Sparrow

Paddy was wearing some kind of an oxygen mask, hooked into a silver and green tank that was sitting right next to him by the bed. The curtains were all drawn.

It smelled like death. Rotting, in-process death. I’d seen death before, but it was always quick and unripe. There was the rusty scent of blood, sour scent of fear and sweet scent of hot metal and gunpowder. It wasn’t an unpleasant combo, albeit one that would stick in your nose and throat for days. But that was the photogenic side of death. Rowan was on the other side.

He was a living, breathing corpse, decaying like the bad apple that he was—and it fucking reeked. We both knew men like him were better off dying somewhere on the job, hard and quick and in a blaze of glory, rather than the mess of being on death row, hooked to a fucking oxygen tank, looking like a shadow of your former self.

I walked inside the room and yanked a handkerchief out of my jacket. I usually kept one for when I needed to touch shit without leaving fingerprints. I used it to cover my nose and breath through the stench of a body eating itself alive.

“Ah,” I heard him say or, rather, cough. I wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep. In fact, the only thing that gave away the fact the bastard was still alive was his labored breathing. “I see the devil wants his pound of flesh. So the little bitch told you.”

I continued strolling in his direction wordlessly until my legs hit the edge of his bed. I kept the handkerchief over my nose and stared at him. He shifted uneasily but kept his eyes on mine.

“I believe congratulations are in order.” He attempted a chuckle. “I’m guessing you ain’t here for some fatherly advice. Rumor has it you know all about the birds and the bees.”

I stared down at my hands, fighting the urge to pick at the scabs on my knuckles. I wanted to touch something, to break something.

Of course Paddy knew about Sparrow and me. At this point, every single person in South Boston did.

“You should know by now, your sins always catch up with you at the end,” I said, my tone flat.

He tapped his oxygen mask, rolling his sunken eyes. “Remind yourself of that when little wifey realizes who you really are and what you did to her mother, will ya, boyo?”

His words hit me hard. How the fuck did he know? There were only two people other than me who knew about Robyn Raynes and about my promise to my father…and now there were three. Fucking Cat and her big mouth. She probably told him too, in one of her visits to his notorious coke parties in Boston.

I couldn’t let him see the surprise in my eyes, so I glared, trying to hide the hurricane swirling in the pit of my stomach.

“So, am I going to finally meet my maker today?” He tried to laugh, but it somehow rolled into a full-on cough. It sounded like he was going to throw up his lungs. The coughing got shallow and throatier, then died down.

“You don’t deserve to go like a mobster,” I answered. “No bullet to the head for you. I’d much rather know you’re decaying here like roadkill no one bothered to scrape off the pavement.”

“I like your touch, T-boyo. You remind me of your father.” Paddy turned his head to spit out some phlegm. Grayish-black fluid, a souvenir from his long years of smoking, landed in a bucket next to him on the duvet. “He always was a sick, violent bastard. Runs in your blood I guess.”

“How many young girls have you touched?” I asked, concealing the fury I felt with a condescending smirk. I wasn’t a prime example of how to treat women. I didn’t do love, fucked rough, never called the day after, but I always had their consent. And I never touched someone underage.

“If what you’re looking for is guilt, boyo, you better turn around and walk back the way you came. You ain’t no saint yourself. News travels, and from what I hear, you shame your family name on a regular basis. Being the errand boy for the rich and corrupt of Boston. At least we had pride. We put our lives in danger for our families, for our children, to bring food to the table. We weren’t the upper class’s hired help. Breaks my heart.” He chuckled. “Cillian’s son, a lap dog to the rich.”

I rolled my shoulders back, looking amused. Underneath the tailored suit and easy grin, though, my blood boiled, my veins bubbling with fury. Killing Rowan was an itch I was desperate to scratch.

“How many girls, asshole? Tell me now, how many children have you molested?”