Home > Filthy Hot (Five Points' Mob Collection #5)(2)

Filthy Hot (Five Points' Mob Collection #5)(2)
Author: Serena Akeroyd

I'd seen the little nut complete a two-thousand piece jigsaw in less than ninety minutes, and the way he could talk back to Aidan Sr. without getting slapped upside the head was genius in and of itself.

"Do you think we should check?"

"The community center is only around the corner," he pointed out.

Unease and, though I didn't like to think it—instinct—had me jumping to my feet. "Come on. It won't do any harm to check."

Aidan scampered to a standing position too, and he shoved me in the side, muttering, "You got me freaked out for no reason at all."

"I'll bet. He'll just be looking green because Brennan was talking about how pork is the closest meat to human flesh over dinner."

We shared a glance, and I had no idea why, but that look had both of us taking off at a run.

Aidan Sr. believed in living close to his territory, but also, in living near his church. Only in this part of Hell's Kitchen, Five Points, was a regular priest like the Pope. Aidan Sr. treated them as if they were the fucking second coming but everyone knew that was because he was obsessed with heaven.

Either heaven or just not going to hell, I wasn't sure which and I wasn't about to ask him.

In all honesty, as Aidan and I raced out of the apartment building, down the street to St. Patrick's and onward to the community center, I wasn't sure if I wanted to think that heaven could house people like Sr. If it did, well, that was fucked up. We all knew the shit he'd done. Whispers of it were a constant serenade in this part of the city…

Heaven needed harsher entry requirements if Aidan Sr. was in line for a penthouse overlooking St. Peter's pearly gates was all I’d say.

We made it to the center, with me reaching the entranceway first. I wasn't sure why, but I raised a finger to my lips, telling Aidan to be quiet, and slowly opened the door.

I heard no sounds.

No singing.

Conor was a soprano. His voice was so high, Sr. said the angels could hear him when he sang. Brennan said that was why Conor was his favorite, but I didn't really think their da had favorites. He treated them all the same—like toy soldiers.

Aidan and I shared another look as we walked in and found an empty hall.

"They meet here, don't they?"

Aidan shrugged. "They do when Father Doyle isn't living it up large with the Pope."

"Conor wouldn't lie about choir practice," I said uneasily. Normally, I'd have laughed but I just felt so on edge that even dissing our least favorite person couldn't knock me out of this frame of mind.

"Only if he woke up this morning and decided he wanted to lose a finger. You know what Da's like. No lying or else."

Though he was being serious, Aidan punctuated that by rolling his eyes.

After a while, the constant threats, the dire warnings, and the promises of retribution were like water rolling off a duck's back—I got it. I'd reached that point too.

"Should we check the church?"

"The door was closed. It was padlocked."

My brows rose. "That’s strange. It’s never locked."

"It is strange. You're right." It was Aidan who was looking green around the edges now. "Fuck, Finn, what’s going on?"

"We could get in through the basement window. The lock on it is faulty," I said, thinking fast. "We could check it out?"

"Yeah, I think we should. How do you know it’s faulty?"

"They keep getting it fixed but it never works. Anyway you weren't the one who had to spend the summer there with Father O'Brian."

Aidan's lips twitched. "I remember. For stink bombing the confessional."

My nose crinkled—not my finest hour.

As we ran out of the empty community center, we raced down the street toward the church that was like the beacon of light in this part of our territory. Whenever I stepped foot on holy ground, I expected angels to either start singing or for demons to try and grab me because I was sullied, a sinner, and I was entering God’s home.

Maybe my imagination was too wild but I always sucked in a breath whenever I crossed the gates, awaiting that first response from Upstairs or Downstairs.

Because this wasn’t a fucking movie, I didn’t get either, and though relief hit me, I didn’t stop, racing across the small patch of grass we weren’t supposed to walk on never mind run on, then veering around the side of the church to the basement window I knew we could break open.

Once we made it there, I dropped to my knees, looked at the lock and found myself relieved that the idiots hadn’t replaced the window yet. Jimmying it up, I rolled through the window because it was about six feet wide but only two feet or so deep, and barely managed to stop myself from colliding with the ground face first.

Aidan’s descent was a lot more graceful, but that was him. Light on his feet.

"It’s creepy down here," Aidan muttered as we maneuvered around the boiler, a lot of shit they stored down here—shit I’d put here which was one of the reasons I knew about the window—and toward the doorway.

We exited into the hallway that housed a couple of offices and which led to the south transept where, over the sounds of our breathing, it was whisper-quiet.

I was used to it humming with life because to be a Five Pointer was to be at ease with this place. The church was a home away from goddamn home.

The air itself seemed to throb though, like it was quiet but charged. Whether that was from our tension or not, I didn't know.

"Where are they holding practice if it isn't here or in the community center?" I grumbled.

"I don’t know. But I’ve got a weird feeling. You were right before. Conor wouldn’t lie to Da."

No. He wouldn’t.

I moved over to the altar, tipping my head back to stare at the murals that had terrified me as a kid. They'd seemed to soar upwards back then, like they were reaching for heaven itself.

With my eyes on Heaven on Earth, I often asked why God had forsaken me whenever I made my way to take the sacrament, and I asked again here, now, when the church was quieter than it had ever been and the very noiselessness made my ears ring.

My relationship with God was a weird one, and in my world, questioning my faith, any doubts at all weren’t acceptable.

Aidan popped up at my side and I watched him heft one of the candlesticks from the altar in his hand, murmuring, "Any other parish, these probably would have been stolen by now."

Grateful for the interruption, I snorted. "Aidan Sr.'s wrath is too Old Testament for anyone's stomach. He's better than ADT at keeping thieves away."

"True," he agreed. "Can you imagine him stuffing three thousand locusts down someone's throat?"

"Yeah." I shuddered. "The hard part would be finding three thousand locusts."

Both of us snickered at that, then we heard it.

A sob.

Followed by a hushed whisper.

Everything inside me stilled. Freezing solid.

Another whisper. A choked gasp.

Aidan's hand tightened about the candlestick, and I reached back, grabbing the nearest thing to me and, hefting it, we stalked forward.

Both of us knew to be quiet without even looking at one another, and we whispered down the aisle like ghosts.

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