Page 76 of Crown of Smoke

My opponent, a stocky bruiser they call Tank, paces at the other end of the ring. He's shorter than me but built like a brick wall. Nothing I can't handle. I've taken down bigger guys.

The ref—if you can call him that in this illegal fighting ring—signals us forward. Tank's eyes gleam with something that sets off warning bells, but before I can process why, the bell rings.

I dodge his first swing, catching a whiff on an acrid smell of chemicals. Before I can make my move, pain explodes in my eyes as his knuckles graze my cheek. What the fuck? He’s barely touched me, but my eyes burn like a motherfucker.

Then it comes to me. Mace. The bastard coated his wraps with pepper spray.

My vision blurs instantly, tears streaming down my face. I try to blink through it, but the burning is overwhelming. Tank's fist connects with my jaw, sending me staggering back.

"Not so tough now, are you?" Tank sneers, landing another hit to my ribs.

I raise my guard, trying to rely on sound and instinct, but it's useless. Every time I manage to block a punch, two more slip through. The crowd's roaring drowns out any chance of tracking his movement by sound.

Another hit catches me in the jaw. I taste blood. Through the haze of pain and chemicals, one thought crystallizes. This isn't just a fight—it's a message. But who is it for? Flynn Tine and payback for O’Brian? Or Flint Ifrinn? Do they know who I really am?

Tank's fist crashes into my gut, driving the air from my lungs. I stumble back and try to work out how I can survive this because I’m sure the Keans don’t plan on my leaving this warehouse alive tonight.

The ropes hit my back. I've run out of room to retreat. Another blow rocks my head back. Blood fills my mouth. Through my chemical-burned eyes, the warehouse lights blur into a nauseating swirl. I can barely make out Tank's shape as he closes in.

I throw a wild punch, but he easily slips it. His answering shot to my ribs sends white-hot pain through my chest. Definitely cracked something.

"I don’t know what all the talk was about. You’re a fucking pussy,” Tank sneers, delivering another blow.

My knees buckle. The crowd's roaring turns distant, like I'm underwater. I try to raise my hands, the instinct to protect myself, but my arms feel like lead weights.

Tank grabs my throat, pinning me against the floor. "The Keans don't like outsiders who don't know their place."

Okay, so I don’t think they know that I’m Flint Ifrinn, but I guess it won’t matter because I’m still going to die. Fuck. I wish I'd told Lucy I loved her. Not that she’d care, but I think it would have been nice to say it to her. I never felt love before. And now I won’t have the chance to express it.

My vision darkens at the edges as his grip tightens. Through the haze of pain, the last thing I see is Tank pulling back his fist for what promises to be a death blow. Then there’s nothing.

27

LUCY

Istare at the stack of old newspapers spread across my kitchen table, my hand absently resting on my still-flat stomach. The morning sickness has subsided enough for me to focus on work, though calling this work feels wrong when it's become so personal.

The Ifrinn family's history unfolds before me on nearly a ream of printer paper. Before the fire, they were Boston royalty, philanthropists who built hospitals and funded scholarships while running the city's underworld with an iron fist. The dichotomy is so strange to me. Generous yet greedy. Caring yet ruthless.

My fingers trace over a photo of the Ifrinn mansion during its heyday. The same house that burned down with most of its occupants inside. Most, but not all. Four brothers survived, including the man I'd known as Flynn.

I push away from the table, needing distance from the evidence of his lies. What is most difficult for me is recognizing how more real Flint felt to me than Flynn. I’d known Flynn was holding back. Flint opened his soul when he pleaded with me to understand that the dead in the fire weren’t just names. Weren’t just criminals. They were his parents who loved him. Wasn’t that what I wanted when I pressed him to tell me about himself when he was Flynn? To know the real him? Even then, he hadn’t lied. He told me he was from Boston. He said his parents were gone. He even admitted to having brothers. Only the name was a lie. But that name… who it belongs to… it’s still a struggle to accept.

I grab a glass of water and return to my work. I dig deeper, but carefully. No more reckless investigating or confronting dangerous men in bars. I stick to the Internet, public records, old society pages, property deeds. Anything I can research online from the safety of my home that might shed light on how the Keans managed to destroy such a powerful family in one night.

The official story never added up, even before I knew Flint was alive. Now, cross-referencing dates and names, I start to see patterns. Businesses changing hands suspiciously fast after the fire. Key witnesses disappearing. Marshall wasn't the only cop who suddenly came into money that year.

But I keep my discoveries to myself. No sharing with my editor, no following leads into dark alleys. I've learned that lesson the hard way.

My fingers trace over another newspaper clipping, this one showing Patrick Ifrinn, the patriarch of the family coaching a youth football team. The genuine smile on his face matches the one Flint described when he talked about his father teaching them the game. In the background, I spot what must be a young Flint and his blond twin Blaise, all gangly limbs under large shoulder pads.

The next article details their mother, Mary’s, involvement with the children's hospital wing they funded. She organized weekly visits where she'd sing to the sick kids. I sniff as emotion fills me,a symptom of pregnancy hormones, I tell myself as I think about Flint telling me how she used to rock her children when they were ill. The memories he shared weren't just stories. They're documented right here in black and white.

I spread out more recent articles about the Keans. Where the Ifrinns built hospitals, the Keans built casinos. Where Mary Ifrinn sang to sick children, Hampton Kean poses with oversized charity checks at press conferences, his smile never reaching his eyes. The Ifrinns may have been criminals, but their positive contributions felt genuine. The Keans are parasites whose so-called charitable works are solely for PR.

"The Ifrinns understood responsibility to community," a parent whose child received life-saving care from the Ifrinns’ charitable work said not long after the fire that took Patrick and Mary’s lives.

"They protected people,” a shopkeeper who no doubt paid protection money to the Ifrinns said, but somehow, they were grateful for it. When asked about the Keans, the man declined to comment. Probably a good idea considering the number of people who disappeared or succumbed to accidents as the Keans took over.

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