PROLOGUE
HAYES
Ienter the bar on the harbor right after midnight. The street is deserted, but the door keeps swinging, men in stained shirts and slicked-back hair spilling through the squeaky hinges.
This isn’t a place for a kid, but it’s exactly where I need to be.
The Wharfis a tavern on the edges of polite society. It’s dark, and seedy, with a rusted metal roof that leaks in the rain. And right now, it’s a lighthouse in black waters, a beacon of hope for me.
Entering, I inhale the smoke-laced air, dripping with booze and sweat. A young woman works the counter, wiping down the top with a practiced ease. She doesn’t look up—most of the men here don’t—which doesn’t bother me. Everyone hunkers over their beers, some leaning back in their chairs murmuring to each other, and I keep my head lowered to avoid attention.
It’s relatively quiet for a bar, but that’s the point. Because this isn’tjusta bar. It’s a holding place for the O’Brien Clan. A mob outfit, this place houses their men and product, and it’s meant to only be accessed by those in it. Something I want to now be a part of.
This is my only chance of escape.
I turn, bumping into a hard belly. Two large hands land on my shoulders, and I look up at the only person I wanted to see.
Ferguson O’Brien.The clan Captain in the flesh. He’s a mountain of a man, wide and tall with dark hair and a piercing gaze that immediately makes my shoulders hike. It’s the gaze of a hungry lion, and I’m the gazelle.
“Watch it,” he snaps, his accent harsh. He’s been in America for decades, but the Irish flavor still coats his words. A cigar hangs out of his mouth, and the acidic smoke hits me in the face like a harsh slap. “Kids aren’t allowed in here.”
He shoves me aside, but I right myself, as I dig in my heels, halting his path.
“Wait. I’m not just a kid.” I turned seventeen, and although I look young, I’m verging into adulthood. “I’m here for work.”
“Ain’t got none.” He waves me off, stepping around. “This bar doesn’t serve minors. Out.”
“You use kids,” I argue, stepping back into his path. Twin red spots darken his ruddy cheeks and I course-correct. “You use them for runs. I’m just looking for a job. Be a runner for the clan.”
“You?” He stops, critically eying me. He takes in my scuffed shoes, the worn but well-made jeans and shirt. It speaks of money, not some street kid who needs a roof over their head. “You don’t look like you need a job.”
“I do,” I insist.
He snorts as a small girl comes up to his side.
She’s a few years my junior and a slight thing. Her dark hair hangs around her shoulders, the leather jacket a bit too big on her, but she clings to it like a security blanket.
Yet, it’s the bags under her eyes and the gaunt cheeks that I notice. She looks familiar, like a face I’ve seen reflected in the mirror.
“We need a new runner,” she chimes in, shoving her hands into her pockets. Her jeans are ripped in the knees. I don’t think they’re supposed to be. “The last two didn’t make it back.”
Ferguson chews on the butt of his cigar, never taking his eyes off of me. I shift my weight, my hands clasping at air. I don’t know if I should stand straight or wither in submission.
“Killian,” he calls, just as a young man glides around his opposite side. He’s my age, tall, but it’s the gaze that makes me pause. Black, soulless eyes, they pierce me to the core and hold me there. “Thoughts?”
Killian tilts his head, his old band shirt wrinkled under his bomber jacket. Circling me, he looks for a weakness. I flinch when he gets too close, smelling of mint and blood and he smiles, pleased.
What kind of kid feels like the cold touch of death?
The girl steps closer, blocking Killian from me. They stare each other down and the boy smiles wider.
“He’s big,” he says, taking a step back. The girl continues to shield me. “He could come in handy on the runs. If he survives.”
“I’ll teach him,” the girl offers. “I need someone to watch my back. No one ever lasts.”
“No one has the stomach with you,” Killian quips.
Ferguson chews thoughtfully, searching something in her eyes. Something I don’t comprehend.
