Fucking Armenians ran the underworld of Boston nowadays, and they were a grim reminder of what could have been mine had my father been more careful with the family business.

The Brennans were infamous in Boston not only as the royal crime family of the city, but also because we’d been smart enough to donate to schools, churches and local charities. We dropped enough cash to have hospital wings, bars and babies named after us. People liked us because once upon a time we’d been generous with our earnings, and we’d kept the city mostly clean of the bad stuff (prostitution and drugs).

Sure, we were criminals, but we kept the innocents’ innocence intact and never hurt a soul who didn’t deserve to feel the wrath of our fists. Loan sharking, extortion, illegal gambling and money laundering. We did it all, and we did it well.

Now, the Armenians and local unorganized gangs were ruling the Boston underworld, and it was a mess. No moral codes, respect or honor. Just a bunch of f*cking bullies who got their hands on unregistered guns.

After going over an email from another client and cursing the Armenians again, I put my iPad back in the drawer. Taking one last glance at Red, I noticed her cell on her nightstand was glowing with a new text message. It was four a.m. Who the f*ck would text her this late?

My eyes shifted to her face, and back to her cell.

Don’t do this.

Do this.

Don’t do this.

Fuck it.

I’d only seen this woman on a few occasions, when she was just a girl, playing kick the can with the other dirty kids when I was busy scoring chicks, smoking cigarettes and leaning against muscle cars that weren’t even mine. For all I knew, Red could be a snitch. Work with the police. Could be a serial killer.

Ha.

I reached over, my arm stretching above her nose, and picked up her phone.

Then I started digging. Deep.

Sparrow Raynes didn’t have many friends. She’d always been an odd bird, no pun intended, and I guess her social life reflected it.

Based on her incoming messages, a girl named Lucy appeared to be her closest friend. (But not close enough for Sparrow to invite her to the wedding, God forbid.) There was a guy named Boris, her culinary teacher, who’d already been warned off. There was also a girl named Daisy who I remembered from our neighborhood.

What struck me as peculiar was the timing of the most recent conversation with Lucy. The timestamp was after our little encounter earlier, downstairs in the living room. While I was in the shower, Sparrow had been on her phone. In fact, the flashing of her cell phone was Lucy answering Sparrow’s last text.

Lucy: Drinks tomorrow? Usual spot. Just got paid. My treat.

Sparrow: Wish I could. Got a job interview.

Lucy: What? When? Where? Why am I out of the loop all of a sudden? Spill!

Sparrow: It’s for Rouge Bis. That super-expensive French restaurant we always promise we’ll go to and dine and dash.

Lucy: No way. Isn’t the owner Troy Brennan? The only Brennan who isn’t dead or locked up. Haha.

Sparrow: Yeah, they didn’t get to him yet. Hopefully they’ll wait until after my interview. I’ll keep you posted. Wish me luck.

Lucy: Don’t make friends with him. They call him The Fixer for a reason.

Sparrow: I know he’s a fishy guy. He’s my dad’s boss, remember?

Lucy: I remember, I’m just making sure that you do too.

Sparrow: Love you.

Lucy: Love you more. Xx

Then there was the final unanswered message.

Lucy: P.S. Don’t feel bad if you don’t get it. Rumor has it he’s a world-class *.

Guess this was the reminder I needed. She hated me, wanted to use me, and thought I was scum, just like my dad.

And just like that, any resolve to make her life a little less hellish disappeared.

SPARROW

I SCURRIED MY way to the kitchen at dawn. Confused about my last encounter with Troy, I wanted nothing more than to be on his good side.

Fine, I would just admit it—I wanted that job.

And let’s face it, it moved something inside me to know that he’d noticed me at church. That he’d noticed me at all. So I decided that I was going to give Troy Brennan an honest chance not to be a world-class jerk.

I fixed him breakfast, fluffy blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and a cup of hot chocolate—my personal favorite—and greeted him with a big smile when he walked down the stairs, squinting away the morning sun. He was still wearing his briefs and sporting some serious morning wood. And when I said “wood,” I meant more like a forest.

My curiosity got the better of me and I peeked down, trying to calculate the size of him as I pretended to straighten the silverware and napkins I’d set out on the island.

I was no expert, but his junk looked like something that could comfortably fit into the exhaust pipe of a truck and not, so help me God, into my vagina. I might have taken a moment or three to stare, interest and fear flickering in my eyes.

“Don’t worry, Red. It doesn’t bite.” He yawned into his forearm, nudging me out of the way to reach for the coffee pot on the counter behind me.

“But it can spit,” I offered over my shoulder, smiling coyly.

He sent me a crooked, condescending smirk. “Not at you, with the way you’ve been treating it so far.”