His Saint || Murphy Macmanus

ɪᴠ. ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀғᴛᴇʀ

"Wake up, Murph," Connor smacked the back of his brothers head. He then pulled the thin white sheets off of Murphy with a tug. "Da needs to speak to us about somethin',"

Murphy peeked from between the pit of his elbow, gripping his hair with his hand as his arm hid most of his face. Connor stood above him with Murphy's only source of warmth in hand. Last night was a very long and stressful one. This running away from the cops is never-ending and Murph grew tired of it. How much he missed just staying in one spot without worrying about looking over his shoulder.

Yet, Murphy knew this is only the beginning and what they had done was the right choice.

Pulling himself together, Murphy sat himself up at the edge of the makeshift bed, rubbing his eyes. The sun bled through the large square windows of the old abandoned factory he, Connor, and their father had been hiding in for almost a month. Most of Boston has forgotten the place so no police would dare to come this way. At least, not any time soon.

Pulling his worn boots onto his aching feet, Murphy squints his eyes up at his twin with his upper lip slightly curved.

"What's wrong?" Murphy questioned, yanking the left boot from beside the filthy mattress.

Connor held his gaze on Murphy. Their father had been found three months prior by coincidence. As the twins made a name for themselves, Noah Macmanus had been released from his cage at the top maximum prison just north of Boston. His job was to find the twins who the public named The Saints and kill them on the spot to defend the Italian Mafia. Their search in Ireland had failed, however, coming back to Boston just a year ago proved to the boys that their prayers had been answered. For their father had been locked away all these years and if they hadn't come back; Neither of the boys would have found Noah.

Still, all of the killing and having their father in their life came with consciences.

"I'm not sure yet, " Connor replies after a momentary break to think what their father might have wanted. "But it isn't good."

Murphy only nods, he then pulled a white t-shirt over his head to cover up his bare torso. Moments later, the boys walk out of what used to be a rather spacious office into the factory floor where everything had been taken out. Leaving only bare dirty flooring. In the middle of the bare working floor sat Noah Macmanus. He sat down in a rusted metal chair, puffing on a cigar. Those blue eyes rest on the small fire made out of small branches and random pieces of paper.

"Da, " Murphy says, sitting down on the dusty floor. With a perplexed stare, Murphy pats his hands together to rid any gathering dirt that stuck to his skin. "What's goin' on?"

"I have some troublin' news, my sons, " Noah says. His fingers rubbed his long silver beard, thinking what would be the best way to say any of this. Their mission was to get out of America and stay in Ireland until things blew over. After the assassination of Papa Jo, a well known Mafia Boss, the three men had to hide. There wasn't any arguing about it. However, Noah just heard the news from his connections of the Russian Mafia pushing more into Boston. For one person and one person only.

Connor slipped a cigarette out of his coat pocket, his brows furrow in slight concern. What exactly could be so troubling? To the point where a man who made a career of opting out other men who were evil.

"Ariana Jacobs, " Noah starts.

Murphy snapped his head upward, his own cigarette fell from his mouth. For three years he hadn't heard that name. Of course, he thought of Ariana every day and wished he could have made up with her after moving back. But he was too afraid to see her again. Murphy knew she will never forgive him.