Chapter 1: Crown of Smoke: Chapter 1

The whiskey burns down my throat as I study the notes on my phone at O’Malley’s pub. Copious research, countless dead ends, and still the truth about the Kean family’s rise to power eludes me.

I scroll to the image of a newspaper clipping from ten years ago. Keans Rise from the Ifrinns’ Ashes. The headline caught my attention back in high school, and I never let it go. The Ifrinns were a powerful family, known to be involved in organized crime but never caught by local or federal law enforcement. And then, poof, they were gone. Literally. Their home went up in a blaze of fire, killing Mr. and Mrs. Ifrinn. Their four sons vanished and are presumed dead.

The official story claims faulty wiring for the house fire. But the whispers tell a different tale. The fact that the Keans took the land and built a new home on top of the Ifrinns’ home’s ashes makes it pretty obvious who was behind the fire and deaths. But the cops can’t seem to pin anything on the Keans either.

The Keans own O’Malley’s, and so I’m here to discover their secrets for the biggest story of my life.

‘Another?’ The bartender’s weathered face appears in my line of sight.

I shake my head, pushing the empty glass away.

“Why come to a pub if you’re going to keep your nose hiding in your phone?” the bartender asks.

“Just looking at the history of this pub. It’s been around a long time.”

‘History’s a funny thing in Boston.’ He wipes the bar next to me. ‘Some stories are better left buried.’

But I can’t bury this one. The mystery of the Keans and the Ifrinns has sunk its hooks too deep into my mind. Each dead end only makes me more determined to find the truth.

The bartender shrugs and moves on to another customer. I pull up the information I have on the Ifrinn family on my phone. I scan the grainy photos of the Ifrinn boys from a decade ago. Dark hair and blue eyes, except for one who was blond with green eyes. There were four of them. The youngest, twins, were about my age in high school when the fire took their parents. Today, they’d all be in their late twenties, early thirties. Assuming they’re alive. Their bodies weren’t found, but there’s been no trace of them, either. The Keans have a long line of missing persons attached to them, so it would make sense that they got rid of the boys.

But if the Keans killed them, it would be in their best interests to have it known the boys were dead so anyone loyal to the Ifrinns wouldn’t be waiting and hoping for their return. But if the boys left, why haven’t they come back? Sure, they were young then, but now, they’re grown men. Grown men from a world in which vengeance is as important as power and money.

My phone buzzes with a text from my editor. Another fluff piece about local businesses. I ignore it. This story will make my career. Or end it.

I adjust my blazer and smooth my hair, watching the group of men at the corner booth through the smoky haze. The Kean crew holds court here every Thursday night, and tonight I’m done being a passive observer. I need to start talking to them. Admittedly, the Kean reputation has kept me lurking in the shadows. These men are built like brick walls. Even their tailored suits don’t mask how deadly they are.

Maybe I should have another whiskey. The one I’ve had hasn’t boosted my courage as much as I’d hoped. These men have killed people. That’s not speculation. It’s fact. And here I am, about to walk up and start asking questions about their family’s mysterious rise to power.

Motion to my right catches my attention. A man with dark hair and intricate tattoos snaking up his muscled forearms is crossing the pub toward the bar. His blue eyes lock onto mine, and my breath catches. There’s something familiar about those eyes, but I can’t place it. Surely, I would have noticed if he were a regular here. After all, I’ve been coming here for weeks hoping to learn more about the Kean family.

He slides onto the barstool next to me, close enough that I catch the scent of something spicy. ‘Drinking alone?’

‘Not anymore, apparently.’ I turn to face him, noting the fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. ‘Rough night?’

His lips quirk up. ‘You should see the other guy.’ He flags down the bartender and orders two whiskeys. Then he turns back to me. ‘Flynn Tine. And you are?’

‘Lucy.’ I leave off my last name, a force of habit in these circles. ‘So, here to nurse your wounds with good Irish whiskey?’

“Something like that.” His blue eyes scan over me. I see appreciation, but it doesn’t annoy or creep me out like blatant appraisals usually do. “What brings you here? You don’t exactly blend in with the regular crowd.’

‘Maybe I like the atmosphere. There’s a lot of history in this place.”

‘History can be dangerous in Boston.’ It’s the same warning the old man gave me.

‘Only if you’re digging in the wrong places.’ I lean in slightly. ‘Are you worried about my safety, Flynn?’

He matches my movement, and for a moment we’re sharing the same breath. ‘Should I be?’

The flirtation comes easy, but my mind is racing. I’m not here to be picked up even if Flynn is the epitome of tall, dark, and dangerously sexy. I’m working.

“Just a girl having a drink.” I lift the whiskey the bartender has set in front of me and sip.

His eyes narrow. “I don’t buy it.”

“Buy what?”

His blue eyes darken as he leans closer, dropping his voice. ‘You’ve got that look.’

‘What look?’ My breath stills, hyperaware of how his knee brushes against mine.

‘The one that says you’re about to do something stupid.’ Flynn’s fingers wrap around his whiskey. ‘Like poking at shadows better left alone.’

I study him for a moment, wondering if he works for the Keans. He has a look about him that suggests he’s from the neighborhood and therefore could know about the family. Plus, he has to be close to the same age as Ronan Kean, heir to the Kean family business.

‘Sounds like you know something about those shadows,” I say, thinking maybe I can get information from him.

‘Enough to know when someone’s hunting monsters.’ He takes a slow sip. ‘The thing about monsters, Lucy? They bite back.’

Heat crawls up my neck at the way he says my name, but I refuse to let his warnings derail me. ‘Good thing I’m not afraid of getting bitten.’

‘You should be.’ His hand finds mine on the bar top, rough calluses warming my skin. ‘Some wounds don’t heal.’

I pull away, but I can’t be sure whether it’s fear of the Keans or the zap of electricity from his touch that scares me the most. “My business isn’t your concern.”

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but the way you’ve been eyeing the Kean Crew, I’d be careful. As a matter of fact, walk away, Lucy. While you still can.’

“As I said, it’s none of your business.” I slip my phone into my pocket and slide off the stool. “Thank you for the drink. Have a nice evening, Mr. Tine.” I straighten my shoulders and look toward the back table.

‘You’re insane,’ I whisper to myself, but my feet are already moving. The noise of the pub fades to a dull roar in my ears as I approach the Kean crew’s table. Their laughter cuts off. Four pairs of eyes lock onto me.

The closest one, a mountain of a man with a fresh cut across his knuckles, shifts in his seat. ‘This area’s private, sweetheart.’

My mouth goes dry. The research, the planning, the perfectly crafted questions, it all evaporates under their cold stares. But I’ve come too far to back down now.

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t mind some private time with her,” another says, his gaze blatantly raking over me, making me feel dirty.

“I was curious to learn more about this old pub and the family that owns it.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

The temperature around the table drops ten degrees. The man directly across from me sets down his whiskey with deliberate slowness. A thick scar runs from his jaw to his collar. I know his name is Connor, although I’m not sure if it’s his first name or his last. In the hierarchy of the Kean Crew, he seems to be important.

‘And why would a pretty thing like you be interested in something that’s none of your business?”

My palms sweat, but I maintain eye contact. ‘I’m writing a piece on Boston’s pub history… links to Ireland and the families who maintain the old traditions. The Keans in particular… they’ve had a meteoric rise to success.” Inside, I’m thinking they’re never going to buy that.

“What do you know about it?” Cut-Knuckles Man asks, his eyes narrowed into slits that have me swallowing hard.

“Just that the Keans were able to take over after the Ifrinns’ unfortunate demise.” I shift my attention to another man at the table, younger than the others, with an eager gleam in his eyes.

While the others maintain their stone-faced silence, he leans forward. ‘The Ifrinns?’ He swirls his drink. ‘Now there’s a tragic tale. Burnt to a crisp.”

Connor shoots him a sharp look, but he continues. ‘Left a bunch of orphans. Heard they’re on the dole in the homeland.”

My pulse quickens. It’s the first lead I’ve had in months, although I’m not sure I can trust the information. ‘Really? That’s fascinating. I’d love to hear more about that.’

‘Buy you a drink?’ He stands, ignoring the tension rolling off his companions. ‘Got plenty of stories about the old families.’

‘I’d like that.’ I follow him to the bar, aware of the heavy stares burning into my back. Through the mirror behind the bottles, I catch Flynn watching us, his expression unreadable.

The man, who introduces himself as Danny O’Brian, orders whiskeys and launches into what sounds like carefully curated gossip about the Ifrinn brothers. Each detail seems designed to lead away from Boston, painting a picture of four men barely getting by in Ireland. I don’t buy a single word of it, although I have no evidence to the contrary.

He leans in closer. “If you want the truth about the Keans’ rise to power…” He glances toward the table we just left and then back to me. “I can tell you, but not here. Follow me.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. I follow him through the pub and out a side door into an alley. I have a moment to think this is a bad idea, but then Danny pulls out a cigarette and gives me a smile as he leans against the wall.

“Did you know there have been countless murders in this alley since it opened back in the early 1900s?”

That unsettling prickle of fear slides up my spine again. “I didn’t know that.”

“Many of them were asking too many questions.”

I spin around. Connor blocks the alley’s entrance, flanked by two others. Their faces are hard, predatory. Danny tosses his cigarette down, extinguishing it under his shoe. That eager gleam in his eyes is replaced by something colder.

Connor steps forward. ‘Some stories ain’t meant to be told.’

My back hits rough brick. Four men. No witnesses. No cameras. My throat closes up as the reality of my situation crashes down.

They move like wolves closing in on prey, spreading out to cut off any escape route. My hands shake as I reach for my phone.

Danny snatches it away, tsking. ‘Can’t have you calling for help now.’

‘Please.’ My voice cracks.

The circle tightens. My heart races. I can barely breathe. Stupid. So stupid to follow a stranger into a dark alley. I know better. Or at least I should.

“She’s hot. Maybe we can have a little taste of her first,” Cut-Knuckle Guy says.

Danny nods. “Yeah. Me first. I’m the one that got her out here.”

I close my eyes, not sure what I fear the most, the violation they’re planning or my death.