Rake: A Dark Boston Irish Mafia Romance (The Carneys Book 1) - Sophie Austin

1

Sasha

July

The Mystic River does not smell good this time of year.

The Carneys promised to clean it up as part of their negotiations for the state’s only casino license. Given the ripe trash smell rolling off the river in waves this balmy July night, it’s clear that dredging it is just one of the many promises they failed to keep.

The Trinity Casino looms large behind me, its bright triskelion sign casting a garish green glow over Terminal Street, lighting my way as I walk to my bus stop.

I try not to be in this part of town so late at night, but it can’t really be helped. The casino hasn’t been open very long, but its staff have already been exploited. No wonder they want to unionize. After five years with Service Workers United, it’s my first time acting as the lead organizer and it’s equal parts thrilling and daunting.

At twenty-six, I’m the youngest organizer, and the Carneys are an extremely powerful and connected family. Let’s just say they won’t be happy when they find out their staff plan to form a union.

Come to think of it, that’s probably why I was assigned to the effort in the first place.

No one else wants to do it.

After weeks of meetings with staff leaders, we’re close to having enough people interested to submit an application for representation to the National Labor Relations Board.

We’ve managed to keep the efforts quiet so far. I haven’t stepped on the property itself, not once. Our group meets at a dive bar just down the street.

Organizing on-site is a recipe for disaster.

Getting justice for these workers is going to be a victory for our union and for myself if I can pull it off.

I’m completely lost in that thought when I pass Doherty Park, which turns out to be a huge mistake.

Charlestown isn’t as bad as it used to be, but it’s still not exactly safe.

Especially not after dark.

Especially not when you’re a woman walking alone.

Especially not if you’re going up against the most powerful mob family in town.

The fine hairs on my arms rise despite the heat, terror spiking through me before I even know what’s happening.

Someone grabs me by my ponytail, jerking me backwards with a sharp stab of pain. I lose my balance and a large hand wraps around my throat, thick fingers squeezing and choking out any possibility of a scream. Desperately I grab at my assailant, clawing his arms, digging my nails into his flesh as raw animal fear courses through me.

He grunts in pain but drags me easily from the sidewalk into dark shadows of the poorly lit park.

Struggling with everything I have, I dig my heels into the chalky soil of the scrubby park to hopefully slow him down. This man is enormous—larger than me by far—but I won’t go without a fight.

At the very least they’ll have ribbons of his flesh to extract from under my nails.

I don’t want to die.

Not here.

Not in this ugly park with its half-dead pine trees, broken swing sets, and a basketball court that hasn’t had hoops in over a decade.

No.

My attacker stumbles over something—I can’t see what in the dark—and I wrench out of his grasp. One second his fingers sear into my skin, and the next I’m free, running like hell and screaming with as much air as I can summon because my life depends on it. He gives chase, footfalls thundering behind me.

He’s huge, but he’s moving fast. Still, I might get away.

My adrenaline spikes as the street comes back into view. I’m so close. One of my shoes flies off but I keep going. I’m going to make it.

But I don’t.

Another set of hands grabs me. I scream as much in raw frustration as from the terror flooding my veins this time.

“She’s smaller than I imagined,” this second man says, huffing a laugh as he squeezes me around the waist, his beefy hand clamped over my mouth. “From the description I was expecting some six-foot-tall Amazon.”

My breaths come in shuddering gasps as I try to suck in air, my lungs tight from running.

“Yeah,” the first man says, “she’s not so big but she’s quick. Take her over to the chain-link fence.” I can sense a hint of admiration in his gruff tone. What kind of sociopath am I dealing with here?

I’m trying not to whimper. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction, but my pride loses out to my fear. Salty tears make fresh tracks through the sweat already drying on