I stare at the stack of old newspapers spread across my kitchen table, my hand absently resting on my still-flat stomach. The morning sickness has subsided enough for me to focus on work, though calling this work feels wrong when it’s become so personal.
The Ifrinn family’s history unfolds before me on nearly a ream of printer paper. Before the fire, they were Boston royalty, philanthropists who built hospitals and funded scholarships while running the city’s underworld with an iron fist. The dichotomy is so strange to me. Generous yet greedy. Caring yet ruthless.
My fingers trace over a photo of the Ifrinn mansion during its heyday. The same house that burned down with most of its occupants inside. Most, but not all. Four brothers survived, including the man I’d known as Flynn.
I push away from the table, needing distance from the evidence of his lies. What is most difficult for me is recognizing how more real Flint felt to me than Flynn. I’d known Flynn was holding back. Flint opened his soul when he pleaded with me to understand that the dead in the fire weren’t just names. Weren’t just criminals. They were his parents who loved him. Wasn’t that what I wanted when I pressed him to tell me about himself when he was Flynn? To know the real him? Even then, he hadn’t lied. He told me he was from Boston. He said his parents were gone. He even admitted to having brothers. Only the name was a lie. But that name… who it belongs to… it’s still a struggle to accept.
I grab a glass of water and return to my work. I dig deeper, but carefully. No more reckless investigating or confronting dangerous men in bars. I stick to the Internet, public records, old society pages, property deeds. Anything I can research online from the safety of my home that might shed light on how the Keans managed to destroy such a powerful family in one night.
The official story never added up, even before I knew Flint was alive. Now, cross-referencing dates and names, I start to see patterns. Businesses changing hands suspiciously fast after the fire. Key witnesses disappearing. Marshall wasn’t the only cop who suddenly came into money that year.
But I keep my discoveries to myself. No sharing with my editor, no following leads into dark alleys. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
My fingers trace over another newspaper clipping, this one showing Patrick Ifrinn, the patriarch of the family coaching a youth football team. The genuine smile on his face matches the one Flint described when he talked about his father teaching them the game. In the background, I spot what must be a young Flint and his blond twin Blaise, all gangly limbs under large shoulder pads.
The next article details their mother, Mary’s, involvement with the children’s hospital wing they funded. She organized weekly visits where she’d sing to the sick kids. I sniff as emotion fills me, a symptom of pregnancy hormones, I tell myself as I think about Flint telling me how she used to rock her children when they were ill. The memories he shared weren’t just stories. They’re documented right here in black and white.
I spread out more recent articles about the Keans. Where the Ifrinns built hospitals, the Keans built casinos. Where Mary Ifrinn sang to sick children, Hampton Kean poses with oversized charity checks at press conferences, his smile never reaching his eyes. The Ifrinns may have been criminals, but their positive contributions felt genuine. The Keans are parasites whose so-called charitable works are solely for PR.
‘The Ifrinns understood responsibility to community,’ a parent whose child received life-saving care from the Ifrinns’ charitable work said not long after the fire that took Patrick and Mary’s lives.
‘They protected people,” a shopkeeper who no doubt paid protection money to the Ifrinns said, but somehow, they were grateful for it. When asked about the Keans, the man declined to comment. Probably a good idea considering the number of people who disappeared or succumbed to accidents as the Keans took over.
Even their criminal enterprises operated differently. Somehow, the Ifrinns seemed to have the respect of the community, which isn’t to say Patrick Ifrinn didn’t bring down the hammer when needed. But it appeared he didn’t have to very much. The Ifrinns controlled through loyalty and mutual benefit. The Keans, on the other hand, use fear and violence.
The more I research, the clearer the contrast becomes. And the more I understand why Flint and his brothers want revenge. The Keans didn’t just kill their family. They corrupted everything the Ifrinns built.
But I’m not naive. The Ifrinns weren’t saints. They were still criminals who made their wealth by skirting or outright breaking the law. They killed when deemed necessary. I have to consider that the positive press coverage could have been bought and paid for, just like Marshall’s police protection. Money talks, whether it comes from a family that builds hospitals or one that runs underground fight clubs.
The question is, what did Hampton Kean offer the community that had so many of them at the very least turning a blind eye to the Ifrinn murders, or at the most, being a part of carrying it out? More money? More power? How many people helped the Keans take down the Ifrinns from the inside?
I rub my temples, fighting another wave of nausea. The truth is, there are no good guys in this story. Just different shades of corruption wearing different masks. The Ifrinns may have been more benevolent dictators, but they were still dictators. As far as I can tell, Flint and his brothers plan to take back what the Keans took and resume the life that had been stolen from them.
My hand drifts to my stomach again. I could call Flint right now, tell him about the baby. He deserves to know, doesn’t he? I think of Flint’s gentler moments. Despite everything, I can’t forget how carefully he taped up my wounds that first night or how protectively he’d hover nearby at the fights. Even when I was reckless, putting myself in danger, he was there, watching, guarding, saving me.
But he’s also the man who killed Marshall in cold blood. The same hands that tenderly caressed me were capable of brutal violence. How can I reconcile these two sides of him?
I’m torn between what my heart wants and what my head knows is safe. This baby changes everything. It’s not just about me anymore, or even about getting the story. I have to think about what’s best for our child.
But what is best? Keeping the baby a secret from both Flint and the Keans? Telling Flint and hoping he’ll protect us both? Running away like my sister suggested?
A sharp knock at my door sends my heart racing. It’s after midnight, and unexpected visitors are the last thing I need right now. I grab a knife as I go to the door.
Through the peephole, I spot Ash’s stern face illuminated by the hallway light. My pulse doesn’t slow. If anything, it speeds up. After days of silence from the Ifrinns, why is he here now?
‘What do you want?’ I call through the door, keeping my voice low. All my new locks stay firmly in place.
Ash shifts his weight, glancing down the hall. ‘Let me in, Lucy. We need to talk.’
‘About what? I thought you said I was on my own now.’
His usual confident demeanor seems rattled. ‘Open the door before someone sees me standing out here.’
I hesitate, remembering how easily Flint broke in before. If Ash wanted to force his way in, a locked door wouldn’t stop him. He probably has an extra key. I can totally see Flint asking for one. But something in his expression makes me nervous. It’s not his typical controlled mask.
“What do you want?”
He glares at the peephole. “Flint is asking for you.”
“Flint knows where I live.” Not that I’d let him in. I like to think I’m strong enough now to resist his charm and my heart’s yearning for him.
“Yeah, well, Flint isn’t going anywhere.”
My heart stops and my hands unlock the door. “What happened?” I ask as I swing it open. Is he dead? Is the father of my child dead? Except, didn’t he say Flint was asking for me?
It’s too late for me to backtrack as Ash enters my apartment. ‘The fight tonight…’ Ash pauses, and my stomach drops. ‘It didn’t go well. They rigged it against him.’
The memory of that first bloody boxing match flashes through my mind. How’d I seen the cheating. How terrified I was watching Flint take those hits.
‘How bad?’ My voice cracks.
‘Bad enough that he’s asking for you.’
Flint had always seemed invincible in the ring, but I’d seen how the Kean fighters fought dirty.
‘What did they do?’ I ask Ash, wrapping my arms around myself.
‘Mace on the knuckles.’ Ash’s jaw tightens. ‘First hit blinded him. After that…’
He doesn’t need to finish. I’d seen what those men were capable of when their opponent could fight back. Against a blinded man? My knees weaken and I sink onto my couch.
I start to ask why no one stopped it, but I already know the answer. The Keans control those fights. There are no rules, no mercy.
“They tossed him into an alley like a piece of garbage. Blaise found him, thank God.” The rage in Ash’s voice has me stepping back.
“Why? I mean, that sounds like more than just a fight.”
He looks pointedly at me. “They blame him for O’Brian.”
I stare back, not sure what that means. And then I remember. The alley. Flint saved me from O’Brian and his friends.
But it still doesn’t make sense. Why after all this time? “But that was weeks—”
“O’Brian has gone missing and the Keans have decided Flint is the reason.” His eyes bore into me, and I know he’s thinking I’m to blame. I’m the reason Flint went into that alley. He’s not wrong.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s asking for you. And Flint doesn’t ask for anything…’ He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t because he’s choking up.
Oh, God. I don’t want Flint to die. And despite everything, I can’t ignore his pain. I grab my purse. ‘Take me to him.’
He nods and leads me out to his car. As he starts to drive, he holds up a dark cloth. ‘You’ll need to wear this.’
‘A blindfold? Really?’ All of a sudden, I’m wondering if I’ve fallen for a trick. Am I a liability they need to get rid of? Does Flint know what Ash is doing?
‘We can’t risk your knowing where he is.’ His tone leaves no room for argument. ‘Your choice, wear it or I take you back home.’
I don’t know what to believe, but all I can think of is Flint. ‘Fine.’ I snatch the blindfold from his hand. The fabric is soft but opaque as I tie it around my eyes. ‘Happy?’
‘This is for everyone’s protection. Including yours.’
As we drive, I try to note the route. Left, right, straight for what feels like ages. But without visual markers, I quickly lose track.
‘I hate this,’ I mutter, fingers twisting in my lap. ‘How do I know you’re really taking me to Flint?’
‘You don’t. You’re choosing to trust us, despite everything. That means something.’
It does mean something, but what? That I’m naive? Reckless? Or maybe just desperate to see the man who’s turned my life upside down, whom I’m terrified I may never see again.
The car takes another turn, and my stomach lurches. I’m putting myself completely in the hands of a family known for violence, all because Flint asked for me. Either I’m incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
Maybe both. Definitely both.
Ash leads me from the car, up some steps, and then we walk a ways. He’s careful when he guides me, letting me know of obstacles in my way.
Finally, we stop. When Ash removes my blindfold, my knees nearly buckle. Flint lies on a bed, his face so swollen and bruised, I barely recognize him. Dark purple spreads across his jaw and his eyes are covered with a bandage. His ribs are wrapped, and his breathing comes in shallow, labored gasps.
I rush to his side, my hand hovering over his battered form, afraid to touch and cause more pain. ‘Oh, God, Flint…’
He stills. “Lucy?” His voice comes out raspy, broken.
“Yes it’s me. God, you…” I want to say he looks awful, but I suspect how he looks pales in comparison to how he feels.
“I was hit by a tank.” He gives a small laugh and then groans in pain.
“You’re not funny,” Blaise snaps from the doorway.
I look at the three brothers, not sure what’s going on.
“The other fighter was called Tank,” Ash explains.
“Oh. I see. Your brother is right. It’s not funny.”
Flint reaches up to push his bandage off his eyes.
“No, don’t,” I say.
“I need to see you.”
His brothers don’t move to stop him. “He gets what he wants right now,” Phoenix says to me. “We washed his eyes out, so it should be okay now.”
His eyes are red and swollen, though I’m not sure if it’s from the mace or the fighting. It probably doesn’t matter. It all looks really bad.
“You should be in a hospital.”
“No.” His lips twitch up slightly, and he rubs a tendril of my hair in his fingers. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Mother fucker…” Blaise snaps, shaking his head. “Not funny.”
“Come on.” Phoenix pushes Blaise out of the room. “Let’s give them privacy.”
“It was a little funny.”
I shake my head. “You need medical attention.”
“I’ve had all that can be done.” His eyes close, and my heart rockets to my throat.
“Flint!”
“Didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Of course I came.’ Tears blur my vision as I carefully take his hand. His skin feels clammy, his grip weak.
‘Need to tell you…’ He winces, struggling to form words.
‘Shh, don’t try to talk.’
“I love you.”
“You need your—what?”
“That was my last thought. Or nearly last… I wanted to tell you.”
I’m suffering from emotional whiplash. One minute, I’m scared to death. The next, I’m filled with emotion at his words.
“I’m sorry I lied…” His fingers tighten slightly around mine. ‘You deserve… I wanted to tell you who I was… am…’
‘You need to rest.’
‘Wanted you to see me. To call my name… Flint. I’m Flint. Not Flynn…” He closes his eyes again like he needs to rest from the Herculean effort he’s exerting to talk to me.
“Flint,” I say, not sure what else to say.
‘Everything else was real,’ he whispers. ‘How I feel… about you. Wasn’t part of the plan, but…’
“Shh. You can tell me this later.” I stroke his hand.
“Can never be sure there will be a later.”
“You’re too stubborn for there not to be a later.” Dammit, he’d better fight. He’d better live.
‘Hampton Kean… destroyed everything.’ Flint’s voice grows fainter. ‘Had to stop him… before he hurt anyone else I love.’
Love. Despite the lies, despite the violence, despite everything, he loves me. I didn’t misunderstand before.
“But you’re right… I’m not worthy—”
“Flint.”
His lips quirk up in a smile. “I like hearing you say my name… my real name.”
“You need to rest.” I should really find something more poignant to say, but he’s in pain and needs to heal.
“I know you don’t feel the same… I just… I needed you to know…”
I’m quiet even though I have so many thoughts. Thoughts like I do feel the same. Like I’m having his child. But I hesitate. Because while he loves me, he’s still a man bent on revenge. Then what?
“What happens when your vengeance is served?” I ask.
He’s quiet, and I think he’s fallen asleep until he says, “I do what I was born to do.”
“What is that? Fighting? More of the same to protect your business—”
“Peace. Family. You don’t believe this, but my parents were good. Good parents.”
“Is that what you want?” It’s hard to imagine Flint thinking about being a father. His talking about it now has me second guessing what I should do about the baby.
His eyes close a final time. I watch Flint’s chest rise and fall, each breath seeming like a struggle. The bruises on his face look even worse in the dim light, but at least he’s sleeping now. My fingers stay loosely tangled with his, afraid to let go.
How did I get here? A month ago, my biggest concern was chasing down a story about the Keans. Now I’m carrying the child of a man who turned out to be their sworn enemy, watching him fight for his life after being beaten half to death.
I should hate him for lying to me, should run far away from this violent world he’s part of. But watching him sleep, vulnerable and broken, all I feel is this overwhelming need to protect him. To stay close. To make sure he keeps breathing.
Love isn’t supposed to be this complicated, this frightening. But watching him fight for each breath, I know it’s too late to protect my heart. I’m already in too deep.
There’s a life growing inside me, a tiny spark of hope in all this darkness. But what kind of life would it be? Every move he makes against the Keans, he risks leaving our child fatherless. Just like his parents left him.
I want him to live. God, I want it more than anything. The thought of losing him makes me hurt in ways I never expected. But loving him means accepting this violent world he inhabits. It means raising our child in the shadow of revenge and blood feuds.
His fingers twitch in mine, and I lean forward, searching his battered face for signs of consciousness. Nothing. Just the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
‘You have to survive this,’ I whisper, pressing my forehead against our joined hands. ‘Not just for me anymore.’
I haven’t told him about the baby yet. Haven’t had the chance. Now I wonder if I’ll ever get to see his face when he learns he’s going to be a father. Will he be happy? Terrified? Will he understand why I’m so scared of bringing a child into this life?
I try to imagine a future where we could be happy. Where our child could be safe. But every scenario I picture ends with someone getting hurt. The Keans won’t stop coming after him. And Flint won’t stop until he has his revenge.
I keep my vigil, torn between hope and fear, love and practicality. I’m his now, I realize. And he’s mine. If he lives, I have no clue how this will work between us or even if it will. But there’s no walking away now.
