I know what the threat lingering in the air between us entails. My heart hammers in my chest. My feet move of their own accord, walking the length of the wall of kiosks. Back and forth I go, not wanting to admit Scotty is right. I don’t want to concede, and I certainly don’t want Paddy to have any control over my life. Having it over my heart is enough.
I release a heavy sigh, my head hanging as I give in to Scotty’s request. As much as I want to take back the hold Paddy has on me, I know how horrible it is to do it at the expense of a stranger’s life. Brushing past Scotty, I don’t wait for him to follow.
I know he does, though. Because that’s what he’s being paid to do. And I know it goes beyond the money. Like mine, his father started as a foot soldier for Callum Murphy Sr. The sons in this lifestyle don’t have a choice. Scotty knew from a young age what was expected of him. We both did.
Unlike me, he embraced it. I’m not sure if I’m envious of him, or if I pity him. Here he is, able to get in line and do what he’s told, do right by the family. The military never took that free spirit from me, never stripped me of the inability to follow orders, the way that it did for so many others.
I’ve always been one to push back, to refuse to follow blindly. I’m my own independent person, more than a Boston Southie, more than an Army veteran. But even I know my life would be easier if I’d just gone with the flow.
Am I really lucky for escaping the family business when it means I don’t have a father? And did I really even escape when here I am, working in a drugstore in the neighborhood while also in love with the mob boss?
My throat feels tight suddenly, the realization that I’m still stuck here finally settling in. I never escaped, never freed myself because I came back for Paddy. He’ll never free himself from his family. They’re his everything.
I need to leave before the walls close in completely.
I turn down an alley that connects to the next block. It’ll be faster to make it home this way. Scotty follows, of course. It’s dark, only one light in the small pathway actually working. The scent of bad garbage fills my nostrils.
Chills shiver through me, despite the warmth of the summer night, and my stomach tightens. Anxiety, the useless shit of an emotion, peaks through. Something seems off, and I pick up my pace to get to the next block.
Scotty’s footsteps pick up behind me, so he doesn’t lose me before I reach the end of the backstreet. I don’t make it to the end, though. A loud pop sounds off, sending my ears ringing. I jump, my heart hurting with the forceful jump in rate.
Clutching my chest, I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose.It’s probably the lid of a dumpster slamming, or something else. It’s not gunfire. You’re in Boston, not on deployment. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
But I don’t have time to calm myself down when the second shot rings out. Then the third, and the fourth. At this point, my heart is in my stomach. Breathing isn’t going to help. I’m near a line of fire. This is real, and I need to find cover.
I drop to the floor and Army crawl to the dumpster ahead of me. Seconds go by that feel like minutes until someone is running. I freeze, sitting behind the dumpster. Panting, I search my body for any wounds. My hands pat my chest and stomach in haste, then my legs. I scan for blood and find nothing. No evidence that I’ve been shot.
It’s been quiet for a good amount of time now, so I peek my head from around the dumpster to check if it’s clear. “Oh no. Shit, no.” I say, moving from my hiding spot. “God, no.”
Scotty’s lying in the center of the pathway, a pool of blood growing around him. And as much as he pisses me off, if he’s dead, I might just lose the last thread of my sanity I’ve been hanging on to.
Chapter Eight
Mybloodiedhandsshakeas I fumble for the shattered cell phone inside Scotty’s jacket. Six years in the Army as a medic and I’ll never be prepared for something so horrifying. It only makes my nerves worse that the blood belongs to Scotty, one of my oldest friends.
Yeah, I was a medic on the field, and I’ve dealt with some pretty scarring shit. But this? Blood and bullets, and the fear that comes with holding another man’s life in your hands? I definitely don’t miss it, and I certainly don’t want to be reliving some of the most terrifying days of my life. I’d rather be three glasses deep in a margarita coma than sitting in a dark alleyway, assessing my friend for vital damage.
“Hang on, Scotty,” I say, glancing at the phone that literally saved his life. It’s beyond repair, and mine is lacking Callum Murphy’s number. I really don’t want to call Patrick Murphy, but I don’t really have a choice in the matter now.
Scotty makes a coughing sound that sounds a lot like a dry laugh. I glance down at him to see him smirking, and my mouth gapes in shock. “Are you seriously laughing right now? You have a bullet in your chest.”
“I’m smirking. Laughing would hurt too much.” He takes in a large amount of air, wheezing. “Call Haley,” he whispers. “She’ll be with Callum.”
My gaze meets his, and he dips his chin in acknowledgment. He knows that I don’t want to talk to Paddy. And I should call Haley over Paddy. Not only is she a doctor that can help, but sheiswith her boyfriend.
Callum Murphy is the head of the Southies, and he’ll need to know what just happened. But somehow, my dumbass pulls out the phone and dials Paddy’s number. It’s probably because I’m a masochist and speaking to the man who ripped my heart from my chest is the closest thing to torture I can experience right now.
It’s also because I don’t know how to explain this situation to Callum. I’m not going to be the one that tells him his brother forced Scotty to follow me like a stage five clinger that’s just not catching the damn hints.
“Hey, baby,” Paddy says, his voice soft and laced with exhaustion, and I know immediately that he thinks this phone call is because I’m ready to forgive him for all the mishaps that have gotten us to this point. I’m not. I’m nowhere close to forgiveness.
“Paddy?” My voice shakes worse than the hand holding the phone. “Scotty’s been shot.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s awake for now. But it’s his chest.”
“I’ll get a crew there.”
