Hi there! Note from the author. This was a story I was working on that is unfinished but a fun one-shot.
I am the original author, please see bio.
With love, please enjoy
"Why you drivin' so slow." She looked over at her driver in the front seat, Killian 'Killz' Jones. "Ain't like you're missin' a foot, so step on it." Emma snapped from the back seat. Asshole pissed her off last year in the middle of a fight and she shot his hand off. Half the time she couldn't stand him, the other half she reasoned she might as well keep him around. Closest thing to a brother she had, or family really. Didn't mean he didn't frustrate her. Loyalty in this business was what she needed. Killz was that.
She sucked her teeth in annoyance as he picked up some speed and zoomed down Tremont and down towards the Seaport District.
"Yeah, your fathah, good fella, uh huh. Cain't rememerah a time when we weren't gettin' in trouble in southie." He coughed into a baby blue hanky. "Good ole days. Nice cah you got here." He tapped the dashboard with his age spotted hand. "Get it from 'im? Ya Pa, I mean?" The wrinkled man asked from the front seat. "Say, uh, shame 'bout ya Ma."
Before Emma could respond, Killz hit a black car in front of them. Her head smashed the seat in front of her. Cringing in pain from the sudden impact didn't stop her slew of words, "Ya fuckin' piece of shit. What the fuck is wrong with yas? Now look whathca did." Emma yelled as she held her hands up in an angry Bostonian gesture. She threw open the door to her car and slammed it shut behind her giving the bird to her lieutenant.
An equally pissed off woman with dark hair joined Emma outside of their collided cars. "Are you incapable of paying attention to the road?" She yelled first. Her face was pinched red with anger. She then added, "Your husband owes me a new bumper." She pointed at her far more superior car. Obviously she came from good money.
"Whoa, no. That piece of garbage isn't my husband." Emma pointedly said as she pulled a black from behind her ear and lit it up. "Whatchu want? I can give you a grand to go away." Emma said. Thinking, some soccer mom driving an expensive car would just take the green and go.
Except she was no soccer mom that money so easily bought. "You hiding something? Only someone who's hiding something would pay to keep this quiet from the cops." She was quick to question Emma. This was a weak spot for Emma. She could take men out left and right, but put a pretty face woman with a snarky attitude in front of her and she was a complete weak mess.
Honestly, she was in a rush to get to the docks at Seaport, to take care of business that was in the form of the sack of old shit in the passenger seat of her car. Calling the cops would just further delay her. No one knew she was the new mob boss and she had nothing to hide.
"Look lady, make it two grand. That's all the green you'rah gettin'. I've got business to attend to." Emma tried to wager. She puffed out a cloud of smoke off to the side waiting for a response from the obvious Italian woman, who had no idea who she was messing with.
"Fine." She snarled.
Emma turned and walked back to the car and tapped on the glass. "Open the trunk shitface." At least Killz didn't question her and just did as she said. She ruffled through a bag in the back and pulled out the money. Her black hanging out of the side of her mouth.
"Fuckin'... God damn … Worthless." She snapped into the car's open windows at the driver as she walked up to the person they hit.
Her left hand outstretched and she extended out an envelope, full of the cash. "Take it." Emma said, trying to not come off as creepy as it could appear. "Should be enough for that bumpah." They however, stood in a standoff and that's when Emma saw the other woman's glassy dark eyes staring at her wrist tattoo of a crimson colored clover. It was her father's mark for the Old Colony gang.
"You got a problem?" She shook the white, wrinkled envelope. "Why you starin' just take the money and get outta here." Emma barked, shoving the money towards the woman's chest. She turned and walked back to her car and swung open the car door. She dropped her black out of the window onto the concrete pavement and coldly said, "Drive."
"You'rah like that fathah of yours. Shame he didn't get to raise yas." Emma rolled her eyes. My was this old salty bastard talkative.
"Whatchu know 'bout that?" She said, knowing the man would shut the hell up, at least if he knew what was good. As she thought, silence filled the car as they pulled up to 'the spot.'
"You'rah never going to believe what we found here the other day." She said, opening the door. "Ya 'member this place?" She asked as she followed behind him. Dead grass crunched beneath their boots and shoes as they walked the bank of the Charles.
He coughed and started talking again. "Killed many low life Wop's here." He laughed at his own memories. "Tossed them, ovah there." He pointed.
Emma followed him quietly with Killz and asked, "Just low life Wop's?"
When the cheerful old man turned around she decked him square in the face. He stumbled back a few feet to the ground. "You got some nerve askin' me about my Ma and Pa when you know I was orphaned. You killed her." She shook off the sting in her knuckles and pulled her gun from the back of her pants. She aimed at the guy, one eye closed and shot him square in the face.
"Tie a weight on him and sink 'im the rivah." She told her partner. "Thinkin' he can pull a fast one on me... ta.. tah show me the ropes." She stuttered. "I don't need to be shown shit." She yelled. "Fuckin' learned to be ruthless on my own god damn merit, no thanks to that lifeless asshole." She turned, pointed her gun again at the old body and shot, "That's for my ma!" She shot again, "And my pa." And another shot ricocheted through the cold, windy day, "And that's for me."
Killz just stood by and watched his foster sister go off on the man that killed her mother and landed her father in jail years ago. He traded secrets for a shorter sentence in jail when the gang got busted. It was only a matter of time before she came for him. Maybe the old man knew when they rolled up to 'the spot' that this was the end of the road. Too old and defenseless to do nothing about it. Perhaps even, he didn't think Emma had the balls to shoot him. She wasn't called Emma 'Savage' Nolan for no reason.
"I'd do a lot more if his fuckin' wife wasn't already dead. Too bad that suckah didn't have kids, or I'd put a bullet through their head too." She yelled. "The way I see it, a life for a life in this business." She shoved her gun back to its place and walked off back to the car.
Killz leaned forward and started wrapping chains around his feet, and dragged the man's body towards the Charles and pushed him in with a weight to sink him down.
There they were at 'the spot' where her father and his father tossed bodies into the Charles. It was where they'd bring the trader informants, or Wops, and shoot them and then sink them. It was a secluded enough place in southie that didn't get much traction. Old abandoned boxcars and cranes were scattered about, allowing some shelter from outside onlookers.
The BPD was still trying to pin down the location of the Old Colony crime hub, they had found the house Emma had grown up in full of bodies in the basement in the walls. That by no means was the extent to the murders. Her mother had been renovating when she was a toddler, tearing out the walls for a short time. Her father took that as an opportunity to hide some evidence there.
Killz jogged over to the car, huffing and puffing out the cold air fresh off the water. "Who's next?"
The following morning, Emma sat in the pub eating bangers and mash. Her fork scraped the plate causing a few people in the pub to pause and stare at her savage-like eating. She didn't care, her name didn't just come from nowhere.
"You haven't seen the papah." A voice from behind her came, but hesitantly. It sounded much more like a statement, rather than a question, too.
"Do I look like the papah readin' type to you?" She snapped before looking up from her plate.
"The Globe has an article on your fathah. I figured you'd heard 'bout it by now." Killz sat down on the stool next to her.
"It's eight." She said. "You got it with ya?"
"No?" Killz knew he was in for it now.
"Then why you seatin' next to me? Think ya should be findin' me an article to read." She said, sipping her freshly squeezed orange juice.
Kills shot up, obediently, and ran for the door in search of a paper. Should have known better than to just show up with some news and not have it with him.
"Tina, got any vodka this early to spike this? I can already tell today is gonna be a steamin' pile of shit."
The tiny blonde threw a grey goose bottle in the air and flipped it before pouring a shot's worth of vodka into Emma's juice. "Can't be that bad. It's only eight."
"We'll see whenever that fuck boy shows back up."
It wasn't long before two feet came rushing up behind her, "I got it. I found a vendin' machine over by, uh, Broadway outside the station."
The neatly folded black and white paper had her father's mug shot front and center. The headline, "The Old Colony Gang Lives On."
"Catchy title." Emma said, sipping from her glass. Her eyes skimmed through the printed lines of lists of crimes her father had been involved in: Armed robbery, racketeering, drug trafficking, weapon trafficking, extortion, prostitution, hijacking, gambling, and murder. There were even murder allegations that he killed his long-time girlfriend, Mary Margaret, her mother. None of that was true. Had her shaking her head left and right slowly. She knew Spencer, a high ranking member of the gang, did an inside job without her father knowing at the time. According to what her father told her, they thought he got too soft and planned a coup. If that wasn't good enough reason to put a bullet in the old man's eyes the day before, then Emma didn't know what was.
It wasn't until the last closing paragraph that she clenched the paper between her dried palms, Anonymous sources believe Nolan has an heir to the infamous gang still wandering the streets doing his crimes today.
She slammed the paper down on the bar counter and pushed it off to the side. She didn't immediately say anything. Instead, she sipped some orange juice from her glass and then sucked the pulp from her teeth.
Her eyes noted that the article was by a, "Sydney Glass." She growled the name as she read.
"What 'bout him?"
"Find him. Bring 'im to me." She said picking her fork back up and tossing some mash into her mouth. "We've got business tah attend to."
While Emma was in her early-ish twenties, she'd flown under the radar. Damn cops had no idea David Nolan had a daughter. He'd dropped her off with the nuns before they came for him. That's where she met Killz.
When they got old enough, she had visited her father. He gave her names and direction for how to carry out the family business. So she did just that, slowly she started to reclaim their 'territory' from street rats trying to act like they owned the place. Emma Nolan was practically Irish-American royalty in Boston and to her, this should be a walk in the park. Or, at least, that's what she thought. Times were changing now and she was soon to discover that.
Her back was supported by the rusty old box car in which Emma sat,perched on an old crate. Using a toothpick she cleaned dried blood from under her nails; evidence of her handy work from the day prior.
She had told the bastard,who sat in front of her, if he didn't crack on his secrets she'd dump him in the harbor with a weight around his ankles. Stubborn fool didn't think she had the balls for it.
There were enough women in mobs in and around Boston nowadays. Maybe a few good blows to his smug face with her brass knuckles would get him talking. Her brass knuckles once belonged to her father and his father's father. Kind of her keepsake, which kindly was used to shut people the fuck up at times. Or alternatively, to get them to fess up. She often wondered when pieces of old white Boston trash would stop underestimating her.
"Tick. Tock." She said without looking up from her nails. "Ya know, yesterday, I beat a man to a pulp before shootin' him and sinkin' him in the Charles Rivah. Don't want to end up like 'im, do yas?" She said without giving two shits if he had a family. Mess with the Irish mob, mess with her family especially, might as well already be dead. Allowing the lousy scumbag the actual thought that he'd make this out alive was a game. No way in hell would he.
She stopped with the now warped, splintered toothpick and dropped it on the steel floor of the box car.
"Now, I'm gonna ask ya one more time." She leaned forward and pulled out a switchblade, with her name etched on the side, from her boot. She brought it to his chin and added just enough pressure to allow the man to talk, "Who the fuck are ya workin' for?"
The man stayed stoic and silent under the heat and pressure of the silver blade against his throat.
"I'm warnin' ya. You bettah tell me now, or you'll be last weeks news." Her blade now was embedded in his dark, creamy caramel skin. Crimson blood slowly started to meander the contours of his neck, colliding with her own pale skin.
"Ra..." He stopped. He gulped, forcing Emma's blade deeper into his neck.
Emma knew this piece of shit was going to die. It was a matter of if she got the information she needed. Little did this measly reporter know, the article he published for today's paper would be his last. Emma had put a bounty on his head the moment she saw it.
"That's it spit it out." She yelled spit filled words in the man's face. "Come on!" She pulled back her blade far enough to allow her brass knuckles to impact with his jaw, sending a incisor flying from his mouth with a pool of blood.
His head hung down from the blow. He was already utterly defenseless as his legs and arms were bound to a chair.
"Come on Sydney. Don'tcha value your life?" She yelled louder. "Gonna just die for some what? Piece of shit? Why you publishin' articles in the papah about David Nolan havin' a kid. What does the BPD know?"
She punched him a second time. "You don't know what you're doin' messin' in my business. Now tell me, who you workin' for?" She used her calloused hand to hold his head back and the other to place her blade against his neck.
"Regina...her name is Regina. I don't know anything else about her."
"Likely story, buddy." Emma said. "She got a last name?"
"Not... She, I got a call. Her voice was familiar. I don't know anything else. She just sa...said that she thinks Nolan's got someone like a kid workin'...workin' for him." He stuttered. "I don't know anything. I, I swear. Pep...People like crime and, I, she fed me the story thinking he had a kid." He repeated the last part a second time.
Emma laughed sinisterly. "Sure does. You're lookin' at her." The reporter's eyes bulged at the sight of the lanky blonde with piercing hazel eyes that twinkled green and blue. She looked almost like an angel and that was the last sight he saw. Her blade slashed his neck open in one clean cut. Gurgling sounds from his throat, along with her laughing, were it for him before consciousness was lost.
"Killz, get Leroy ovah here, tie a weight to this chair and dump his sorry ass in the watah. I gotta go clean up before we find out who the fuck this Regina is. Think I've got some ideas on where to start."