Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Bonus Chapter: Harper - Part One.

The pain feels good. Really fucking good.

A punch of heat to the gut radiates outwards, followed quickly by another, and as I'm doubled over, a crack to the jawbone sends me stumbling back a few steps, but I stay upright. I'm not going down yet. It'll take more than that, you bastards.

Hands grab me roughly by the arms, holding me in place and I laugh and spit blood onto the ground in front of his feet, narrowly missing his shoes which are shined to perfection. I'm going to own shoes like that one day. Italian leather. Hand-stitched. Shine them until I can practically see my fucking face in them.

My jaw is exploding, firecrackers of pain digging deep into bone and my stomach is thinking of giving up breakfast, lunch and dinner all in one go, but I hold firm and look up. Look him in the eye. Because that's what I do. It's what I was always told to do.

Always look 'em in the eye, lad, Frank said. Even if Death himself is lookin' right back at ya, show 'em no fear and don't ever look away, not even for a second.

It isn't Death staring right back at me, but I always did think Joseph Lombardi had that skeletal look about him, skin stretched tight over cheekbones and a grin that would put a cadaver to shame. And he doesn't carry a scythe because guys like Joe Lombardi don't need to carry weapons. A nod of the head is his weapon. A hand gesture. All he needs to do is say one word and you're watching your blood spill from the gash in your throat and wondering why the fuck you can't breathe no more. Do away with one weapon and another one stands in its place, ready to cut, slash, gouge. No, guys like Joe Lombardi - top-of-the-fucking-food-chain Italian gangster from the North End of town - don't need weapons because they've always got someone to hand, ready to bloody their knuckles and slice up a bit of Irish flesh.

I'm barely Irish, connected tenuously to Dublin immigrants on my mother's side, but just Irish enough for Frank Wallace to take me under his wing and for Joe Lombardi to hate my guts. To be fair, Joe Lombardi also hates my guts because I have a big fucking mouth, looser than the whores down at the speakeasy on Old Colony Avenue. I'm known for it. Call it my claim to fame if you like. Of course, those Sportlight whores would probably say my claim to fame is something else entirely, but everyone else knows me for my smart-mouth and because I'm handy in a fight.

Handy in a fight or not, it isn't' helping me right now, surrounded by five of Joe's men and Lombardi himself, who's studying me like I'm some new life-form he's discovered and can't wait to slice me right open and see how I look on the inside. I'm not scared though. That's pretty much how Joe looks at everyone and I know I'm not destined to be weighted to the bottom of the Boston Harbor this time. This isn't going to end well, I know that for sure, but it's not death coming my way right now. This time it's a warning, courtesy of a few cracked ribs, a bust jaw and more bruises covering my skin than when Old Jimmy McLaughlin got dragged under the South Boston streetcar.

Joe and I both know he can only take this so far. This isn't business, this is personal and while I know nothing would give him more pleasure than to cut me a new windpipe, if he crosses the line, he knows he'll have the whole Gustin gang reigning down on his greasy Italian head.

There's another reason Joe hates me, you see.

Lucille Cerone, his cousin's eldest girl.

Smoothest porcelain skin I've ever had the fortune to lay my hands on, glossy raven hair that smells like the summer and curves so damn captivating they could turn a priest's head. I'd love to say I did all the chasing because that would work magic on my reputation, but the truth is Lucille, former convent schoolgirl and apple of her dear daddy's eye, isn't so sweet and innocent as they all think she is. Luckily, Joe and dear daddy Jackie Cerone have no clue that sweet, innocent Lucille has hands and lips worthy of the Devil himself and that when she comes she screams your name and begs you to fuck her harder than a freight train. Because if they knew that, if they knew what we'd done, I really would be buying a one-way ticket to the bottom of the bay right now, instead of standing here waiting to catch the beating of my life.