Chapter 2
Question for ya, Father Patrick… How many Hail Marys for kidnappin' your best friend's naked woman?
Lorcan, mah boy, how do ya always find yerself in such situations?
How, Father?
The answer's simple enough, isn't it? Irish mob, that's how.
And here I am, thirty-one years old, runnin' a criminal empire from the Boston docks, and drivin' a stolen '70s Buick LeSabre that smells like cigarettes and gasoline.
The woman in the trunk is naked.
My best friend's woman.
Who I just kidnapped.
From his basement dungeon.
Which—when you state the circumstances in order like that—doesn't sound nearly as brill as it did an hour ago.
The family business has a way of puttin' ya in positions that'd make the saints weep and the sinners laugh. Situations where the line between right and wrong gets blurred beyond all recognition.
But this might be a new low even for me.
Or a new high, dependin' on your perspective.
Moral relativity's a proper bitch that way.
The dashboard clock blinks 8:54 in green digital numbers that flicker every third second like they're considerin' givin' up entirely. I don't blame them. I'm considerin' the same thing.
I'm not in a good place mentally.
Right. Understatement of the year, that. I've had better days—I've had worse ones too. The kind with gunfire, and blood, and people actively tryna end me.
But at least those made sense. You get shot at, you shoot back, everyone knows the rules.
This is somethin' else entirely.
Not exactly a moral high ground situation, is it?
And…
And… the naked-woman-in-the-boot hasn't made a sound in over two hours.
Not since I shoved her in there in Giovanni's driveway and peeled out like the hounds of hell were nippin' at my heels.
Not one word since then.
Not one scream. Not one demand, or threat, or promise of revenge.
Just... nothin'. Dead quiet. The kind of silence that feels unnatural. Too still for somethin' that should be fightin' back.
And Christ, that's a poor choice of words, isn't it?
Dead quiet.
What do I do if she's dead?
The question surfaces before I can stop it, risin' up from the depths of my mind like somethin' dragged from dark water, and immediately my brain starts doin' what it does best—calculatin', analyzin', buildin' models of scenarios I don't want to be thinkin' about.
Runnin' through possibilities like some kind of twisted mental exercise I never asked for, but can't seem to stop.
Could she suffocate back there? The boot's not airtight, but it's not exactly well-ventilated either. This whole car carries the scent of gasoline fumes. What if it's carbon monoxide and she asphyxiated herself, minus the sexual satisfaction?
How would I explain that to Giovanni?
Sorry, mate, meant to rescue your woman but accidentally gassed her instead. Technical difficulties. My bad.
Christ.
Not exactly the redemption arc I was hopin' for.
And what would I even do with the body? Can't exactly leave her on the side of the road. Can't drive her back to Boston—Uncle Fearghus would lose his entire fuckin' mind. Can't bury her without equipment. Not gonna find me pickaxin' in a dark forest tonight, Satan. Not tonight.
This is why I don't do spontaneous.
This right here.
Pattern-seekers need plans.
I listen—really listen—strainin' to hear somethin' over the engine's rumble. Anythin'. A shift of movement. A cough. A whimper. The sound of someone very much alive and very much angry about bein' locked in a boot against her will.
Nothin'.
I should pull over.
The thought hits me at mile marker forty-three, and I actually lift my foot off the accelerator before talkin' myself out of it. I can't stop here—not on the highway.
Five more miles to the cabin. Just five more miles. What's the point of stoppin' now when I'm almost there anyway?
How many Hail Marys for kidnappin' your best friend's naked woman and killin' her on the ride to rescue?
This actually makes me scoff.
Rescue? Rescue, Lorcan? Ya fancy yourself a hero, do ya? Well, now you've got a dead woman in the boot for yer troubles.
This is what I get for stickin' my fuckin' nose into other people's business. Why? Why do I always insist on fucking savin' people?
It's in your nature, boy…
Fuck off, Father Patrick. No one asked ya.
But he doesn't fuck off. He never fucks off.
He's been in my head for eleven fuckin' years now.
But none of that is the point. The point is Giovanni. The point is the naked woman hauntin' his halls like a ghost of dog stories past.
Giovanni did it again.
He did it. Again.
He lied—straight to my face, the bastard.
He promised he'd never collar another woman—not after what happened before. He looked me dead in the eye and he gave me his word.
His word.
As if that meant somethin' comin' from a man who'd already proven words were just sounds you made to get what you wanted.
You're one to talk, aren't ya lad.
"Ah, shut up, ya old fuck," I mutter aloud to the ghost of Father Patrick who lives rent-free in my conscience. "I'm nothin' like him."
Although… I do have to admit, in the quiet darkness of this car with a possibly-dead woman in the boot, that Giovanni and I are alike in a lot of other ways. Too many ways, if I'm bein' honest with myself—which I try very hard not to be on most days.
For excellent reasons.
Mob family upbringin'—his is old-school Italian, all fire, and opera, and passionate violence.
Mine's old-school Irish, all stone, and saga, and cold, patient fury. Different flavors of the same poison, really.
Same body count, different accents.
We both like suits. Though mine are less flashy than his. Less Brioni, more Hunter Treacy. His suits exist to intimidate, mine to understate. Same armor, different message.
We went to the same school. Fucking Auggies. Virtue through Order. Greatest lie ever sold to the sons of rich criminals.
We both see patterns where other people see chaos. We both prefer silence to noise. We both understand that power isn't about volume—it's about precision. About knowin' exactly when to speak and when to let the quiet do the work for ya.
The difference is he uses it for empire.
I use it to overthink myself into moral paralysis.
We both got trauma we pretend doesn't exist.
We both use control as a coping mechanism.
Mine's just dressed up as philosophy.
And… most disturbing of all, we both fancy the same kind of woman.
The proof is in my boot. Possibly dead proof. Brilliant.
Christ.
Again, how the fuck did I get here?
Well, Lorcan, mah boy, if yer lookin' for someone to blame, it was yer Uncle Fearghus.
Fuckin' Fearghus.
Do this favor for me, Lorcan my lad. Got the LaRiccia's on my case and we both know how testy I get when those goddamn pricks start breathin' down my neck.
It wasn't a request.
Everyone knows Giovanni and I have history. Oh, not that kind of history. Christ, the rumors people invent. The only two people in this world who know about the dog we buried that winter, is us.
Yer forgettin' the dead girl, Lorcan. She knows too.
"She don't count, ya fat bastard. She's dead."
The point is, Giovanni and I go way back. We've got the kind of history that sticks. The kind you can't shake even when you want to.
The LaRiccia's called in a favor that was very specific. Break in to Giovanni's estate, snoop around, find us evidence that he killed, kidnapped, did something nefarious to our faggot heir, Rico… and report back.
Of course, the secret blood-oath I have with Giovanni means I don't turn him in, he don't turn me in, and life is good, and easy, and peaceful between us.
So I told fuckin' Fearghus, no problem. Because if the LaRiccia's are lookin' for something to take down Giovanni, and I have the opportunity to intervene on his behalf, then I am obligated to.
That's just… how it works.
So iI thought… in and out. Thirty minutes, tops. Find nothin' suspicious, or find somethin' and make it disappear, then report back to LaRiccia that his son's disappearance has nothin' to do with the Bavgas.
Protect Giovanni from a mob war he might not even know is brewin'.
Keep the peace. Keep my friend alive.
Simple.
Textbook, really.
Except nothin's ever simple, is it? Not for me. Not when pattern-seekers start connectin' dots they shouldn't.
She was comin' out of the library clutching a book to her chest, weird smile on her face.
Except, I wasn't really lookin' at her face. Or the book. I was lookin' at her tits. Because let's face it, when you literally bump into a naked hot woman wearin' nothin' but a collar, ya look.
What am I, a monk? Father Patrick's the dead one, not me.
I looked.
And then… fuck. I've got no idea what happened. The next thing I knew, I was shirtless, had my hand over her mouth, and I was shovin' her in the boot.
A collar.
My brain just went white.
That's the only way to describe it. Not blank—white. Like someone had taken a photograph with the flash too close and burned out all the details. I didn't think. I just moved.
Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant decision-makin', Lorcan.
Somehow, some way, I found the good sense to take off my shirt and pull it over her head before I did all this. Because she was wearin' it when I closed the boot. Which is disturbin' to say the least, because I literally have no recollection of doin' that.
Auto-pilot kidnapping.
That's a new low, even for me.
It was all… instinct, or somethin'.
Primal. Stupid. The worst kind of reactive.
No strategy at all. And that terrifies me in retrospect because I don't do instinct. I'm the one who thinks, who plans, who sees three moves ahead and positions accordingly.
And now look at me. Kidnapped a woman on reflex like some kind of feral animal.
I'm supposed to be better than this.
But I saw the collar and somethin' just… triggered. Like I was Captain Marvel, Manchurian Candidate edition. Except instead of "Hail Hydra," it's apparently naked-woman-in-a-collar-equals-grand-theft-person.