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Jack

I rub my jaw thoughtfully as I stand over Frankie’s mutilated but still rattling body. He had a strong will to live, for sure. Six months of torture, breaking his fingers and toes, pulling out his nails, skinning him like the disgusting rodent he is… it’s amazing he’s still alive.

“How is he today, Charles?” My voice echoes sharply off the concrete walls and floor. When my doctor shrugs and stares down at a chart, I purse my lips thinly. Machines attached to Frankie are keeping him alive; as much as I wanted to watch him die, I couldn’t risk it.

Not with Cian breathing down my fucking neck the last few months. Jimmy had, once again, gotten a lightbulb moment that saved my ass from further complications. Even though it was unintentional.

“You worked him hard, Boss. He hasn’t woken up in two days,” Charles says, and I jut my chin out at him. He walks over to his small bag on the table and pulls out a box to reveal a syringe. “His infection appears to have subsided, but he’s not going to live much longer. It’s a damned miracle he’s still alive after what you’ve done to him.”

“Proof he’s an insect who’ll die crushed under my boot,” I mutter while Charles injects something into Frankie’s IV. His scalped head flops back, and Frankie groans through the bandages wrapped around his head. I’d cut off his nose, ears, and cock—everything that wasn’t required was gone. “He’s heavily drugged?”

“I gave him a dose about four hours ago, so he should be coherent with this,” Charles says, taking another syringe from the box. He gives me a curious look before injecting Frankie with what I can only assume is a stimulant. It’s incredible what modern medicine can do to keep people alive. “Cian wants him, right?”

“I do,” I tense as Cian’s deep, strong timber crawls up my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I grunted lowly in acknowledgement as I turned to see him leaning against the doorway. Shit. He’s early. Cian saunters towards me, tugging his beard thoughtfully as he examines Frankie with shrewd, brown eyes. “Dose him. I have questions.”

“How was your flight up?” I ask, grinding my words through my teeth. Cian and I aren’t related by blood, but he’s the asshole cousin no one wants around. At least, that’s what I think. Through his thick beard, his jaw ticks, and glances at me like I’m small and inconsequential. “I didn’t expect you for another few hours. I would’ve woken him up earlier if I’d known.”

“The sister knows he’s still alive?” I shake my head as Cian ignores me. He grimly grabs Frankie’s face as he leans over to walk over to the chair. “I thought I told you not to mess with the Southtown Boys after their attempt to circumvent my embargo failed. They needed to conduct business in this city because the Irish Mafia controls it. What’s your explanation?”

“I don’t have one, Cian. He killed Madeline. I honestly couldn’t care less about what plans you had for them.” I answer solemnly; I’m playing a dangerous game. Cian’s got way more sway than I do with the home country. We might have the same rank, but he’s the boss of all of New York City. It’s a whole other level than mine. He looks back at me, broad shoulders straight and unwavering as he releases Frankie’s face.

“Where’re the drugs from the Italian deal now?” He asks, and my eyelid twitches in aggravation. “I’ll be taking them back as restitution for your little crusade.”

Frankie then begins to screech like a wounded dog, buying me some time. I’d already moved about a quarter of the drugs from the Italian deal, and he’s going to make me pay for it twice. I clench my hands into tight fists by my sides, grimacing deeply once his gaze has left me.

The cushion from the steal wasn’t necessary, but it was certainly welcome. I’d set aside funds to build some new downtown buildings, for my next mayoral puppet…

“I’ll arrange it for you,” I answer eventually; with a bit of luck, Cian won’t be aware of exactly how much product the Southtown Boys were trying to buy. Moving half a ton of drugs was almost incomprehensible. He nods, sticking his thumb into Frankie’s eye, and the stench of blood blossoms in the small room.

“Shut up,” With just those two words, Frankie freezes, and Cian crouches down to examine the damage. Frankie’s covered in antibiotic-soaked bandages to keep his flayed skin from becoming infected, and Cian straightens to unwrap the gauze around his eyes. It’s the first time Frankie’s seen light in weeks, and he looks around as much as he can. “You’re the one that suggested Southtown Boys come to Boston. Was it only to kill your sister?”

Frankie recognizes Cian; briefly, I wonder what kind of relationship they’ve got. No doubt, this weasel tried to approach him before scumming it up with a tiny gang. Sluggishly shaking his head, Frankie drools blood and snot down his bandaged neck and chest.

“Did you think killing your sister would open an opportunity for you to slide into the power vacuum it’d create?” Cian asks, his voice hard and icy. I hate the implication, but he’s no fool. I would’ve been a wreck if Heather died. Robert would’ve covered for me, and it wouldn’t have been difficult, but… “What were you trying to accomplish?”

“F—fuck you.” Frankie rasps; his ruined body suffering from spasming when he speaks. Cian leans down to prop his forearms on his knees and places his foot exactly where Frankie’s cock should be. All I can do is stand here and hope Cian rushes the fuck up.

“Why’d you nudge the Southtown Boys into dealing with the Italians in a city ruled by the Irish?” he questions, his voice dispassionate. But Frankie doesn’t answer, shivering and shaking as the pain meds he relies on start to wane. The stimulant Charles had injected him with makes him feel everything, though. “Answer my questions, and I’ll grant you a quick death. Or don’t, and I’ll let Jack continue with this circus.”

But Frankie stays silent, eyes drifting around listlessly. I grind my molars before Cian stands, shaking his head and turning to me. “Do whatever you want with him. Where’s Robert?”

“He should be upstairs. Charles.” I look at the doctor, who nods before digging his bag again. Cian and I leave the basement room, and I glance back at him as we walk up the stairs.

“Your boy, Jimmy,” Cian says as we emerge into the kitchen, and I look over at him thoroughly. His thoughts cloud his eyes. “He’s the one that suggested you keep Frankie alive, right?”

“Yeah, he’s got some good ideas sometimes. Torturing him has been fun, but—” I trail off when Cian’s gaze slips over my shoulder, and I twist to find Mary quickly turning on her heel to rush out of the kitchen. “Mary, my maid.”

“Ah,” He says shortly, and I hold my breath as a cold sweat breaks out under my clothes. “Where’s your wife?”

“Heather said ‘no,’” I reply, and Cian’s eyes widen in surprise before throwing his head back, laughing heartily. Fighting a grimace, I suck in a sharp breath. I’d proposed to Heather for no real reason; it was in bed, after sex, when we were just floating. And she’d laughed so beautifully before telling me to knock that shit off. “How’d you know about that, anyway?”

“You’re not the only one that can bug people, Jack. Either way,” Cian inhales deeply, wiping the amusement off his face without effort. Nervousness worms through my veins under his gaze. “She’s interesting. I’ll meet her eventually. I know you sent her off because I make you nervous, but I have no intention of messing with you or her that way, Jack. It’s boring, interfering in the personal lives of others. I’d much rather meddle else how.”

“Why’re you doing this, Cian?” I ask, ignoring his assurance. I wouldn’t believe him if my fucking life depended on it. He arches a brow, stroking his beard once again. “The Italian deal, I get. Frankie, though… do the Southtown Boys know I have him?”

“Who, exactly, do you think the Southtown Boys are? I know Jimmy was down there, but what did he tell you?” Cian combats my question with his own, and I grunt lowly, shaking my head. Gesturing for him to follow me, we head for my office, and I shut the door behind us only to find him taking my seat behind my desk. Irritation simmers in my blood, but I push it down as I take the chair across from him. He fiddles and touches the things on my desk, picking up a picture of Madeline to lean back and sigh heavily. “Madeline?”

“Yes. It was at my parents’ retirement party.” I don’t understand why he’s beating around the bush. He’s not that kind of person. The silence is charged, electrical, when he meets my gaze somberly.

“Southtown Boys obliterated Seven Fingers and OG Nation,” Cian responds, and I stiffen in surprise. His brow furrows, his voice roughening and deepening as he explains. My heart pounds against my chest, and dread roils in my stomach. “Took over their territory. Every one of their operations. They’re trampling over all the other nameless gangs. They’re planning a regime change, Jack. And I’m their target.”