“It’s not like that. Trust me, I’m swearing off dating for a while.”
Judith tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “Oh, come on. You’re telling me you weren’t even a little interested?”
I fake a laugh. “Nope. Just need to return his item, that’s all. You sure it’s the same guy?”
She squints at me. “Describe him.”
I pretend to think. “Tall. Ridiculously broad shoulders. Well-groomed auburn Van Dyke beard. Chiseled cheekbones. Piercing blue-green eyes. Irish accent.”
Judith lets out a squeal of excitement. “Yep! That’s Cyan MacBrady! CEO of Cannonics Enterprises Corp.” She leans in closer. “You know, people say he was a bit of a mystery when he moved here some years back, but that only adds to his allure.” Her voice turns dreamy. “He’s done so much for Crescent Bay. When the fishing industry collapsed, people were losing everything. Cyan stepped in. He paid off debts, saved businesses, my parents’ diner included. He never asked for anything in return. Just stops by for a free meal now and then. The man’s got a heart of gold. Everyone in town loves him.” Her words clash with what I know. The man who threatened my life. The man who stabbed Hayden without blinking, and yet, I remember Rosa’s words. “In this town, family and loyalty are everything.” The sheriff’s actions that night were like shouting, Cyan MacBrady owns this town. Judith waves a hand, pulling my wandering thoughts back to her. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell my mom to let him know about the mix-up next time he comes in for dinner.”
That’s the last thing I want. There’s an uncomfortable roll in my stomach—my sandwich threatening to make a comeback. I force a smile. “Thanks, Judith. No rush. Gotta get back to work.” As I stand, my heart pounds in my ears. I hope Judith will forget I ever asked her about Cyan.
When I get back to my desk, work is the furthest thing from my mind. My hands hover over my keyboard, fingers twitching. I have his last name now, and I intend to use it. A quick search brings up a curated bio of Cyan MacBrady, painting him as an upstanding businessman, a self-made CEO. A modern-day corporate success story. Bullshit. I dig deeper, scrolling past the PR-polished surface. The first ten pages are scrubbed clean, either through the efforts of powerful lawyers or something far worse. The only thing of interest is a short article from The Boston Times, detailing how Cyan sued the city four times for harassment and wrongful arrest. Each time, he won multi-million-dollar settlements. I keep searching. My pulse ticks higher. Nothing. Then, I find a link buried on page eleven.
“The Rise of Boston’s New Capo—Cyan MacBrady.”I click, and what I find is worse than I imagined. Cyan’s world shattered the night his entire family burned alive. His father, mother, and sister gone. A freak fire, the article says. Mysterious circumstances... I swallow, fingers tightening on my mouse. My stomach knots at the parallel between us. Losing your parents leaves a wound that never heals. I shake off the empathy, forcing myself to read on. Cyan and his younger brother, Collin, were sent to live with their uncle, Calum MacBrady, a suspected small-time Irish gang boss. Years later, while Cyan was in college, his uncle was killed in a drive-by.
That’s when everything changed. Cyan returned to Boston. He took over his uncle’s operations, barber shops, pubs, and small-time rackets. No one saw him coming. What happened next rewrote Boston’s underworld.
Cyan did the unthinkable; he unified the fractured Irish factions underone rule, his rule.The Irish are usually divided and volatile, difficult to organize. But somehow, he got them to fall in line. Then, the war with the Boston Italians erupted. Bodies started dropping. No one knew who was responsible until the Italians conceded. A year later, Cyan’s officially recognized as Capo of Boston.
My throat runs dry as I keep reading. Cyan turned his underworld empire into a legitimate one. Collected favors from politicians. Built multi-million-dollar companies. Acquired rival businesses.
The Púca, an Irish nightmare shapeshifter. That’s what they call him in the underworld. He’s a specter woven into the fabric of Boston’s crime world. It’s alleged that Cyan has a hand in everything. I scroll down. Written by Henny Penny. How is a site like this one even still up? I try searching for the author’s name but find nothing. I sit back, exhaling slowly.
With what I just read, how many people does Cyan own? How many powerful men and women are indebted to him? I’m nothing to him. A nobody. If I keep my head down, he’ll leave me alone until he needs a favour,maybe.As I go back to my files, the image of Cyan flickers in my mind. Not the ruthless crime boss, not the man who carved into Hayden’s flesh without hesitation. The man I met at the festival booth, his voice curling around my senses with a gaze that lingered just a second too long. I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. That was before I knew the truth. Before I knew it, he is a man dictating life and death.
Yet the memory of his piercing blue-green eyes still stirs something unsettling inside me. A slow, wicked pulse beats under my skin.
“Aria Boschett?” A sharp yelp escapes me as I jolt upright. A deliveryman stands before me, a towering bouquet of red roses in his hands.What the hell?
“Miss Boschett?”
“Uh... yes? That’s me.”
“Good. These are for you.” He shifts the massive arrangement forward. Who sent me flowers? “Ma’am?” The deliveryman pauses, brows furrowed.
“Ah... uh, hold on. Let me grab a tip.” I reach for my purse.
“No need.” He gestures to my desk. “I can leave them here if you like?”
I nod. “Sure, thanks.”
The bouquet sits there, a bold, taunting presence. Finally, I force myself to reach for the card. Reading it my heart skips a beat, and the card slips from my fingers. It flutters onto the desk, message side up.
For my Dove—C
My world tilts. Cyan just sent me flowers.
Nine
“Sometimes silence isn’t absence; it’s the sound of power watching you breathe.”– Aria Boschett.
Idon’t throw the flowers away. Instead, I bring them home, filling a vase with water and placing them on the counter. For my Little Dove. The words coil around my thoughts like a noose. I tell myself throwing them away would be too obvious. I can’t give him a reason to remind me what his ownership means. My fingers trace the petals absently, red—the color of power and warning.
The shrill ring of my phone shatters my train of thought; I jump. Get it together, Aria. I glance at the screen, Aunt Cathy’s caller ID flashing, and relief sweeps through me. “Hey Aunt Cathy.”
“How’s my favorite niece?”
