed us there. I won’t stand for the shit Farina seems to have himself involved in any more than you or Liam. I don't give a rat’s ass if I’m not directly involved. You’re my lieutenant and a brother to me. Plus, when you guys take out Farina, I’ll be stepping in. That’s the agreement we have with Liam.”
Though my work with Liam is something I felt the need to help with any way I could, Finn had some stipulations when it came to Liam using our contacts in New Orleans. Nothing in this life is done out of the goodness of our hearts. As soon as we figure out how to dismantle Farina’s rings, everyone will be better off, and our organization will hold the power in all of Massachusetts. Not a bad concession for me dividing my time between the Monaghans and the Ashcroft Agency.
“If we play our cards right, this won’t come anywhere near you or Alessia,” I tell him. Though my involvement could cause complications, Liam has assured me that his team will be the ones to deal with the blowback. Truth be told, I don’t know that he can keep that promise, but we’ll all be better off with Farina out of the picture if our suspicions turn out to be accurate, which it’s looking more and more like they are if the phone call I received from Sampson is any indication.
“One can hope. I’ll see you when you get back.”
Finn stands and heads out, presumably to get home to his wife since it’s so late. Or early, depending on which side of the bed you’re on. I close my computer and pack my things, deciding to take Finn’s suggestion to crash for a few hours before my flight.
“So there were a few guys in suits hanging out around here?” I ask Sampson as we sit in his escort vehicle.
“Yup. This is where the international cargo comes in. Specifically from Eastern Europe and Russia.”
“Did you catch any names?”
“There were three guys, and one mentioned talking to Massimo. Told him three weeks from today.”
Fucking Farina.
“Did they say anything about if the cargo was coming in or going out?”
“Nope. Don’t even know what the cargo is. Told you everything I overheard. I wasn’t about to look like I was listening in on their conversation.”
“You did right, Sampson. We have a name and a port location. If you happen to see anyone else or hear anything else, let me know.”
We drive away from the port and back to the parking lot. When he stops in front of my rental car, I peel a few hundreds from the clip attached to my wallet and smile. If running into Nova last time I was in New Orleans taught me anything, it's to keep a backup stash of cash in the safe in my hotel room.
“For the baby,” I say, handing him the bills.
Sampson nods. “The baby thanks you,” he says with a wry smile.
We say our goodbyes, and I drive back to my hotel. I’ve always found comfort in routine, so I stay at the same hotel outside of the French Quarter. When I open the door to my room and set my bag on the bed, I pull back the heavy red curtains hanging over the window and look out at the New Orleans skyline. Nova is out there somewhere doing God knows what, and there’s a rather large part of me that wishes I would have gotten her number instead of only giving her mine so I’d know, too.
Instead of changing from my suit and heading out to Geraldine’s with the hope of running into her like I’ve considered a million times since my plane touched down, I pick up my phone to call Liam.
“Cillian, what did you find out?”
“Hello to you too,” I say in response.
“Sorry, didn’t realize you needed sweet words before getting down to business,” Liam quips.
“It’s a standard nicety in this country.”
“Very well, then. Hello dear. How was your day? Did you happen to find out any new information from your friend regarding a certain Italian fellow who has been doing rather intolerable things as of late?”
“You can be a real prick. You know that?”
“I’ve been told a time or two, yes,” Liam lets out an amused chuckle. I’m pretty sure I could go tell this guy to fuck himself on a daily basis and he’d laugh it off. If I hadn’t seen firsthand how he handles these assholes, I’d have serious doubts about how committed he is to this cause.
“I spoke with Sampson, and he confirmed three guys at one of the docks were hanging around a couple days ago. Said he overheard them talking about informing Massimo, but didn’t refer to him as Farina, not that it matters. Knowing they were Italian and used Massimo’s name is enough for me to go on.”
“I agree. Anything else?”
“We have an approximate date, but don’t know if they were speaking of a shipment going out or coming in, or what exactly is supposed to be in the shipment.”
“With the chatter I’m hearing, I’d say it’s safe to assume it’s of the human variety,” Liam says.
One of his guys is all over the dark web finding pieces of shit who sell girls and those who buy them. Fuck, I’d hate to have that job.
“Okay. I’ll make sure to have a few of my guys in New Orleans keeping an eye on what’s going down. I’ll send in Abel to set up surveillance in that area too.”
“Sounds good. I’ll make sure to be back down here as well.”
“Got a taste for bloodshed, did you?”
“Depends on who’s blood.”
“Good, good. We’ll firm things up in the next couple weeks. Let me know if your guy hears anything else.”
“Will do,” I reply and disconnect the call.
It’s been a long day already and as I'm thinking about a shower and ordering food, my phone notifies me of an incoming text. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, but the picture that comes through of the woman in the blonde wig is a sight for my sore fucking eyes.
Nova: I was just thinking about you.
Nova: I know you said to call if I needed anything and I don’t. Everything is fine.
Nova: It’s just that the band we saw that night is playing tonight at the same bar, and I don’t know, it made me think of you.
Nova: Okay, that sounds pathetic. Delete this from your phone and memory. Thanks, bye.
I may be laughing to myself at her embarrassment, but I’d be lying if I said she hadn’t crossed my mind a time or a hundred, especially knowing she’s so close, but I have no way of getting ahold of her. Well, I didn’t.
Me: I’ll do no such thing.
Nova: *stares at floor* please swallow me now.
Me: Why are you embarrassed? I know I’m unforgettable .
Nova: And so humble.
Me: You look beautiful, by the way.
I see text bubbles appear and disappear a couple of times before one of her responses comes through.
Nova: Flattery will get you nowhere, sir. Especially when you're over two thousand miles away. But thanks.
Me: I’m not…
Nova: Not what?
Me: Thousands of miles away. In fact I’m currently in a hotel room overlooking the New Orleans skyline.
Nothing comes through for a few minutes, and I wonder if the reality of me being in New Orleans rather than a safe distance from her would have changed her mind about reaching out. We can’t find ourselves in trouble if we aren’t within reach of each other, and I have a feeling being close to her again would not end with me leaving her at her door with a kiss on the cheek like last time.
Finally, another text notification pops up.
Nova: Any plans tonight?
Me: Yeah. I hear there’s a reggae band playing at a little bar off Bourbon. Thought I’d check it out.
Nova: Hmm. Interesting. You taking anyone?
Me: Yup. A black-haired little thief who I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for the last month.
When I’m met with silence again, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. A month is plenty of time to make the night we had bigger in my mind. But she was the one who reached out to me. That has to count for something.
Nova: Interesting. I have a feeling someone matching that description plans to be there around 10.
Me: I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for her.
Nova: You do that. And maybe keep a better eye on your wallet tonight, too .
Me: Will do.
But I know damn well it’s not my wallet I’m in danger of losing.