Chapter 9: Crown of Smoke: Chapter 9

I stand in front of my closet mirror, smoothing down the black dress that hugs my curves. I hope it says “bored rich girl looking for a thrill”, as Flynn indicated. I’m excited to find out what I can about the Keans tonight, but then I catch the reflection of my bandage. It’s smaller now. My wound is healing. But it is a reminder of what can happen if I’m not careful.

I apply a final swipe of red lipstick and determine that the woman staring back at me fits the bill. Nobody would guess I’m a journalist about to infiltrate Boston’s most dangerous criminal empire.

‘Just observe. Don’t ask questions.’ I repeat Flynn’s instructions like a mantra, trying to ignore the memory of his touch, his closeness during his self-defense lessons. Oh, how I wanted to let him kiss me. Do whatever he wanted to me, really. I told him we shouldn’t mix business with pleasure, and I do believe it’s a good rule of thumb. But mostly, I’m nervous. I want him, but I’m also afraid of his intensity. Not that he’ll hurt me. He’s shown time and time again that he’s trying to protect me. There’s just something about him that has me feeling the need to protect myself emotionally. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Flynn saying he’s nearly here. I grab my clutch, double-checking that my phone is safely hidden inside. Another thrill of excitement fills me as I anticipate what I’ll learn tonight. It’s been awhile since I’ve obtained any significant new information to help with my story. Tonight, I feel like I’m finally going to see behind the curtain. The boxing matches are invitation-only affairs where the polished veneer of legitimate businessmen falls away to reveal the criminals underneath.

By the time I reach my door, Flynn is there. My breath catches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt like usual. A tattoo peeks out from under his shirt collar. I noticed it during our self-defense lesson. The dark ink stretches down his arms. I wonder what stories those markings tell. Everything about him screams danger—the way he moves like a predator, how easily he took down those men in the alley, the cold calculation in his eyes when he talks about the Keans.

This man is clearly dangerous, probably more dangerous than I realize. But when he looks at me with those intense blue eyes, I don’t see a threat. I see someone who would tear apart anyone who tried to hurt me. And God help me, that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. Why is intense danger so sexy?

“Ready?”

“I think so.”

His eyes rake over me, lingering on the neckline of my dress. “You… ah… you look good, but⁠—”

“But what?” My confidence falters as I look down at my dress. Have I missed the mark? Do I look more slutty than a bored rich girl?

He shakes his head. “I don’t like that everyone will be looking at you.”

“Isn’t the point to have people feel open to tell me things?”

He rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to relieve tension. “Yeah… right. So let’s go.”

Once in his car, he says, ‘We should go over the ground rules.’

‘I know, I know. Stay quiet, stay close, don’t draw attention.’

‘I mean it, Lucy. These people aren’t the type you want noticing you. One wrong move and…’ His fingers brush the healing cut on my arm.

‘Is that concern I detect, Officer Tine?’

He flinches. ‘Not an officer. And yes, I’m concerned. You have a talent for finding trouble.’

‘Good thing I have you to get me out of it.’

‘It would be better if you didn’t need saving in the first place.’

The underground boxing venue reeks of sweat, cigarettes, and expensive cologne. We slip through the crowd mixed with well-dressed criminals and their trophy dates, as well as a seedier element. Flynn’s hand never leaves my lower back. His touch feels possessive, as if he’s marking me as off-limits to anyone watching.

“Sit here.” He guides me to a chair around a boxing area. “Ears open, mouth shut. And don’t leave. Stay where I can see you.’ His fingers tighten briefly on my hip. ‘No wandering off to interview anyone.’

‘I promised to behave, didn’t I?’ I’m teasing him, which causes him to glare at me. I supposed I should take this more seriously. I’m surrounded by people who make a living breaking the law. Many have murdered.

‘And I don’t believe you for a second.’ His blue eyes scan the room, I imagine looking for threats.

‘You’re being paranoid.’

‘I’m being careful.’ He leans close, breath warm against my ear. ‘These men see women as things to possess and use for their personal, often perverted, gratification.”

I shudder from the chill his words send through me.

“Don’t forget that, Lucy.”

I nod, finally giving this situation the seriousness it needs.

I watch him walk away, admiring how he moves through the crowd. There’s a fluid grace to his stride, like a boxer already warming up. Or maybe more like a wolf stalking its prey.

He glances back, catching me staring. A hint of a smile plays at his lips before he disappears into the registration area. My heart shouldn’t flutter at that little gesture. I’m here for a story, not to moon over some mysterious maybe-cop with too many secrets.

As I sit as ordered, I wonder what those secrets might be. What drives a man to infiltrate the most dangerous crime family in Boston? What makes him risk everything to protect a nosy journalist he barely knows?

Flynn emerges from registration, now shirtless as he warms up. The tattoos I glimpsed earlier are fully visible, intricate designs spanning his muscled torso. They should make him look thuggish, but instead they enhance his raw magnetism. I can’t stop the desire to trace each image with my fingers. To feel the heat of his skin, the hard muscles underneath.

He catches my eye again, and this time there’s no mistaking the heat in his gaze.

God help me, I’m going to go up in flames.

I sit and focus on the conversations going on around me. A woman in diamonds whispers about Ronan Kean’s latest real estate acquisition and how she’d dump her husband to spend one night in Ronan’s bed.

Two men in tailored suits discuss territory disputes with rival families, but there’s no mention of the Ifrinns. But why would there be? They’ve been gone for ten years. Surely, organized crime has moved on and mostly forgotten them except as folklore.

‘Did you hear about Mickey?’ A gravelly voice catches my attention. ‘Stepped outta line last week. They found him a charred heap. Used his car as the incinerator.’

‘Classic Kean move,’ his older companion replies. ‘They came to power through fire. Burned their rivals into the ground.”

“Really. Who was that?”

“Ifrinn.”

I tilt my head to better focus, working to silence the din of all the other noise around me.

‘He refused to bend the knee to Hampton,” the older man continues. ‘Next thing you know, whoosh. The house and everyone in it, up in flames.’

“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard that story. Everyone was torched?”

“Yes… well… there is a question whether the sons were there, but if not in the house, I’m sure Hampton dealt with them another way.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Hampton doesn’t let anyone survive. And those boys haven’t been seen nor heard from in over ten years. They have to be dead. Otherwise, they’d be here avenging their family.”

Ice slides down my spine. How can people be so cruel and callous to exterminate an entire family?

“Or they’re wimps. Clearly, the Keans got the jump on them.”

This isn’t necessarily news to me. Yes, it’s different from the official accidental fire report, but the rumors of Hampton Kean killing his one-time partner have been around for a long time. These men are confirming what I’ve suspected. The Keans’ fast rise to wealth and influence wasn’t simply filling in the void the Ifrinn family’s demise left but a deliberate, calculated act. The Keans murdered their way to the top. And somehow, they’ve escaped any official suspicion.

“Heard they had help on the inside,” the older man says. “Opened the door and let them.”

What? I lean forward nonchalantly, as this is news to me.

“No shit? Was it one of the kids?”

“Nah, those boys worshiped their father. It was someone who worked for them. Not sure who, but I think they still work for the Keans.”

Who? I will the younger man to ask the other one who the traitor is. But the first match begins, pulling the men’s attention away from gossip.

I put out my phone, hoping I look like I’m texting as I jot down what I just heard. Then I turn my attention to the men in the boxing ring.

The two fighters circle each other and the crowd surges forward, their cheers sounding hungry for violence. The energy it creates is palpable and unsettling.

The larger fighter lands a punch that echoes through the warehouse. His opponent staggers but stays upright. Blood sprays from his split lip, drawing cheers from the spectators.

‘Finish him!’ Someone shouts.

The brutality escalates. The sound of flesh hitting flesh. An occasional crunch or crack suggesting the breaking of bones. But there’s no referee stepping in to check on injured fighters, no doctor standing by that I can see. Just raw violence for entertainment.

A sickening crack fills the air and the smaller fighter crumples, gasping for breath. His opponent doesn’t stop. Fists rain down on his unprotected head while the crowd roars their approval.

‘Oh, God.” Is this a fight to the death?

Finally, the man goes limp, hopefully not dead. Two men drag the unconscious fighter from the ring. His head lolls at an unnatural angle as they disappear into the shadows.

My eyes find Flynn across the room. He’s watching the scene with cold calculation, his muscles tense as he wraps his hands. It occurs to me that with as much progress humanity has made over the millennia, man’s thirst for violence hasn’t evolved. This isn’t much different from Roman gladiator days. And Flynn, my mysterious protector, is like Daniel, walking into the lion’s den.

The announcer’s voice booms through the warehouse as Flynn steps into the ring. My breath catches. He moves with controlled power and deadly grace. His opponent towers over him, but Flynn’s expression remains neutral, those blue eyes focused and sharp.

“I think that’s the guy who took on four of Kean’s men,” the younger man says.

“No. That’s just a rumor. No way he’d be breathing,” the older one says.

A part of me wants to verify the rumor, but it’s one truth I feel would be better kept hidden. In fact, for the first time, I have a kernel of doubt about this story. Yes, I desperately want to prove myself as a journalist and expose the Keans, but I don’t want to risk people’s lives. Especially not Flynn’s.