Prologue
2017
Anvil
We’re under fire. I’m crouched behind a headstone in the church graveyard. We were cutting across the property when we got ambushed. We know every made guy in this town, and these guys aren’t any I’ve seen before. What’s more there’s only one syndicate in town, and we’re in it. Coynston is fifty miles from Boston, and we’ve normally got the place locked down.
I look over at C. He’s our boss’s right hand, and C seems to be the target of this attack since we’re not even on Frank today. Another guy’s body-guarding the boss. C and I were headed to get his daughter when all hell broke loose.
I lean against the headstone in the shadow of the school where C and I met. This neighborhood, one of the toughest around, turned us hard. That’s why Frank Palermo, king of the city and head of a syndicate that rakes in millions a month, took us on. Now no one picks a fight with us. Until today.
These guys came heavy, outnumbered us by three to one. They needed to. I’m six-six, two-seventy. If someone’s coming for me, he better be loaded for bear.
“Hired guns?” C says, spitting in the snow.
I nod.
“I’d like to take this last guy alive. Find out who paid them,” C says.
I nod, but I doubt it’ll be an option.
Stone chips explode off the edge of the headstone when a bullet meant for me hits it. I don’t return fire. Not yet. I’m down to my last clip, and I plan to make my last shots count.
Steam rises from where my blood drips onto the slushy ground. I’m hit in the side. I thought it was a flesh wound, but there’s a hot steady stream of blood running down my leg that says different. My head swims, and I grip the edge of the headstone.
I can’t afford to pass out. I need to end this or I’ll bleed out, just one more dead body here.
We’ve killed five shooters. I know where the last guy is. He’s within range, but behind a tree.
“Gotta move on him,” I say. “Cover me.”
Saying those words to C are the last thing I remember of the firefight.
* * *
Anvil
When I wake up I’m on my bed with gauze duct-taped over the wounds on the front and back of my right side. I’m dizzy and feel like puking. The pain is bad, like my flesh is burning from the inside out. In the distance, just above the ringing in my ears, I hear voices arguing. A girl says I have to be taken to a hospital. Our boss, Frank, says no.
I turn my head. The little raven, Frank’s teenage daughter, is being held back by C’s grip on her arm. This is off. The girl hates me. She’s put a winter chill on Frank’s place since her mother disappeared and Frank brought her here.
“Let go,” she tells C, trying to pull free.
C releases her, and she stalks over.
“See. He’s conscious. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No,” I say.
She scowls. “Sasha,” she says. “We have to.”
It surprises me to hear my first name. It’s been a long time since anyone used it. These days, everyone calls me Anvil.
“We have to,” she repeats, her dyed blue-black hair falling over the side of her face. Made up for pictures, she’s a stunner. In the flesh, she’s crazy small, but flawless. Except for the Goth hair, she’s like one of those priceless porcelain dolls with the freakishly perfect features. I guess her extreme look does it for the masses because she definitely rocks the Instagram account the boss started.
“No hospitals,” I say because everyone knows us. The police will be summoned to the hospital immediately for a gunshot wound, especially because I’m the one who’s shot. There are dead bodies in the graveyard. And other places. I can’t go to a hospital. None of Frank’s enforcers ever can. Not even C.
“You’ll die,” she says.
