What am I going to do about this guy?
I would like to think I live in an open-minded world with non-judgmental people. But I don’t. I’ve been born and raised in upper-crust Boston. Tradition is carved into every inch of my identity, along with everyone I know. Dating an underground fighter from Southie will not merely be frowned upon. People will try and stop it. My circle doesn’t like change. They like the status quo and reject anything that threatens it.
There is no doubt in my mind that I’m the main topic of conversation among my friends right now. Word that I went home with North has probably already spread beyond my inner circle to the rest of the school. Collier will need to save face somehow—and I’m sure that means I’m going to be the victim.
In other words, school on Monday is going to be a real delight.
Stretching my arms above my head, I grab my phone on my bedside table to check the time—and see dozens of texts from my friends, including Collier. I ignore all of the ugly opinions about my behavior, focusing on their grudging concern and fire back quick messages to let them know I made it home fine. Then I leave my phone face down on the bed and pad downstairs for breakfast.
Halfway down the staircase, the sound of low, hushed male voices brings me up short.
One of those voices belongs to my father, but I don’t recognize the other.
Brow pinched, I continue down the stairs and peek around the door into the dining room—and I have to slap a hand over my mouth to contain my gasp. Sitting at one end of our eighteen-seat banquet table is my father. And Boston’s most notorious criminal.
Curtis Tennison.
My heart pumps in a wild rhythm in my chest. What is he doing in our house?
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve read about Curtis Tennison in the news. He’s been in prison once—for a long stretch—and he didn’t clean up his act upon release. The consensus among the public is he only got smarter. Better at hiding his crimes in plain sight. What in the world is he doing meeting with my father?
Staying as quiet as possible, I remain out of sight and listen to their conversation.
“There are going to be a lot of eyes on this development, Foster. But only until you’ve awarded the contract. Then everyone goes home. Nothing to see here, right?” Curtis shifts some papers. “You pick one of the obvious firms for the job and once no one is looking, right before the contract is signed, you quietly switch to our company.”
Is he talking about one of my father’s developments?
Simmons Foster, my father, works in finance, but for the last five years has started getting into developing. Investing at first, then leading projects himself. Mainly, he likes the idea of having our family name on buildings and shopping centers around Boston and is willing to spend a lot of money to make it happen.
“So this construction company of yours…Ludlow Builders,” my father says, consideringly. “Is there any way to connect you to it on paper?”
“No,” responds Curtis. “There’s no trail leading to me. You can rest assured of that.”
My father drums his fingers on the table, a sign he’s thinking something over.
“I’ll remind you again of the reason you’re awarding the contract to Ludlow. We have a lot of friends in this city who can cut through red tape. You’re not going to get tied up with constant inspections and delayed permits.” A long pause. “Although if you go with someone else, I can’t guarantee those delays won’t happen. Could be even more than you expect.”
“Is that a threat?” Simmons blusters.
“Take it how you want,” Curtis responds with a smile in his voice. “Look, you’ve already got me in your house. You know you’re going to agree to this. Let’s not waste time.”
My father sighs. “All right. We have a deal.”
Is what I’m hearing for real?
My father is working with a criminal? The notorious patriarch of the Boston mob?
I’m in such shock that I don’t realize I’m slipping off the step until it’s too late. One second I’m hidden behind the wall, the next I’m stumbling into view. And staring straight into the shrewd eyes of Curtis Tennison. The man who has his fingers in every illegal activity in this city from gambling to real estate—apparently.
“Who is this?” Curtis drawls, his gray eyebrows lifting, looking me over in my nightshirt with blatant interest. “Your kid?”
My father has gone pale as a ghost.
“Sure hope she didn’t hear anything,” Curtis continues, though there is a dangerous glint in his eyes now. “Loose lips sink ships, little girl. You know that, right?”
Skin clammy, pulse racing, I have no choice but to nod. “Yes.”
“Good.” The gangster stands abruptly, buttoning his suit jacket. “You’ll make sure she stays quiet, won’t you, Foster? I’d hate to have to do it myself.”