Chapter 4 - The Fire in CharlestownThe North Charlestown docks smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and rotting timber.
At 2:15 AM, three black armored SUVs pulled up silently outside The Anchor & Anvil—a rundown, windowless tavern that served as Cormac Sullivan's primary headquarters. The neon sign above the door hummed violently against the falling snow, casting jagged red light over the wet cobblestones.
My twelve men stepped out of the vehicles into the freezing dark. They did not wear ski masks. They did not carry submachine guns in the open. They wore dark coats, their weapons concealed, moving with the practiced, lethal efficiency of men who ruled the city's underbelly.
Marco stepped up beside me, handing me a heavy, silver-plated automatic pistol.
"Sullivan has eight men inside, Boss," Marco reported softly, snow clinging to his collar. "They're drinking. Celebrating a protection payout from the fish market."
"Kick the door," I said cleanly.
Marco took two fast steps forward and drove his heavy combat boot directly into the deadbolt frame of the tavern door.
BOOM!
The reinforced oak frame splintered inward with a deafening roar.
My men flooded the tavern like shadows, their suppressed weapons raised. Before the eight men inside could even drop their beer glasses or reach for their shoulder holsters, they were pinned against the sticky wooden bar, three laser sights painted on every single chest.
In the center of the room sat Cormac Sullivan.
He was fifty years old, broad-shouldered, wearing a stained leather jacket, his face flushed red from whiskey. He dropped his cards onto the felt table, his dark eyes wide with sudden, terrifying panic as he recognized my face.
"Callum Vale...?" Sullivan stammered, his voice trembling as he backed away until his shoulders hit the jukebox. "What the hell is this?! What are you doing in my house?!"
I stepped into the tavern slowly, my heavy leather boots crushing broken glass on the floorboards. I walked past his pinned enforcers without offering them a single glance, stopping three feet from Sullivan's table.
I did not draw my gun. I set my gloved hands flat against the mahogany table, leaning forward until my face was inches from his.
"You sent two men to Charles Street tonight, Cormac," I said, my baritone dropping into a terrifyingly quiet whisper that made the air in the room turn to ice. "They jumped a woman named Maeve Donnelly. They broke her wrist. They beat her face until her cheekbone fractured."
Sullivan blinked, his jaw twitches nervously. "Maeve...? The... the Donnelly girl? Her brother owes me forty grand, Vale! It's business! He took my money—"
CRACK!
I grabbed Sullivan by his leather lapels, lifted his two-hundred-pound frame off his chair, and drove his head violently into the mahogany table.
Beer glasses shattered. Blood sprayed across the felt cards as Sullivan let out a wet, strangled shriek of pure agony.
"She is my housekeeper, Cormac," I roared into his face, pinning him against the ruined table, my fingers digging into his throat until his eyes rolled back in terror. "She lives under my roof on Beacon Hill! You sent hitmen to brutalize a woman under my protection over a forty-thousand-dollar gambling debt?!"
"I... I didn't know!" Sullivan choked out, blood pouring from his broken nose, his hands clawing uselessly at my wrists. "I swear to God, Vale, I didn't know she worked for you! We thought she was just an orphan working at a bakery in Southie!"
"Now you know," I whispered, every word carved from raw, unyielding iron.
I released his throat, letting him collapse onto the bloody felt table like a sack of wet flour.
I pulled out a silk handkerchief, casually wiping the crimson smudges from my leather gloves.
"Marco," I commanded softly.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Find Patrick Donnelly," I ordered. "Put him on a cargo ship bound for Dublin by sunrise. He will never set foot in North America again."
"Understood," Marco nodded.
I turned back to Sullivan, who was holding his ruined face, weeping softly against the table.
"As for you, Cormac," I said, looking down at him with cold, unbothered disgust. "You will surrender your shipping permits for Pier 12 to my trust by noon tomorrow. You will hand over the names of the two men who laid their hands on Maeve. And if I ever see your face in South Boston again... I will throw you into the harbor with forty pounds of chain around your neck."
May you like
Sullivan nodded frantically, choking on his own blood. "Yes... yes, Mr. Vale! Anything you want! Just leave my family alone!"
I tossed the stained handkerchief onto his bloody face, turned on my heel, and walked out into the falling snow, leaving the tavern in absolute, terrified ruin.
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