Page 3 of Lucky Strike

“I—I can’t.”

I straighten up, lighting another cigarette. I’ll quit tomorrow. “You don’t even know what the plan is.”

“He’ll kill me.”

“I’ll kill you,” Tristan snaps.

“Marty’ll know something’s up,” Jay says. “He’s paranoid.”

I incline my head, and Alex grasps Jay’s chin, forcing it up so that he’s looking at me. “Seems like you do better with ultimatums, so here goes another one. You either help out with Marty and we let Letty leave Boston with the baby—or you can stay here, in this chair, ‘til you fuckin’ rot while we deal with your girl. What’s it gonna be?”

Jay stares up at me, tears running down his filthy cheeks. I see the moment his eyes glaze over in resignation, the tension draining from his wiry body. “What d’you need me to do?”

Smiling, I exhale a long plume of smoke toward the ceiling. He might not know it, but I’m relieved. “Glad you asked.”

Seventy-two hours later,Marty Price is at the bottom of the Neponset River. So is Jay. A life for a life: he was part of the crew who attacked my truck and guys. I appreciated him doing the right thing in the end, though. Even if he did do it under duress.

Marty used to be a bookie for Heath Murphy, an associate of my father’s. He was extra dirty though, known for rigged games and bet disputes, and it finally caught up to him. Heath got tired of cleaning up his messes, so he made him disappear. I thought he’d been killed off, because it’s been years since I heard his name, but I guess he was paying off his debts elsewhere.

When you’re on top, there are plenty of crabs in the proverbial barrel, crawling all over themselves in an effort to bring you down. We run guns, and Marty thought he could cut himself a piece of that pie by hiring a crew to interfere with a Mexico-bound shipment of AR-15s. He wasn’t expecting my guys to be as ready as they were.

And yet, there were still losses. On both sides.

Tossing my burner into a trash can behind Oona’s Bakery, I step into a phone store to pick up another. I go through one or two a month, depending on what’s going on. I’ve just put a wad of cash on the counter when my real phone vibrates silently from my pocket. Only a few people have this number, so it’s probably family. I glance at the number. Mom. I let the call go to voicemail, finish my purchase, and call her back once I’m on the street.

“Conlan?” she says, and I can tell—by the shake in her voice and the fact she called me by my proper name—that something’s wrong.

“What’s up, Mom? You all right?”

“It’s your dad.” There’s another hitch in her voice.

Alarm spears through my chest, poisoning my body with fear. “What wrong with him?”

“It’s his heart. I need you to come home.”

2.Bria

Now

“Bria from the Bronx,” a familiar voice says. “My curly girl, my cutie with a bootie.”

I turn from the bar with a grin, coming face-to-face with Maeve Kelly. She’s lightened her hair, but otherwise she looks pretty much the same as she did when we were fifteen. Standing, I pull her into a grateful embrace, communicating through my squeeze how much I’ve missed her. “How are you, my wild, Irish rose?”

“Good, good.” Sighing dramatically, she squeezes back twice as strong. “God, I’ve missed you though, Bria.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Letting go, I take in the real, three-dimensional version of her. We were inseparable throughout high school, and we visited each other all the time during college, but we’re adults now and life is just so busy. We’ve been subsisting on texts and pictures for a while. “You look so good.”

She scoffs, but it’s true. Her designer jeans and emerald green wrap-top accentuate a tall, lithe dancer’s build. Tiny diamond studs glint from her ears, and her dark, silky curls are pulled into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. She’s lovelier than ever, and that’s saying a lot. “So do you. I love your hair!”

I touch my own curls, much thicker and tighter than hers. Thanks to an overzealous haircut, they barely brush my shoulders these days—it always takes forever to find stylists who understand my hair. “Thanks. It’s shorter than I wanted, but it’ll grow out.” Grabbing a drink menu, I incline my head. “You good with the bar, or should we grab something cozier?”

“Cozy. I want to relax,” she says, linking her arm through mine. She’s always been way taller than me, even in flats. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not really. Maybe ten minutes.” We drop into velvety, overstuffed chairs, bathed in the warm glow of a funky chandelier overhead. Across the bar, a tinted wall of windows lets in muted afternoon light as people bustle by on the sidewalk. A little spark of excitement flares in my belly. Boston’s always been one of my favorite cities. I visited all the time with Maeve when we were in boarding school, and now I’m finally living here.

Maeve drops her leather tote on an empty chair beside us. “I love this place—they’ve got a fantastic selection.”

“Looks like it.” Choosing a Shiraz, I hand the menu over to Maeve, who barely glances at it.

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