All of the Lights Read online

  "Hey Father," Bennett starts with an easy wave, but not before exchanging a confused glance with me. "My name's Bennett Kelly. You probably don't remember me, but I used to come here with my parents when I was a kid," he gestures to me, ignoring the way Father Lindsay openly stares, "and this is Rae Moretti. We were just wondering if we could have a moment of your time."

  Father Lindsay blinks at Bennett and then shakes himself out of it. He rubs his jaw in thought, wincing for just a second before shuffling backward a little. He nods, but it doesn't seem too convincing.

  "Alright," he allows gruffly and the odd mixture of Irish and Boston accents in his voice catches me off-guard. "I'd be happy to speak to yah, but I don't have much time. Maybe if—"

  "We just need a minute," I cut in gently and I don't miss the way his eyes fly to my face at the sound of my voice. "I know you have somewhere you need to be, but we really need to talk to you."

  I hesitate just long enough to make sure he's really going to stay put. Then I jump back into it as I slip my phone out of my purse and open up my photos.

  "I was hoping you could tell us what this means."

  He reaches out mechanically to take the phone from me and I gesture to a picture of one of the postcards with his name on it. Father Lindsay's eyes crinkle as he squints to get a better look at the screen and then everything shifts on a dime. His eyes widen, his lips part, and all the blood seems to drain out of his face at once.

  "Where did you find this?" he whispers, his eyes never leaving my screen as he speaks.

  "Does it matter?" I frown.

  His eyes snap up to mine. "Yah. It matters. It matters very much."

  Bennett and I turn to look at each other at the same time and he just shrugs. I guess that's all the permission I need.

  "My dad had them."

  I don't see the need to elaborate who my dad is—everyone knows who my dad is. But that also doesn't seem to help Father Lindsay feel the need to open up any further because he abruptly thrusts my phone back at me.

  "I..." he starts and runs a hand through his curly hair. The other hand supports his weight against the wall.

  "How do you know my dad?" I press, my eyes narrowing just enough to let him know I'm not leaving here without a fight. "Why would he have mail addressed to you?"

  Father Lindsay swallows hard. "How...how many of those do you have?"

  "I don't know," I just lift a shoulder. "Fifty. Probably more. I haven't gotten a chance to count them all yet."

  I haven't really gotten a chance to do much of anything with them yet, but he doesn't need to know that. He nods tightly and then suddenly he's got his back to us with both hands on his hips.

  "How do you know my dad?" I ask again. He's just completely dodged answering me—aren't priests supposed to be pious and everything that goes along with it? And then another possibility creeps in. "Unless...you knew my mom?"

  His shoulders tense and I have my answer. But, unfortunately for me, that's the only answer I'm going to get. A moment later, Father Lindsay whips around, the picture of calm and steady, and he flashes us an apologetic grin.

  "I wish we could continue this discussion, but I'm late for an event. I really need to get going."

  "But—" I try again, but Father Lindsay is already headed out the door. I guess my dad isn't the only one who's well-versed in deflection.

  "I'm so sorry," he calls out to us as he pushes open the door with his hip. "We'll have to discuss this some other time."

  And with that, he disappears. Just completely bails. No explanation. This is cowardly bullshit, especially from a priest. He's gone and he's taken all my answers with him.

  "Well," Bennett muses next to me. "That was not how I expected this to go down."

  "Yeah," I huff out a laugh, but my eyes still haven't left the door Father Lindsay vanished behind.

  "So what do we do now?"

  I blow out a deep breath and squint at the door in thought. Father Lindsay was clearly headed to Na Soilse for the fight, to bless the fight specifically, so he obviously knows the Callahans. Jack would probably have no trouble talking to Father Lindsay and if they're close enough that he would bless the fight, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't run away from Jack like he did to me.

  I just don't want Jack Flynn anywhere near me or the information I've somehow stumbled on.

  His voice floats across my mind and I shudder just at the thought.

  "You're gonna have to talk to the right people and get into the right places to find what you're lookin' for. You need me to help you do that and you know it..."

  I do know it. I just don't like it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jack

  The roar of the crowd buzzes in my ears. Sweat slides down my face, mixing with blood. Some of it's mine; some of it's not. Salt sears my tongue and I bite down on my mouth guard, desperate for a little control. My left hook swerves around, hitting only empty space.

  This isn't the first time it's happened since I stepped inside the ring tonight and for the first time in a long time, I'm in some real trouble here.

  My feet shuffle to the right, I keep my head down and protected, but that's still not enough. A quick jab to the face does nothing because he blocks it too easily. I'm off my game. Distracted and disoriented by too many hits in too short a time. He swings his arm around and pain splinters through my jaw, curving around my neck and enveloping me in a buzz-filled haze.

  Digging myself out of this is going to be one hell of a hurdle.

  Everyone's watching. Everyone's screaming. Everything's blurry. My opponent might as well have been anyone off the street—in the ring, the only real opponent you have is yourself. And right now, I'm sliding down a slippery slope right toward defeat.

  Hook to the right. Miss. Upper-cut to the chin—direct hit. His head rears back, sending a string of spit and crimson spiking through the air. And just when I think I've finally come out on top, that I've finally gotten the upper hand, he slams a sick uppercut into my jaw, flailing me against the ropes like this is my first fight.

  Strong, weathered hands grip my shoulders and then I hear my dad's low voice in my ear: "You can do this. Don't give up. You keep fighting."

  I nod once, my eyes sharpening on my opponent. He's doing the exact same thing I am right now: readying himself for the next round, preparing for more blows, and gearing up for that sweet victory. My eyes close for just a moment so I can create the visual I need to push through this: my dad, both the living and the dead one, pounding his wrapped fists together, circling the ring and raising his arms in victory as the crowd roars.

  The crowd means nothing now. The buzzing in my ears fades away. It's wiped away and I have a clean slate as I pound my gloved fists together. There's a rage within me that only comes out when I'm in the ring, when I can become the monster I'd never let loose anywhere else.

  And now, when the bell goes off to signal the next round, that monster creeps in, twisting and curling around my limbs and that's it. That's all I need. It takes hold and doesn't let go until I've pummeled my way through my opponent and he's a bleeding, near-toothless, barely-recognizable mess on the mat.

  My dad lifts my arms in victory, but I don't need the rest of it. The adulation, the slaps on the back, the cheers, the shots, the women—that's not why I'm here.

  It's the moment when we're all in that little room at the back of the bar, the same one we use to prep and wrap my hands—that's the moment I relish.

  Brennan flanks my right as my dad holds the door open for us. Father Lindsay is right on our heels when I hop up on the table and slap off my gloves. They've got smiles on their faces and it's because I got us here. I brought home the win and with it, a shit-load of money. We're all together in this room, me covered in blood and sweat, and my brother, my dad, and my priest surround me. This is why I fight. This is what makes unleashing that monster worth every second.

  "I knew you'd pull it out!" Brennan shakes his head, but that smile is reserved for time
s like these when everything is right with the world for once. "You scared me for a second, bro, but you were like an animal out there!"

  My dad doesn't share the same enthusiasm, even if his mouth is still spread wide in celebration. It's the slight crinkling by his eyes that gives it away—he's worried. He knows I could've lost or worse, completely gotten my head bashed in beyond repair. And here I've been worried one of these days I'm going to bash the other guy's head in beyond repair.

  "You alright?" he asks softly and I know he doesn't just mean the open cuts on my face. He's talking about my head. Am I all there? Am I going to be more present next time? Am I going to get myself killed next time?

  For a moment, I almost tell them about the distraction that's loomed over me like a dark cloud. I haven't been the same since the night Moretti sent the Gianotti brothers to blast the front of our building and everyone in this room knows it.

  It's just not for the reasons they think.

  There's no way they could possibly know unless I tell them, but that would mean having to look my dad and my brother in the eye and somehow explain how I found myself within ten feet of Raena Moretti.

  God, that name. It's a curse around here. I shouldn't even think it, let alone say it. But she's somehow managed to slip in through the cracks and got my head so twisted around I'm lucky I even know which end is up.

  Everything I know about her up until these last few weeks should have taught me to hear nothing but bullshit when she opens her mouth. Unfortunately, I think I might believe her. I think she might actually be serious about wanting to get Sean out of prison. Whatever her reasons, I still don't trust her, but I think I believe her.

  That's the craziest thought I've ever had in my entire life and I just can't share it now. Besides, the less people who know I even had any contact with her the better.

  Even though the fundraiser at the parish went off without a hitch, we still have the protest to worry about next week. All the plans are set, everyone knows what they're supposed to do, and all we have to do is show up at the ribbon-cutting of Val Moretti's latest project and show him we're not going to let him get away with turning our community into an Italian enterprise.

  The last thing either Brennan or my dad need is for me to tell them that Val Moretti's daughter is sniffing around Southie.

  So, I tug on the most reassuring grin I can muster and shrug it off like it's nothing. Brennan seems to accept that at hand, but my dad's ever-watchful eyes follow my mechanical movements as I clean myself up and get ready to head out for the night. He's not convinced—the deep creases worrying his forehead say as much. I do the best I can to reassure him and clap him on the shoulder.

  "I think I saw one of Gianottis' guys out in the crowd tonight," my dad calls out softly as I toss my shirt over my head. "Put Brody on it, but the shit slipped out before he could get to him."

  Brennan and I meet each other's gaze and everything I'm feeling is mirrored on my brother's face. The Gianottis have some serious balls to get anywhere our neighborhood, let alone our businesses after what they pulled on us three weeks ago. If they think they're going to intimidate us like this, if Moretti thinks this is going to get him anywhere, they obviously don't know us very well.

  "Let them watch all they want," I shrug it off and Brennan follows suit. "They wanna bet, let them bet."

  "Maybe," my dad muses, but he rubs his jaw in thought, the same way he always does when he has a bad feeling about something. "There's been some talk that the Gianottis are lookin' to expand their market outside of the North End. I guess they're finally backing a fighter they like...maybe they were scopin' out the competition."

  "So what?" Brennan tosses back and he nudges Father Lindsay a little with his elbow, making the old man huff out a laugh. "They want Jack to fight their guy? Fine. More money for me, my campaign, and the parish."

  Father Lindsay shakes his head. "I hope you're referring to tithes and nothing else."

  Brennan's hand flies to his heart. "Of course, Father. What else would I mean?"

  Father Lindsay's eyes lift up to the ceiling and he shakes his head. For now, this discussion will have to be shelved for later. After all, the celebration is already underway out by the bar and at this point, I'm just grateful that everyone's forgotten about the fact that the fight could've kept going south on me pretty quickly.

  Brennan and I leave the two old men alone, who already have their heads bent together in low murmurs, and head out to face the rest of the night. The crowd parts for us, still hopped up from my narrow victory and even though the air has had some time to settle, the scent of rust, sweat, and barley lingers, thickening the atmosphere. Electricity shoots around the room and all it does is set me on edge.

  This is the part I don't like—the part where I have to face everyone else.

  I smile politely at Payton as we pass by and she just rolls her eyes at me. It's not like I don't deserve that after the awkward family dinner she had to sit through, not to mention falling victim to my mom's matchmaking attempt, and things between us have been chilly at best since.

  Cheers follow us as we take our victory lap all the way up to the bar, where one of the bartenders, a good shit named Patrick, slides an ice-cold beer my way. The festivities are probably going to last until well after closing time, but I force myself to tolerate about ten minutes. I'm tired and I'm sore and all I want to do is crawl into bed with a few bags of ice and a handful of ibuprofen.

  Of course, these guys don't really get that.

  "Hey," I clap Brennan on the shoulder. "I'm gonna take a breather outside for a second."

  His blue eyes sweep over me in cool appraisal—he knows this game. He knows I don't want to stay, but that I also don't want to piss anyone off, especially anyone that's just made a good chunk of change off me. The fights organized here are legal, but the betting that happens here? Not so much, but nobody really cares about that. I help them get paid and that, I guess, is all that counts.

  "You sure you're alright, bro?" Brennan narrows his eyes a little as if that will help him cut through the wall I've put up ever since that Friday night.

  I just lift a shoulder. "Yeah. I'm alright. I just got some things to see to."

  "Ah!" One of Brennan's buddies points at me with a beer in his hand. "Gotta go get that victory prize, huh? She better be a real stunnah. Where're yah meetin' up with her?"

  "Don't take her back to your place," another one chimes in, his words slurring enough he wobbles from his stool. "You don't wanna have to kick her ass out in the morning."

  "Nah," says yet another drunk bystander. "Dumb broads are used to the walk o' shame. Who cares?"

  And that's my cue to get the hell out of here. The rest of the night is going downhill real quick and I don't really want to be around for it when the shit hits the fan. If them thinking I'm heading out to meet up with a girl gets me out of here with little resistance, I'm good with that. So I throw a mock-salute over my shoulder as I push through the side door that leads out to the alley.

  Almost immediately, a flash of auburn hair, forest-green eyes, and a soft smile clouds my mind.

  Shit. That happened way too fast.

  And now I'm pissed as hell. I'm pissed that I'm still thinking about her. I'm pissed that she's determined to do this by herself. I'm pissed that she could find something and will probably have no idea what to do with it. I'm pissed that Sean might have a shot at actually getting out of prison and I'm just going to be sitting here, waiting and hoping that the girl who put him there can do it on her own. It's just complete bullshit.

  There isn't a doubt in my mind that one of the many, many enemies her dad has made through the years is responsible, but how do you go about proving something like that? Where do you even start? All I know is she won't be able to do it on her own and I don't want her to.

  As a last resort, I slip my vape pen out of my pocket, still shaking my head at the memory, and take a long, healthy pull. My head dips back and a slow stream of vapor f
lows from my nostrils. Finally, calm settles over me, pulling me back down and into an easier, quieter rhythm. The entire alley is cast in darkness and only the glow from the streetlamps next to the building gives me any kind of illumination.

  Right about now, I prefer the darkness.

  That's about as long as my self-imposed solitude lasts because the side door swings open again. I blow out another stream of vapor, letting the nicotine work its way through my system and shove that monster back in its cage, and finally turn my head to the side to find out who this new intruder is.

  The familiar black pants, shirt, and white collar step through the little light and I can't muster a frustrated huff even if I wanted to.

  Father Lindsay flashes me a quick, sympathetic grin as he closes the short space between us. I already know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.

  "So," he murmurs when we're standing shoulder to shoulder in the alleyway. "Your da is worried. Asked me to come out here and see what's been botherin' yah."

  I just lift a shoulder, but when he squints and tilts his head to the side, studying me with those all-knowing eyes, I can't deny it.

  "You've been off for a few weeks now," Father Lindsay's adding insult to injury now, "and let's be honest, Jack—you're lucky yah came out on top tonight. Could've easily gone the other way. And your da isn't the only one who's worried. This isn't like yah, so why not tell me what's really goin' on, huh?"

  Well, now I'm officially screwed. I might be able to lie to everybody else in my life, but there's no way I'll ever be able to lie to a priest. Nice work, Dad, I think as I shake my head. Maybe if I just treat this like any other confession, like Father Lindsay is shrouded behind a screen, I'll be able to air my dirty laundry and clear my conscience.

  "This stays between us?"

  He cocks an eyebrow at me as if to say, Really?

  I huff out a laugh and rub my sore jaw. It hurts to laugh and it hurts to talk, but I don't have the luxury of silence and solitude anymore. Then the words just come tumbling out.