Chapter 7
On the drive over, they went through the plan one more time. They would tell the same story they told Martha, sticking close to the truth, with as little elaboration as possible.
Unlike the New York Clan, which had The Enclave, a massive complex on the Upper West Side where Lycans lived, the Boston Clan had no central hub.
Its members were scattered across Southie, Dorchester, Charlestown, and the surrounding suburbs.
Anything official that had to do with the clan, Ronan dealt with at his office in the docks.
But Doyle’s had been the closest thing to common ground.
It was a narrow, wood-paneled pub wedged between a laundromat and a barbershop on a side street in Southie.
The owner, a human named Pete Doyle, had known exactly what Ronan was—the local mob boss who kept the neighborhood in line.
In exchange for an envelope of cash every month and keeping other bad elements out, Pete let the crew and the rest of the clan use the back room and never asked questions.
Jacob found a spot on the street a block down and they made their way toward their destination.
Even from far away, Eli could see the warm glow from the pub’s windows and figures milling around inside.
By the time they reached Doyle’s, Matty was already waiting by the entrance, waving them over. “Hurry up, everyone’s here!”
The inside of Doyle’s hadn’t changed. Same dark wood, same sticky floor.
Red Sox pennants were tacked to the walls alongside framed photos that had yellowed with age.
The narrow pub was stuffed with bodies, the air thick with the smell of beer, fried food, and dozens of familiar Lycan scents.
Pete Doyle himself stood behind the bar, looking slightly overwhelmed, filling up pint glasses from the tap as fast as he could.
The second Sloane stepped through the doorway, a cheer went up, a well-deserved welcome for the hometown hero who brought down the Alpha who had terrorized them for decades.
Within moments, they were surrounded. Eli recognized most of them.
Faces he hadn’t seen in years and thought he’d never see again.
They shook hands, accepted hugs, and repeated the same story they’d told Martha.
Sloane and Jacob worked the room while Matty, doing what Matty did best, played host and made sure everyone had a drink.
Eli kept close to Olivia, his hand on the small of her back as they chatted with his former clan mates.
Once in a while, he found himself moving his hand along her waist in a caress.
At first, he thought she would flinch or protest, but to his surprise, she leaned into him, her sweet scent teasing his nose and her silvery curls brushing against him.
It took all his strength not to say fuck it, toss her over his shoulder, and run away from this entire thing.
“Everything okay?” Olivia asked under her breath. “You seem quiet. Extra quiet, I mean.”
“Yeah. I’m good.” He had to stop being distracted by Olivia, and focus on what was around him. Take the temperature, so to speak. The mood was celebratory, but underneath the noise, he couldn’t help but hear the worry tainting the conversations around him.
“So, what happens to us now?”
“The council’s gonna disband us, aren’t they?”
“Who’s running things? We need someone.”
“I’m kind of getting tired, being on my feet,” Olivia said, interrupting his eavesdropping. “Can we sit down?” She motioned to the booth—Patrick’s booth—where the old man seemingly held court with Jacob, Sloane, and two other Boston Lycans. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
He nodded and led Olivia away. As they arrived, he caught the tail end of what appeared to be a serious discussion.
“… I mean, Ronan was a bastard, and I’m glad he’s gone,” Bobby Fitz said, taking a swig from his pint glass. “But at least when he was around, people knew not to mess with us.”
That was true, Eli thought glumly. Glancing around, he noticed that one person still hadn’t shown up. “Hey, where’s Sean? Did anyone message him about tonight?”
When silence greeted his question, Patrick rapped his knuckles on the table. “Might as well tell ‘em now that they’re all together,” the old man said, looking at Bobby.
“Tell us what?” Eli asked.
Bobby’s jaw ticked. “Sean O’Grady’s dead.”
“When?” Sloane gasped.
“Day after Ronan was nabbed. Cops found him in his car, over by the docks.” Bobby took a long pull from his pint. “Body was burned to a crisp.”
“Burned?” Jacob said, exchanging a glance with Eli. “How?”
“Bullet through the head, then torched. Him and the car both.” Bobby set his glass down. “Cops are saying it looks like the Russians.”
Eli felt Olivia stiffen beside him.
“Makes sense,” said Tommy, arms folded over his chest. “Word is the Bratva’s been sniffing around ever since Ronan got locked up.”
“Which is exactly why we need someone in charge.” Bobby raised his glass again and slammed it down on the wooden tabletop. “An Alpha, a boss, whatever you want to call it. Someone the other crews know not to test.”
“The High Council—” Sloane began.
“The High Council doesn’t have to live here,” Patrick interrupted. “We do.”
The exchange seemingly died down, and Eli found his opening. He caught Sloane’s eye and tipped his head toward the far end of the bar where Danny McGill and Mickey Mickelson sat with a handful of enforcers Eli recognized from the old crew.
Sloane gave Jacob a look, and he nodded once—he’d keep an eye on Olivia. Eli let his hand drop from her waist. “I’ll be right over there,” he said. “I should say hi.”
She glanced toward where he was headed, clocking the group. “Sure thing,” she said, then added in a low tone, “Be careful.”
He and Sloane made their way through the crowd and sat at the two empty stools at the end of the bar.
Danny acknowledged them with a nod, but didn’t say a word.
He’d always been the quieter of the two, a bull of a man who let his fists do his talking.
Mickey, on the other hand, looked different.
Thinner, for one, with dark circles under his eyes.
“Sloane. Eli.” Mickey raised his glass. “Glad you’re both okay.”
“Same,” Sloane said, though Eli heard the careful neutrality in her voice. “How you holding up?”
“Honestly? Better than I deserve.” He gripped the glass between his palms, staring into the amber colored liquid. “The council reached out. Offered us a deal. If we confess to any crimes against Lycans, they’ll be lenient. Danny and I are taking it.”
“Same for me,” Eli added.
“Smart move,” Sloane said.
Danny grunted. “Don’t have much choice, do we?”
“But it’s the right one,” she added.
“Look, I’m not gonna pretend I was a good person,” Mickey said. “Sloane, I’m sorry about your parents. You know I had nothin’ to do with that.”
“I know,” she said. “We did a lot of bad shit, but Ronan made sure we didn’t know anything about the murders in the clan.
That’s why he only had Garret and those human bodyguards with him whenever he was going to pull shit like that.
They were waiting for us when I broke into his office to steal his diaries.
” The silence said what no one did, that Ronan meant to kill Sloane that night.
Mickey huffed. “I did things I can’t take back. But I’m done with all of it. I want to make things right, for whatever that’s worth.”
“What about O’Grady?” Sloane asked. “You guys hear anything besides what Bobby said?”
Danny shook his head. “Just that it was professional.” He made a gun shape with his fingers and placed it to his temple. “Right through the brain, so no chance of recovery.”
“Sean was talking big after Ronan went down,” Mickey said. “Runnin’ his mouth about how he was going to take over, how the crew needed him. He pissed off a lot of people, not just our kind.”
“Sounds like Sean,” Sloane muttered.
One of the enforcers, a broad-shouldered guy named Nolan, leaned forward.
“That’s exactly the problem. O’Grady was a loudmouth, but he wasn’t wrong about needing someone.
Half the crew’s scattered, the other half’s waiting to see what happens.
The Russians aren’t the only ones circling like sharks who smelled blood in the water.
” He looked directly at Eli. “What about you?”
Eli frowned. “What about me?”
“You’re back, you’ve got connections to New York, and people respect you. Maybe you should—”
“Eli,” Sloane said, cutting Nolan off. Once again, she conveyed something in that silent communication they had developed over the years, and this message said, trouble. She nodded across the pub.
Eli’s head snapped toward that direction. He was on his feet before he even processed what he was seeing—three men crowded around Patrick’s booth. They weren’t Lycans, he could just tell. One of them had his phone out, angled at Olivia’s face.
His wolf let out a growl—or perhaps that sound was from his own throat.
He crossed the pub in measured strides, hands in tight fists at his sides.
The only reason he didn’t let the rage simmering inside of him boil over was because he didn’t want to jeopardize their mission.
He stopped as soon as he got close enough to hear what was going on.
“Holy shit, it is you,” the tallest one said, grinning. “Guys, I told you. That’s Olivia Jones. The model.”
Model?
“No way.” His friend leaned in closer. “Yo, can we get a picture?”
Olivia gave them a strained smile. “I appreciate it, but I’m here with people, so—”
“C’mon, just one.” The third one slid into the booth beside her. “We’ll make it quick.”
“She said no,” Matty interjected from across the table, but the guys didn’t even look at him.
“Relax, bro, we’re just talking to her.”
Something exploded in Eli’s chest. His wolf surged forward with such force that his vision focused to a single point, namely, the man sitting next to Olivia, his arm draped on the back of the booth behind her shoulders.