“Always.”
I watched Chris back out of his spot and drive off. As soon as he was out of sight, I dropped the act. My carefully crafted unconcerned expression faded away, replaced by rage. So much fucking rage. My little brother was an idiot. He thought he could just kill me off and then take over Steel Row? He was insane. The Sons wouldn’t stand for it. Neither would Tate. No one would respect a man who killed someone in his bloodline to get the position.
Then again, in this life? Maybe they would.
Bastards.
Shaking my head, I cursed under my breath and turned onto the Freedom Trail. I tended to avoid this area, but tonight it felt fitting. Besides, it had emptied out a lot once the sun had gone down. All the tourists were either in a bar getting wasted or tucked in their hotel rooms with their kids, safe and sound till morning.
I stepped around all the metal plaques that lined the way, not wanting to dirty them with my feet. Tourists loved to walk these miles to celebrate the birth of our country, land of the brave and home of the free. Paul Revere and all that shit. I walked them to escape the chains I was bound by, to be free.
It was such ironic bullshit.
They also liked to take pictures of their feet on the plaques for some weird reason. I didn’t get that, but then again, I didn’t get what most people did. Selfies. Love. Twitter. It was all inane to me. I dealt with jail, extortion, death plots, and betrayal—between my hard decisions and even harder consequences. I’d never be the type to take pictures of my feet on the ground and post them all over the Internet.
And I didn’t know what to do with this latest possible betrayal, either.
What would I do if it turned out to be credible intel? Kill my own brother to save my life? The little brother I’d practically raised, the one who’d followed me everywhere when he was growing up, including right into this life? Sure, I could kill. I’d done it before, and I could do it again. But did I want to be that guy who kills his own flesh and blood without blinking an eye? Fucking Cain and Abel. I couldn’t be considered “good” by any stretch of the word, and I never would be, but even I had to draw the line at fratricide.
But if I didn’t kill him, that left two other options. Go to jail or run. Neither of those options suited me. Despite my packed bag waiting for me back home, I wasn’t a runner, and I’d be damned if I willingly went back to prison.
Scotty had me backed into a corner, and there was no way out. No matter which I chose, Scotty won. Fuck that. And fuck him. I’d do it my way.
Whatever that was.
I stopped in front of St. Stephen’s, my heart picking up speed. I hadn’t been to Mass since before I’d been arrested. Something told me that no matter how forgiving God might or might not be, he had no room in his life for men like me. I didn’t regret my life or what I’d done with it, but I wasn’t blind to my faults.
And neither was he.
Tentatively, I reached for the handle, tugging. Locked. Of course. The gates of heaven were closed to me, as I’d expected. Hell, I half expected to burst into flames, just for daring to stand on holy ground. I shook my head. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t have come here.”
I was two steps away when someone spoke from behind me. “Sometimes it’s the times when we think we shouldn’t have come to pray that we need to pray the most.”
Whirling, I reached for my gun. When I saw who stood behind me, I relaxed slightly. “Sorry, Father.”
The old priest looked at me and I shifted uncomfortably under his knowing gaze. I started to back away.
“You don’t have to go,” the man said. He had white hair, blue eyes, and wrinkles all over his face. “We closed a while ago, but God never turns away visitors, and neither do I.”
“You don’t know me,” I said, meeting his eyes. “If you did, you wouldn’t say that.”
“I doubt that,” he said. “What are you seeking, my son?”
I suddenly thought of my mother, the gentle lilt of her voice, the cool touch of her hand on my forehead. How she’d told us that despite our poverty and our shitty rat-infested home in Steel Row, we had the chance to be anything we could be. Yet I’d fucked that up. I cleared my throat. “Nothing. I just . . . I just wanted to get warm.”
“There is no judgment here.” He opened the door to the church. “We’re here for you.”
His words were like a slap in my face. Aside from Chris, no one supported me. No one helped me. What I needed, I took. If I wanted something, I made it happen. Me. Just me. And that wasn’t about to change.
Letting people in was one challenge I wasn’t about to take on.
“Thanks, Father.” I tugged on my collar. “But I don’t need anyone.”
“Spoken like a man who doesn’t trust,” the priest said.