Scar
Boston’s a comfortable temperate toward the end of summer. Not too hot, not too cold. Finn Callahan picks me up from the airport in a black sports car wearing dark sunglasses, his hair pushed back. I toss my bag in the back and sit shotgun. “No driver?” I ask, feeling mildly surprised.
“I like to do my own driving.” He pulls into traffic, going faster than he should. I buckle my seatbelt. “Dad’s happy you’re visiting. The big move’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”
“A few weeks,” I say, nodding, thinking about what I left behind. Rita, sulking quietly. A week away from starting her new job.
“You’ll like Boston,” he says, navigating into the city. “It’s not Texas, but it’s a good place to live.”
I shrug, not really caring either way. “I’m not here to sightsee.”
He laughs. “But you still got to spend your days here. Might as well get a feel for it.”
Boston’s an old city. Where western cities were made after the invention and spread of cars, East Coast cities were too entrenched and dense to really accommodate the change in driving habits. Streets are tight out here, not four-lane monstrosities that cut through the middle of Dallas. Out there, they’re one-way, cobblestone in the historic districts, traffic everywhere, pedestrians everywhere, the streets cutting in and out seemingly at random.
But it’s beautiful. I’ll give Boston that. Old, historic brick buildings mingled with massive skyscrapers. There’s character here, real history. It’s not my city, but I could see myself making a life here.
“Dad wants me to bring you right to his office,” Finn says, pulling into a parking garage in the middle of downtown. “After this little meeting, I’ll show you the real Boston. We’ve got a few decent bars, some good restaurants.”
“I appreciate you showing me around, but you don’t have to. I can grab a cab and take a tour on my own.”
“No worries,” Finn says with a smile. “Happy to help. Like Dad says, you’re family now. Come on, let’s head up.”
The office is in an upscale building. Gleaming marble floors, security at the front desk. We take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor and get off in a reception area. A pretty brunette greets us, straight-backed, looking like she was bought from a catalogue.
“Evening, Maggie,” Finn says as we brush past her. “You’re looking gorgeous as always.”
“Fuck off, Finn,” she says sweetly.
“God, I love the mouth on that girl,” he says, grinning at me.
I smile back but look around. “This place looks like a law firm,” I say, shaking my head. “Where the hell are we?”
“The heart of the family,” Finn says, gesturing at the offices. People in business-casual clothes hurry past, greeting each other, some of them saying hello to Finn. He’s in a suit and doesn’t stand out at all. I feel strangely at home here, but why would a mob family have an office like this? And all these people?
“What, exactly, do you do here?”
“We’re a big organization,” Finn says, leading me down a hall lined with oil paintings of old white Irish-looking guys. Probably former heads of the family, stretching back a couple hundred years, based on the hairstyles and clothing. “While there are a lot of, ah, illicit ventures, there are an equal number of above-board operations. These people manage the legal side of things.”
“And the less than legal side?” I ask, unable to help it.
“We do the managing at street level for all that,” Finn says, smirking at me. We reach a big wooden door etched with Celtic imagery from knots to crosses. A woman sits at a desk outside of it, older, gray hair, heavy-set. She’s got thick blue eye shadow and a scowl that would scare the hair off a cat.
“Finley,” she says, nodding to him. “And I assume this is Mr. Scarfoni?”
“Hello, Clodagh,” Finn says, leaning against her desk. “Is my dear old father ready to see us?”
“You’re late.” She presses a button on her phone. “Your son and Mr. Scarfoni are here.”
A moment later, the phone beeps. “Send them in,” Orin’s voice says, tinny through the speaker.
“Lovely to see you as always, Clodagh,” Finn says, winking at the old woman.
She scowls at him.
Finn leads me into the office. High ceiling, thick carpet. A surprising number of books on wooden, expertly carved shelves, oiled and gleaming. It smells like mahogany, cigar, and whiskey. Orin stands, nearly swallowed by an enormous wooden desk, the thing looking like it could carry a whole boat’s worth of sailors across the ocean.
“Good to see you, Scar,” he says.
I walk over and shake his hand. “You as well,” I say.
Orin looks tired. Bags hang under his eyes. His jacket’s on the back of his chair, his tie is loosened, and his sleeves are rolled to the elbows, showing off old, faded tattoos. His face is pinched in a scowl, his hair is rumpled, and I swear it’s almost an entirely different man.
This isn’t the mob boss I met at the beach. This is more like what I had expected from the start, not the relaxed and happy father and husband I saw in that lovely house.
“Apologies for the state of things. Been a busy day.” He comes around the desk and offers me a drink. I accept only after he pours one for himself. Finn remains standing by the door, watching placidly. “How’s the trip so far?”
“It’s going well,” I say. “Boston’s a great city. I’m sure I’ll be comfortable here.”
“And Mrs. Scarfoni?” he asks.
I hesitate, trying to decide when to break the news. Sooner rather than later. “There’s been a slight change in plans. Rita’s staying behind for a few months. She got hired by a company called Appalachian Peaks to do some marketing work, and they want her local until she’s up to speed. Once she’s trained, she’ll join me out in Boston.”
Orin’s quiet. The silence is oppressive. His eyes narrow, studying me. “That wasn’t what we discussed.”
“I know, I apologize. The job fell into our laps, and she couldn’t deny it. She’s somewhat obsessed with the company, if I’m honest.”
“They make good stuff,” Finn says, smiling now. “Lots of my friends are into them. Really popular. She’s lucky.”
Orin grunts, glancing at his son, but fucking hell am I grateful for Finley Callahan right about now. If he hadn’t spoken up to lend Appalachian Peaks some legitimacy, I’m not sure what would’ve happened.
“Long distance,” Orin says, shaking his head as he returns to his desk. “That won’t be easy.”
“We’ll make it works. We’re committed.”
“Good,” he says, slumping back into his chair. He tosses the drink down. “There are too many fucking changes happening right now. Too many fucking unknowns. You’ll be busy once you get going for real.”
“Anything I should be aware of?”
“Not yet,” he says, glancing at his son, jaw working. “Just a fucking mess. Bunch of scum fuckers making my life miserable.” He jabs a finger at me. “Life isn’t easy, boy. Don’t you fucking forget it.”
“Never imagined it would be.”
“Good.” He shoves his empty glass aside. “Finn? Show Mr. Scarfoni around. I have work to do.”
“Right this way, Mr. Scarfoni.” Finn escorts me out. He takes the glass and leaves it on Clodagh’s desk with a wink, which only elicits a feral growl.
“Is your father always like that?” I ask as we retrace our steps.
“Pretty much. You caught him on a good day.”
I laugh, bewildered. “He was so… different down the beach.”
“Beach Dad and real Dad are two different people. He lets go down there. Mom basically forces him to, if I’m honest. But as soon as he’s back in the city…” He trails off, shrugging. “Anyway, where do you want to go?”
I tell him it doesn’t matter. He talks about the city, about the family, about their legal work. I half listen, thinking about Orin in that office.
Looking stressed, looking ten times older than he did at the beach.
He probably spends most of his life here in this place, shouting over the phone, stressing about every little thing. Meanwhile, the man I met down the shore, that was a happy man living the sort of life I’d want for myself.
That wasn’t reality. This Orin, this haggard, angry shell of a human, this is what the family demands of him.
That’s what he gives to them. Everything, every ounce of him, until he’s dried up.
I’m shocked I didn’t realize this sooner.
The life I glimpsed at the beach wasn’t real. The life I saw back in that office-that’s what I have waiting for me.
Not tomorrow. Not in a week, or a year, but one day I’ll wake up, find myself sitting at an enormous desk, wrapped in layers of power and responsibility, entirely alone. Angry at the world. Stressed to my core.
That’s my future if I keep going down this path.
But what else is there? I struggled to get this far. The idea of turning around repulses me.
Only I don’t know how much I have to give, and how much will be taken anyway.