Chapter 1
brIONI
It’s well past dark, and the church is deserted. The harsh basement lighting shows off every speck of glitter in the youth group room’s carpet. I’ve vacuumed three times now, and there’s still more to go, an uphill battle of a task.
But the kids are worth it.
We don’t do crafts at every Friday night session, but tonight we made construction paper angels. It was Little Seamus who’d asked to use glitter. He hasn’t spoken in so long that his voice came out in a whisper. I couldn’t tell him no.
I do my best not to think of him as Poor Little Seamus these days. Eight years old, and his da died in a car crash last month. He’s been silent in youth group ever since. As the instructor, I do the best I can to keep an eye on him without singling him out.
I keep my eye on his mam too. She’s a strong, upright woman, her curled hair always beneath a handkerchief. From what I can tell, she’s good at putting on a brave face for her son. Even if it’s a false face, it may be enough.
I hope she’ll be able to weather her grief with fortitude, if not for her own sake, then for Seamus’s. If she falters, I’ll be there, along with the other members of our South Side community, but I worry it may not be enough.
Maybe it’ll be different for Seamus if his mother withdraws, if she retreats inside herself. I was fifteen when my da died of a heart attack, when my mam stopped being my mam.
I was sixteen when she left for good.
Little Seamus is only in second grade, but young children are resilient in a way teenagers are not. And even though it feels awful to think it, he’s a boy. He may not end up vulnerable the way I did, desperate and gullible, eagerly falling for a guy who seemed safe and steady.
Whenever I think of my ex-boyfriend Harrison, my scalp prickles in warning.
I tuck the vacuum into the closet, passing beneath the basement window.
A flash of something pale appears outside.
I jolt in panic, but then it’s gone. With every follicle on my head tingling, I tell myself I’m being paranoid. Harrison moved to Silicon Valley. He’s thousands of miles away, and he can’t hurt me here.
But he’s stalked me before.
I push away the thought as I pull on my coat and scarf. When I check my phone, my blood goes cold.
The screen is frozen. It’s all black with a single line of white text.
Be careful out there.
Hands shaking, I drop my phone onto one of the desks. Beneath the warning, a smile appears, a slow curve from left to right. There’s no outline of a face, no eyes or anything emoji-like. Just a sinister curve that’s undoubtedly a grin.
I swallow hard. This isn’t the first time my phone’s been hacked like this.
Since I broke up with Harrison a few weeks ago, I’ve received a dozen similar messages, all ominous versions of: watch out.
Getting a new phone did nothing but deplete my bank account.
The messages kept overriding my screen, and there’s only one way to get rid of them.
Holding my breath, I trace the smile’s curve from left to right.
The message disappears, and I exhale. But even though my phone’s back to normal, I’m far from reassured.
These messages always appear right as I’m walking out the door.
Whether I’m leaving my house or work or church doesn’t matter.
And though I typically stick to my schedule, I’m never here this late.
Even if Harrison knows my routine and he’s tracking my phone’s location, there’s no way he could know that I’m about to leave, that I’ve pulled on my coat.
Unless he’s watching me right now.
That flash of something pale in the window.
I try to shake off my paranoia. It’s the season getting to me, that’s all. In the Chicago autumn, the days are growing darker, the nights stretching longer. And with the shedding trees turning barren, nature itself has shifted from idyllic to spooky.
And I’m letting it disturb me more than I should.
Even so, I slip my pepper spray into my coat’s outer pocket. I’m less than a mile from my house. I haven’t gone for a run since our breakup, but I know I’m still faster than Harrison. His specialty is tech, and my forte is speed. Whether or not my fear is founded, I can make it.
I lock up the church and walk briskly through the seemingly deserted neighborhood.
This is O’Sullivan-controlled territory, I remind myself.
My next-door neighbors, my second family, run this part of town.
Their influence protects civilians like me.
Even though I don’t like to think about that side of their business, their activities have all but eliminated the area’s petty crime.
I pull my scarf tighter against the cold night. Thanks to the O’Sullivans’ donations to South Side infrastructure, the streets are decently lit. Frequent cones of yellow-orange light feel like safe havens along the sidewalks. But in my pocket, I keep my finger on the trigger of my pepper spray.
Up ahead, the mouth of an alleyway looms. I try to steel myself, but I feel no courage.
As I pass the alley, I can’t help it, I turn my head to look.
There. Behind the dumpster. A slim man in dark clothing.
My scalp prickles, but the next second, I see only shadows.
Doubt creeps over me, my reason trying to fight my instincts.
But I don’t think. I run.
With the cold air burning my lungs, I realize how out of practice I am. I’m sluggish, like I’m trying to sprint through syrup. Running’s the only time I ever feel coordinated in my body, but not tonight. My feet, although heavy and clumsy, know where I’m going before I do.
The place where I feel safest.
It only takes me a few minutes to get to the O’Sullivans’ pub, and I never stop running.
When I’m finally in sight of the multipaned windows, with the cheery light spilling out of them a stone’s throw away, I slow down to check the street behind me.
Empty. My chest heaves painfully, and I stop to catch my breath.
I don’t want them to see me like this.
Clutching the post of a stop sign, I steady myself as I breathe through the stitch in my side. I gulp cold air and grip colder metal, letting the night soothe my overheated face. Though I keep aware of my surroundings, I know I’m safe when I’m this close to the O’Sullivans’ headquarters.
Through the windows, I see scattered groups of customers, but I can’t see the wooden bar itself. I hope at least one O’Sullivan brother is here, willing to help me shake off my worries and drown my sorrows. In my heart, I hope it’s Liam.
I smooth my tangled hair as best I can, straighten my coat, and step inside.
The comforting smell of the pub’s oak interior envelops me. It’s a double-height space, but the stamped copper ceiling gives the room a warm, cozy feel. A couple of patrons turn to watch me walk in, but I keep my eyes straight ahead, searching.
At the far end of the bar, Finn sits by himself.
The third O’Sullivan brother rests his bulky arms on the polished wood as he speaks with Erin, the bartender.
Erin is everyone’s friend. Despite her take-no-prisoners exterior and badass leather jacket, she’s warm and inviting, beloved by the pub’s regulars.
Finn spots me first, greeting me with a wave.
He’s always been like a little brother to me, even though these days he’s far from little.
Beneath his tight black T-shirt, his arms are like pythons.
Paired with his roguishly broken nose, his hulking muscles announce to the world that he’s ready for a fight.
But for me, he’s all smiles.
Erin turns to me, and she’s gorgeous as ever with her smoky eyeshadow. Even though it’s near closing, after what must’ve been a long shift, she has hardly a raven hair out of place.
“The usual?” she asks, ready to pull me a Magners and Guinness.
“Something stronger, please.” I need something to soothe my nerves.
Both Finn’s and Erin’s eyebrows go up, but neither comment as she preps us three shots of Jameson. We lift our glasses, but there’s a pause, with no one quite sure what we’re cheers-ing to. The other two look to me, since I was the one who asked for something stronger.
To drowning my worries with the closest thing I’ll ever have to family.
“Happy Friday!” I say with forced cheer.
Finn and Erin echo me, and we down our shots quickly, before Erin excuses herself to cash out a customer.
“You got my text, then?” Finn asks, and I feel a twinge of guilt.
“Um, no.” After I got rid of Harrison’s message, I didn’t want to look at my phone anymore. It felt tainted. I reach for it, but Finn gestures for me not to bother.
“Just seeing who all wanted to drink tonight,” he says. “Brady should be here soon.”
Brady, the second O’Sullivan brother, is the public face of the family’s legitimate business. He got married a few weeks ago, and I adore his wife.
“Is Cora coming?” I ask Finn, and he wrinkles his crooked nose.
“Yes,” he says tersely. He’s not a fan of his new sister-in-law. The only reason I can fathom is that they’re both strong personalities.
When Brady and Cora stride in a few minutes later, Erin pours us all another round of shots, and the whiskey warms me from the inside out.
Cora raises a suspicious eyebrow, but she waits until Erin’s at the far end of the bar and the brothers are in their own conversation. Then she leans close to me.
“Are you okay, babe?” she asks in an undertone. Cora’s good at reading people. Too good.
“I’m fine,” I say, but she purses her red lips to tell me she’s not buying it.
“It’s Harrison, isn’t it?” Cora’s the only one I’ve told about my creepy phone messages. “We could have him taken care of, you know,” she says, but my stomach drops at the thought, my face suddenly cold.
I shake my head in horror. We’re too close to discussing that side of the O’Sullivans.
“Just an option to think about.” Cora shrugs. She’s so casual about violence, the perfect mafia wife. Meanwhile, I avoid violence at all costs and let paranoia and fear rule me instead.
“I have it under control,” I tell her. When she gives me a skeptical look, I add, “And there’s a good chance it’s all in my imagination.” I say it confidently, but Cora shakes her head.
“Brioni, you have good instincts. Trust them.”
“Well…” I consider the empty shot glasses in front of us. “Right now, my instincts are telling me to drink more.” To forget everything bad in this world and simply exist among friends.
“I can help with that.” Cora reaches for the bottle of Jameson that Erin left for us.
And drink we do.