Page 1 of Crown of Smoke

1

LUCY

The whiskey burns down my throat as I study the notes on my phone at O’Malley’s pub. Copious research, countless dead ends, and still the truth about the Kean family's rise to power eludes me.

I scroll to the image of a newspaper clipping from ten years ago.Keans Rise from the Ifrinns’ Ashes. The headline caught my attention back in high school, and I never let it go. The Ifrinns were a powerful family, known to be involved in organized crime but never caught by local or federal law enforcement. And then,poof, they were gone. Literally. Their home went up in a blaze of fire, killing Mr. and Mrs. Ifrinn. Their four sons vanished and are presumed dead.

The official story claims faulty wiring for the house fire. But the whispers tell a different tale. The fact that the Keans took the land and built a new home on top of the Ifrinns’ home’s ashes makes it pretty obvious who was behind the fire and deaths. But the cops can’t seem to pin anything on the Keans either.

The Keans own O’Malley’s, and so I’m here to discover their secrets for the biggest story of my life.

"Another?" The bartender's weathered face appears in my line of sight.

I shake my head, pushing the empty glass away.

“Why come to a pub if you’re going to keep your nose hiding in your phone?” the bartender asks.

“Just looking at the history of this pub. It’s been around a long time.”

"History's a funny thing in Boston." He wipes the bar next to me. "Some stories are better left buried."

But I can't bury this one. The mystery of the Keans and the Ifrinns has sunk its hooks too deep into my mind. Each dead end only makes me more determined to find the truth.

The bartender shrugs and moves on to another customer. I pull up the information I have on the Ifrinn family on my phone. I scan the grainy photos of the Ifrinn boys from a decade ago. Dark hair and blue eyes, except for one who was blond with green eyes. There were four of them. The youngest, twins, were about my age in high school when the fire took their parents. Today, they’d all be in their late twenties, early thirties. Assuming they’re alive. Their bodies weren’t found, but there’s been no trace of them, either. The Keans have a long line of missing persons attached to them, so it would make sense that they got rid of the boys.

But if the Keans killed them, it would be in their best interests to have it known the boys were dead so anyone loyal to the Ifrinns wouldn’t be waiting and hoping for their return. But if the boys left, why haven’t they come back? Sure, they were young then, but now, they’re grown men. Grown men from a world in which vengeance is as important as power and money.

My phone buzzes with a text from my editor. Another fluff piece about local businesses. I ignore it. This story will make my career. Or end it.

I adjust my blazer and smooth my hair, watching the group of men at the corner booth through the smoky haze. The Kean crew holds court here every Thursday night, and tonight I'm done being a passive observer. I need to start talking to them. Admittedly, the Kean reputation has kept me lurking in the shadows. These men are built like brick walls. Even their tailored suits don’t mask how deadly they are.

Maybe I should have another whiskey. The one I’ve had hasn’t boosted my courage as much as I'd hoped. These men have killed people. That's not speculation. It's fact. And here I am, about to walk up and start asking questions about their family's mysterious rise to power.

Motion to my right catches my attention. A man with dark hair and intricate tattoos snaking up his muscled forearms is crossing the pub toward the bar. His blue eyes lock onto mine, and my breath catches. There's something familiar about those eyes, but I can't place it. Surely, I would have noticed if he were a regular here. After all, I’ve been coming here for weeks hoping to learn more about the Kean family.

He slides onto the barstool next to me, close enough that I catch the scent of something spicy. "Drinking alone?"

"Not anymore, apparently." I turn to face him, noting the fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. "Rough night?"

His lips quirk up. "You should see the other guy." He flags down the bartender and orders two whiskeys. Then he turns back to me. "Flynn Tine. And you are?"

"Lucy." I leave off my last name, a force of habit in these circles. "So, here to nurse your wounds with good Irish whiskey?"

“Something like that.” His blue eyes scan over me. I see appreciation, but it doesn’t annoy or creep me out like blatant appraisals usually do. “What brings you here? You don't exactly blend in with the regular crowd."

"Maybe I like the atmosphere. There’s a lot of history in this place.”

"History can be dangerous in Boston." It’s the same warning the old man gave me.

"Only if you're digging in the wrong places." I lean in slightly. "Are you worried about my safety, Flynn?"

He matches my movement, and for a moment we're sharing the same breath. "Should I be?"

The flirtation comes easy, but my mind is racing. I’m not here to be picked up even if Flynn is the epitome of tall, dark, and dangerously sexy. I’m working.

“Just a girl having a drink.” I lift the whiskey the bartender has set in front of me and sip.

His eyes narrow. “I don’t buy it.”

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