Free CROW (Boston Underworld Book 1) by A. Zavarelli Page A

own throat. It’s a reflex. I’ve no love for this wanker either. He never shuts his gob, and he’s grinning like a lunatic half the time. The lad smiles too much if you ask me. One of those slimy smiles that tells me he’s up to no good. I don’t trust him, but I keep it to myself. Until he crosses Niall, he’s just an annoyance I have to contend with from time to time.
    “Michael just called,” he announces. “The Russkies are at the club with at least fifteen little birdies in tow. A celebration of our most recent acquisition.”
    Ronan’s eyes flash towards mine as I smash my fist into the bag so hard I’m almost certain I’ve cracked some bones. That most recent acquisition he’s gloating about is the one that got my grand-da done. If he wasn’t such a dumb fuck, and I hadn’t come to expect this carry on from him already, I’d use his face instead of the bag.
    But Donovan is a dumb fuck and everyone knows it. Too dumb to remember we lost one of our own that night. That’s where his loyalties lie. He’s a man who thinks with his prick and counts his victories in whores and cocaine. As a whole, our outfit doesn’t deal in drugs and we’re not supposed to dabble in them either. Something else Niall’s been letting slide where Donovan is concerned. He’s a hot head who’s always toeing the line. No doubt he’s one coked out high away from killing one of those whores.
    For the time being I’ll keep a close eye on him, but with the outfit on such unstable ground as it is, it pains me to admit we need this tool.
    “So what do you say boys?” he raises a couple of ginger brows at us. His pupils are as big as quarters, and I’m too wrecked in the head to care right now.
    “I can’t be arsed.” I nod towards Ronan. “You go on with the lads. I’ll catch up after a bit.”
    Ronan replaces his suit jacket and smooths it out. He has as much fun at these parties as I’d have at a high tea, but there’s something else that draws him back to the club.
    They disappear down the hallway and I wipe the sweat from my brow. My knuckles are bloody when I unwrap them, so I retrieve the flask from my bag. I splosh some of the amber liquid onto the fresh cuts and a river of crimson washes down my wrist. The flask finds my lips. It’s empty far too soon, and I’m left to the quiet solitude of the gym.
    Restless and too high strung to go home, I yearn for something else. I could do with the softness of a woman right now. The problem is finding one who isn’t a conniving bitch.
    My thoughts drift to Mackenzie. There’s not an ounce of trust in that one. I don’t want her anywhere near the lads. Also, I wish I’d never laid eyes on her. Or hands for that matter. Don’t know what the bleeding hell I was thinking carrying on like that. It hasn’t left my head, the way she felt. It’s only going to bring about trouble. If I’m to seal the alliance with the Russians, then I need to be prepared to marry one of them and send Mack on her way. I doubt they’d fancy my leftovers after I’d had a go at her.
    The flask moves to my lips and I toss it when I remember it’s empty. Christ. I don’t have the energy to seek out a woman tonight. My cock hasn’t had the energy in weeks. Ah shite, even that’s a lie. It’s been months. Mandy was my last. Until I caught her and Sean together, in my fecking office no less. One of the most important rules of the syndicate is one he fancies breaking often. Had she been my wife, he’d have been dead for such an act. As it was, I had every right to leave some permanent marks on him as a reminder of what happens when you touch another lad’s woman.
    If he weren’t Niall’s son, I might have. But Mandy wasn’t worth losing sleep over. Or focus for that matter. I’ve not met a woman worth any of that headache as of yet, and I’ve no plans to either.
    Think I’m officially ballsed.
    I splash some water on my face and pull my tee shirt over my sweat slicked body. Shoes