The pain feels good. Really fucking good.

A punch of heat to the gut radiates outwards, followed quickly by another, and as I'm doubled over, a crack to the jawbone sends me stumbling back a few steps, but I stay upright. I'm not going down yet. It'll take more than that, you bastards.

Hands grab me roughly by the arms, holding me in place and I laugh and spit blood onto the ground in front of his feet, narrowly missing his shoes which are shined to perfection. I'm going to own shoes like that one day. Italian leather. Hand-stitched. Shine them until I can practically see my fucking face in them.

My jaw is exploding, firecrackers of pain digging deep into bone and my stomach is thinking of giving up breakfast, lunch and dinner all in one go, but I hold firm and look up. Look him in the eye. Because that's what I do. It's what I was always told to do.

Always look 'em in the eye, lad, Frank said. Even if Death himself is lookin' right back at ya, show 'em no fear and don't ever look away, not even for a second.

It isn't Death staring right back at me, but I always did think Joseph Lombardi had that skeletal look about him, skin stretched tight over cheekbones and a grin that would put a cadaver to shame. And he doesn't carry a scythe because guys like Joe Lombardi don't need to carry weapons. A nod of the head is his weapon. A hand gesture. All he needs to do is say one word and you're watching your blood spill from the gash in your throat and wondering why the fuck you can't breathe no more. Do away with one weapon and another one stands in its place, ready to cut, slash, gouge. No, guys like Joe Lombardi - top-of-the-fucking-food-chain Italian gangster from the North End of town - don't need weapons because they've always got someone to hand, ready to bloody their knuckles and slice up a bit of Irish flesh.

I'm barely Irish, connected tenuously to Dublin immigrants on my mother's side, but just Irish enough for Frank Wallace to take me under his wing and for Joe Lombardi to hate my guts. To be fair, Joe Lombardi also hates my guts because I have a big fucking mouth, looser than the whores down at the speakeasy on Old Colony Avenue. I'm known for it. Call it my claim to fame if you like. Of course, those Sportlight whores would probably say my claim to fame is something else entirely, but everyone else knows me for my smart-mouth and because I'm handy in a fight.

Handy in a fight or not, it isn't' helping me right now, surrounded by five of Joe's men and Lombardi himself, who's studying me like I'm some new life-form he's discovered and can't wait to slice me right open and see how I look on the inside. I'm not scared though. That's pretty much how Joe looks at everyone and I know I'm not destined to be weighted to the bottom of the Boston Harbor this time. This isn't going to end well, I know that for sure, but it's not death coming my way right now. This time it's a warning, courtesy of a few cracked ribs, a bust jaw and more bruises covering my skin than when Old Jimmy McLaughlin got dragged under the South Boston streetcar.

Joe and I both know he can only take this so far. This isn't business, this is personal and while I know nothing would give him more pleasure than to cut me a new windpipe, if he crosses the line, he knows he'll have the whole Gustin gang reigning down on his greasy Italian head.

There's another reason Joe hates me, you see.

Lucille Cerone, his cousin's eldest girl.

Smoothest porcelain skin I've ever had the fortune to lay my hands on, glossy raven hair that smells like the summer and curves so damn captivating they could turn a priest's head. I'd love to say I did all the chasing because that would work magic on my reputation, but the truth is Lucille, former convent schoolgirl and apple of her dear daddy's eye, isn't so sweet and innocent as they all think she is. Luckily, Joe and dear daddy Jackie Cerone have no clue that sweet, innocent Lucille has hands and lips worthy of the Devil himself and that when she comes she screams your name and begs you to fuck her harder than a freight train. Because if they knew that, if they knew what we'd done, I really would be buying a one-way ticket to the bottom of the bay right now, instead of standing here waiting to catch the beating of my life.

'You think this is funny, kid?' Joe's voice is higher-pitched than you might expect, and gets sort of squeaky when he's really angry, but I'm not dumb enough to point that out to him right now. ''Cause I don't think this is fucking funny. Not one bit. You think you can bring your filthy immigrant Irish ass into the North and chase down Jackie's girl and I'm just gonna turn a blind eye? Is that what you thought, huh?'

He leans forward a little as if he's talking to a kid half his height, the condescending Italian shit. I mean, doesn't he even realise the Italians are immigrants too? Instead he acts like the country was fucking made for them.

'You think the fact you sit on Wallace's dîck gives you the right to walk around these streets like you're some mother-fucking king cockerel?' he continues, his eyes lighting up when he thinks he's telling me something I thought he didn't know. 'Yeah, that's right. I know you. I heard about you and how Frankie has a new boy kicking up a storm for him. I might send you back to him with your fucking eyeballs in your pocket, how about that, huh? Maybe you'll think twice next time before looking at a nice Italian girl like Lucille.'

I want to tell him that if he gouges out my eyeballs, I won't be looking at a damn thing, especially not the nice Italian girl Lucille who appreciates my other balls so very much. I can't stop the grin from spreading across my face, just thinking about it, even though my jaw hurts even more when I do.

'You Irish fuck,' Joe says, his lips curling into a sneer. 'I should fucking gut you, you piece of shit.'

I get under his skin. I know I do and I fucking love it. I shouldn't, but I do. It makes me feel alive, even though my stomach has been used as a punch-bag and there's blood running down the side of my face. There's a twitch under his left eye which gets worse whenever he loses control and it's that I'm looking at now and he knows it too. I think he hates me noticing it, like I'm seeing a weakness right there, something that shows the great Joseph Lombardi isn't completely infallible. And he isn't, as much as he'd like to pretend otherwise. I can see how easy it is for him to lose control and when people lose control, they fuck up. And Joe will fuck up one day, I'll make sure of that and when he does, I'm going to bring his empire crashing down around his feet and those nice Italian leather shoes of his.

But not today. Today I'm going to take the beating.

'Irish and Italian don't mix, you got that, kid?' he hisses. 'You keep that nasty Irish dîck for the nasty Irish girls. Stay away from Lucille. You don't go near her no more. You don't even so much as fucking look in her direction. Because if I find out you have, I will cut off that dîck and shove it so far up your own ass, you'll be crying for that Irish whore mother of yours.'

My smile drops, disappears completely and suddenly I'm plunged into a black abyss, seeing glimpses of her; the way she always lowers her eyes under her lashes, feigning innocence, the way the corners of her cherry-red mouth are always slightly upturned into a smirk every time his back his turned, the way she kisses my old man and looks right at me while she does it.

Joe smirks too now, smug triumph emblazoned across his thin, pinched face.

'What's the matter, Cain? Hit a nerve?' He moves closer, prodding a finger hard at my chest. 'Don't ever make the mistake of underestimating me, kid. You think I'm just playing games here? I own the North. I am the mother-fucking North. And I make it my business to know every two-bit, low-life Irish vagrant that Wallace has working for him. I know you. I know all about you. As for your mother, I know about her too, although it seems half the Southies already know Martha Mae Cain.'

His goons snicker at his joke, but he shakes his head, disgusted.

'And your poor father a preacher too. Tell me, what the fuck did he do to piss off the Great Lord so much that he got a no-good, dead-beat scumbag of a son like you and a whore for a wife? I feel sorry for the guy, I really do.'

I'm still now. Coiled. Overwhelmed with visions of slitting his throat. Of watching him choke on his own blood. If this was personal before, it's really fucking personal now.

Joe's eyes widen slightly. He sees it, I know he does, because deep down he and I aren't so very different. We're animals. Feral. We get off on working out what makes people tick, on seeking out their Achilles Heel and flipping the switch on and off until they explode. Oh, we could smash their faces in and beat them to a pulp, but it's not that what gets the blood pumping. Not really. We want to see them lose it. We want to see them self-destruct, because there's nothing better in life than watching someone be the cause of their own downfall. That's true control. That's real power.

He chuckles and it sounds odd coming from his mouth because Lombardi is about as funny as a kick in the balls, but I know he's just trying to cover up the brief look of alarm he shot me.

'I'll give you something, kid,' he says, reaching into his silk-lined coat pocket and pulling out a cigar, and running it under his nose as he inhales deeply. Christ, if he isn't a walking fucking cliché. 'You got some guts looking at me like that,' he goes on, stabbing the Havana in my direction, before gripping it between his teeth.

Without being asked, Johnny 'The Fox' Nitti, Joe's right-hand man and ass-kissing weasel, jumps forward and lights it, holding the lighter there while Joe lets it burn a bit, exhaling the smoke out of the side of his mouth in quick puffs. Damn, if Johnny doesn't look more excited to be lighting Lombardi's cigar. He might as well get down on his knees and suck him off, the dumb fuck.

'So listen up, Cain,' Joe says, intermittently blowing smoke rings up into the air as he speaks. 'This time, I'm gonna let you keep those eyes of yours. But next time.' He flicks ash onto my shoes. 'Next time, I'm gonna burn them out myself. So just you be careful where you're looking and who you're looking at, because if I see you on this side of town again, you won't be so fucking lucky, you got that?'

He nods at the two gorillas holding me. 'Make a mess of him, boys, and then send this piece of garbage back to Frank. It fucking stinks of Irish round here and I don't want him on my streets no more.'

Looking at me one last time, he turns and walks away, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake and the stench of cigar which I don't think I'll ever be able to wash off my skin, but that's okay. It'll just help remind me that one day, Joseph Lombardi, top-of-the-fucking-food-chain Italian gangster, is going to end up dead at my feet, with a great gaping hole where his throat once was.

'Right, boys,' I say, feigning an Irish accent and grinning at them as they gather round. 'You heard the man. Let's get this over with. Just be careful with the ol' jewels. I'd hate for your wives to miss out on some good Irish côck, you know what I'm saying?'

The next punch is a good one. A real-fucking-humdinger.

Good. That's it. More pain.

I need it now more than I ever did.

*

Frank laughs hard and long, until he's clutching his stomach and his face is as red as the blood staining my shirt.

'You said what?'

It's uncomfortably warm in the back room of The Sportlight, the speakeasy owned by Frank's older brother Billy, and the sweat peppers my forehead and my vest sticks to my back as I stare into the mirror. My body has more colors on it than an oil painting. I'll give Joe's boys top marks for following their boss's orders to the exact letter, because by Christ did they do a fucking number on me. Not that I can blame them. I always knew that I was playing with fire with Lucille, but the further I went, the more addictive it got. And I don't just mean her. Lucille's great and all, and she sure knows how to make a man sweat more than I am now, but if I'm honest, it was never just about her. It was about the thrill. It was about pushing the boundaries. About crossing the line and saying fuck you to Joe, his gang, to my father, to Martha.

Frank thinks I'm borderline insane to take so many risks, but I think that's why he took me on in the first place. He knows I'll get the job done whatever it takes and that's what he needs - guys who ain't scared to go the extra mile. Not that this was for him. It was for me. It was all for me, from fucking Lucille, to looking Joe Lombardi in the eye, to taking the beating that was coming to me.

Frank claps me on the shoulder, making me wince. My muscles feel like they've been stomped all over and then put back in my body in the wrong place and if he slaps me on the shoulder again, I think my legs might finally realize they can't hold me up any longer and I'll fall to my knees.

'You got balls the size of Massachusetts, Harper my lad, I'll give you that.' He grins at me in the mirror, but his eyes find mine and I'm locked into his stare, seeing someone different in the mirror to the man standing behind me. People always look different in a mirror. Glass reflects the truth and I see the truth now in Frank's eyes and for a moment, even I'm a little scared by what I see.

There's a detachment there, or at least the promise of one.

I can't afford for Frank to ditch me. He's my last hope. My last salvation. Without him, I've got nothing and no one and my throat burns all of a sudden at the thought that maybe, just maybe, I've pushed the boundaries so far this time that I'm on the other side and there's no way back for me.

'Be careful, lad,' he says, lowering his voice, still smiling. 'You just be careful, 'kay?'

To anyone else, it might sound like concern, but I hear it. I see the shark's teeth in his smile and the cold, hard truth in his eyes and instantly I hope he can't see the truth in the mirror too, but I know that he can. There's not much that Frank can't see and he's always seen me for what I really am. He might just be the only one who ever has.

'Sure thing, Frank,' I say. My nose is bleeding again and use it as an excuse to tear my gaze from his and wipe my face with the towel that's already stained with my blood. 'I will.'

'Good to hear it,' he says and the shark's teeth are gone, replaced with something warmer, a hint of mischief plays at the corners of his mouth. 'And whatever you do, stay away from Joe's wife, yeah? Otherwise you really will lose your balls.'

He's joking, of course. Joe's wife has a moustache and hands bigger than Frank's brother Steve, and probably could have gone ten rounds in the ring with him when he used to box. I was more likely to fuck Joe than I was his wife.

'No fear of that, boss.' I grin and instantly regret it when pain stabs into my jaw and spikes hard up the side of my face.

'Right, well get yourself cleaned up proper and come meet me and the boys in the bar, we gotta talk about this next shipment.'

He leaves me to my oil-painting reflection, closing the door behind him.

Every step tortures my legs as I hobble over to the small bathroom, unzipping my flies and hissing as I take a piss and my bladder groans in protest, not surprisingly when it's been kicked like a football a few times. The sweat on my brow is because of something other than the heat now. Everything hurts. Every part of me feels like it's howling and all I want to do is go home and pass out on my bed, and wait for tomorrow or the next day, or even the day after that, but I can't.

We're about to pull off the heist of a lifetime.

The one that's really going to get under the skin of Lombardi and those bastard Italians.

*

I always think the speakeasy looks strange when it's not filled to the rafters with people.

It looks smaller somehow, dirtier, like you could catch something just by breathing the air in here, but when it's full and bristling with bodies, The Sportlight feels like you just stepped foot in a different world. It's vibrant and loud and so crowded with color and light that it hurts your eyes. The guys drink and sing and laugh and fight and the girls go from table to table wearing snake-skins of gold and glitter, perching on hardened laps as they whisper promises in ears all too willing to listen. You want a girl? You got one. You want a drink? You most definitely got one. Or five. Or ten. Depending on how deep your pockets go or how much you can take - whatever runs out first.

I lean against the doorway for a moment, partly because my kidneys currently hate me and partly so I can get a good look at Kitty's ass as she bends over to whisper something in Buddy's ear. She's been screwing Buddy for a month now, making a big show of it, like she thinks I'm going to give a shit or something. I don't give a shit, but that doesn't mean I can't admire her ass in that dress. Watching her ass jiggle was always the best thing about being with Kitty and I'm still not adverse to its beauty, but as far as I'm concerned Buddy's welcome to the rest of her.

While the room isn't bursting at the seams, everyone who should be here, is here. Frank, of course. Frank's older brother Steve and younger brother Jim, the most unpredictable one of the four Wallace boys and the one who spends most of his time trying to live up to the reputation of his older brothers and never quite hitting the mark. Frank's right-hand man Bernie 'Dodo' Walsh, Dan Kelley, Mickey Sweeney, Harry Moran, Pat 'The Parrot' Carroll (so known because of his ability to mimic voices) and Bill Hughes are all here - all big-time names of the Gustin Gang - amongst others, Buddy included obviously.

Frank spots me and gestures with a wave of his hand and heads turn, including Kitty's. I'm wearing a fresh, new shirt and have greased down my hair, but I still feel like a walking corpse as I cross the room.

'Finally, Cain looks like shit,' Buddy says, raising a glass in mock-celebration as I pull up a chair next to him, gingerly sitting without trying to make it look like it's hard work.

'You're kidding, right?' Dan laughs, slapping Buddy on the arm. 'He can look like a dog's chewed half his face off and he'd still pull more skirt than you ever would.' Dan is from Steve's boxing club, a meaty fucker with arms the size of cannons, and if it was anyone else, I know Buddy would be itching for a scrap right now. He knows me and Kitty had a thing once and although he pretends he's cool with it, I know there's a little part of him that hates I got there before he did.

But Buddy's okay. We've been part of the Gustin Gang for about the same amount of time, learning the ropes, climbing the ranks. He's a good guy - that's if you don't count the robbing, the fighting, the hijacking and the fact he doesn't ever shine his damn shoes.

'Okay, okay,' Frank interjects, holding up his hands, cutting the laughter dead. 'C'mon, lads, we got important business to discuss. Kitty, darlin', would ya mind making yourself fucking scarce now? There's a good girl.'

Kitty pouts that stupid fucking pout she always does whenever she's being told to do something she don't want to do. It's like she's eight years old again and she thinks sticking out her bottom lip will get her whatever she wants, but Frank's immune to her ways and she knows it too. Reluctantly, she prises herself away from Buddy, making sure to give me an eyeful of her cleavage as she sashays away. Kitty sashays everywhere. It's like she can't move without a sashay or a jiggle and I'm not saying it's not a treat for the eyes, but when there's nothing about a broad but that, it gets kinda boring. She's not Lucille Cerone, that's for sure.

Once she's gone, Frank leans back against the bar, grabbing a bottle of bootlegged whiskey - the good stuff he keeps for himself and the politicians he's got in his back pocket, not the shit Billy serves up to the speakeasy clientele - and pours himself a measure. Downing it, he pours another straight after and drinks that too, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and smacking his lips together in appreciation.

He takes a long look around the room, his eyes hard and unwavering as his gaze rests on all the faces in front of him. I don't want to think he looks at me a little longer than he does all the others, but I see it and so does Buddy who frowns and shoots me a questioning look. I shrug it off and look right back at Frank.

'Right, you boys all know the plan by now, but on account of recent events, we gotta make a couple of changes.'

I tense in my seat, knowing it's coming and not sure how I can defend myself from the punch.

'Buddy, you're gonna have to take Harper's place upfront,' Frank says. 'A Prohibition agent with a beat-up face is gonna arouse too much suspicion. Harper, you'll go with Patrick and Harry.'

I've fucked up. I've gone and got myself a beating and now I'm demoted from fake agent to driving Pat and Harry to the heist and what's worse is that everyone now knows I've fucked up too. And for what? Hearing Lucille scream my name and feeling the cut of her nails scratching at my back.

I'd had this thought the last time we were together - this fleeting rush of something, I don't know, something that felt too darn close to affection for my liking - that maybe she might be worth it. That maybe Lucille, who by then was laid sprawled out on my bed, her hair mussed up, a flush to her pale cheeks, nipples as pink as rose buds, might just be worth taking a chance on, but now, sitting here with the weight of what I'd done crushing my already pounding head, I knew it for what is was. A lie you cultivate in the afterglow of sex. A lie that makes you think there's more to it than some sweaty, grasping moment of lust and desire. A lie that feels like truth, even though you know deep down that it could never be that. Not this time. Not with her.

I feel her nails cutting into my skin again as I sit there and it no longer feels good.

It burns.

Steve's talking now, going over the plans for what seems like the hundredth time and I'm listening, I am, but Frank's eyes are on me and I'm sure to keep my hand steady as I reach over to the table in front of me and pour myself a drink. It's the shit stuff. Typical. I pour myself another anyway, because right then anything will do. A drink always helps numb the beating, and that's what I'm doing.

I'm taking another beating, only this time it's from Frank and somehow it hurts a Hell of a lot more than anything Joe's gang did to me.

*

Someone's rapping their knuckles against my skull.

It's a constant tap-tap-tap that's driving me insane and splitting my head into two. I groan and roll over, pressing my face into the pillow, but still it won't stop.

'Harper? Come on, open up, I know you're in there.'

I groan again because of all the people it can't be her, not here, not now.

'Please, honey,' she pleads, still knocking on the door. 'Please open the door, don't leave me out here.'

The thought of someone seeing her out there is what gets me up in the end. I don't need this getting back to Joe. Or Frank for that matter.

My legs feel brittle as I slip out of bed and stumble over to the door, unbolting the latches one by one. There was already two latches when I first moved in here and I added another two. The landlord was pissed, but when I explained in no uncertain terms that he should be fucking paying me for increasing security on his shitty apartments, he seemed to get the message loud and clear.

I open the door and the hazy scent of her perfume drifts through the gap. She always smells good, one of those smells that no matter how shitty your day has been, if you just wrap yourself up in her scent, you know everything's going to be okay. Only today it's not going to be okay and it's not okay that she's here. It's far from fucking okay.

Her eyes widen when she spots the bruising and before I can do anything, she's pushing her way through the door and in the apartment already. I crane my neck out to see if anyone is around to spot her, but if they are, there's sure as Hell nothing I can do about it now, apart from try to get rid of her as quickly as possible.

I close the door and bolt it and turn back to look at her.

There's a beauty to Lucille that always takes my breath away. Even when I don't want it to, I find myself having to stop for a second and just stare at her, drinking in the gentle curve of her hips, the way her dress skims her breasts. I don't want to look at her now, but I do and I'm torn between wanting to crush her against me and wanting to grab her and throw her out.

She takes off her coat and fur stole and drapes them on the coat stand in the corner, then removes her felt cloche, careful not to muss up the glossy waves of her hair. If there's one thing you can say about Lucille, she's got immaculate style. It's probably what turned my head in the first place. There's a single strand of pearls around her throat and despite everything, despite the fact she shouldn't be here and I shouldn't even think about wanting her right now, I want to kiss her right there. I want to press my face against her pale throat and just inhale.

She does what she always does when she comes here, her eyes sweep the room and she can't hide the grimace of disgust. It's a shitty, two-room apartment with peeling wallpaper and black patches under the window that no amount of scrubbing will solve, and when I say two rooms I mean this one and the bathroom. There's a kitchenette in one corner, a small wooden table with two chairs, a skinny closet with the door missing and the bed. The tap drips in the bathroom and you can't open the tiny window in there to let the condensation out, so there's a permanent smell of damp in the walls that clogs your lungs and coats the inside of your mouth.

This is it. This is pretty much all there is to it and while I know it repulses her, there's also something about this, about me, that sparks a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. She's slumming it here and she's slumming it with me, but for some reason that turns Lucille on and I guess it turns me on too. There's nothing quite like watching her as she throws back her head, delicate kiss-curls still in place despite the perspiration layering her skin, the strand of pearls at her throat, with the grim backdrop of this place behind her as she fucks me.

When her gaze rests on me again, she looks at me much like she just looked at the room. It's like I just melded in with the damp and the peeling walls and she sees me - the real me - maybe for the first time ever. Her eyes look a little red and I wonder maybe if she's been crying.

'You look terrible,' she whispers finally.

'Yeah, well,' I sniff. 'I guess it's fair to say cousin Joe doesn't like me very much. You might wanna put a hold on that big Irish-Italian wedding you were hoping for.'

It comes out colder than I intended, even though it's my half-hearted attempt at a joke - we've never talked about marriage or even about us. She comes here, we fuck, that's it. I mean, we fuck a lot and I've probably fucked her more than I have any other woman, but it still doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean I want to marry her and I don't think she even wants to marry me. The more I think about it, the more I realize I don't know what she wants.

'I'm sorry,' she says.

'What for?' I reply, moving past her to the bed and grabbing my pants which are hanging off the end of the bed-frame. 'Not your fault. Clearly I wasn't as careful as I should have been.'

The truth is I hadn't been trying to be careful with Lucille. Not before anyway. I looked her way and made sure people saw me looking. What did I give a shit? I'll look at whoever the Hell I want to, whether it's Joe's cousin's girl, Joe's sister, his wife. Okay, maybe not his wife.

I wince a little as I bend down to pull my pants on, but Lucille sits right next to me on the bed and grabs my hand, stopping me. I knew I should have put them on before I opened the door and now I'm sitting here in my underpants and she's next to me and she smells so fucking good I can't stand it.

'Luce..' I begin, but she cuts me off by pressing her lips against mine and dropping her hand to my thigh. She pulls back a little, tracing her tongue along my lower lip which feels tender and swollen where Johnny's fist landed a good punch. I don't touch her as she kisses me, I barely even move and soon she breaks off to glare at me.

'What's the matter? They scare you off or something?'

I stare back at her, and it's the same unwavering stare I would use on a guy and I almost regret it when I see the tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.

'Do I look like I'm scared to you, Lucille? Do I?' I shrug her off and stand up, pulling up my pants and crossing to the kitchenette, where I fill a chipped cup with water and drink most of it down in one go. I'm thirsty suddenly, really thirsty. 'Why are you even here, huh?'

'I just wanted to make sure you were okay,' she says, but she looks down at her hands in her lap as she says it and I see how they're trembling slightly.

'Did they do something to you, Luce? Did they hurt you?'

Her head whips up, indignant fury on her face. 'Of course they didn't. Why would they? They're family.'

I want to tell her that family are just as capable of hurting you as anyone else is, but I don't. I don't need to have that conversation today. I'm not sure I want any conversation with Lucille anymore. It's better when I'm on my own. Easier.

'You shouldn't be here,' I say, rinsing the cup and placing it upside down on the drainer.

'God, you are scared.' She mocks me with her laughter and I'm two seconds away from picking up the cup again and hurling it across the room.

'I'm not scared. I just don't want you here.'

She twists on the bed and clutches the bedpost and I suddenly see her the last time she was here, wrists tied to the same bedpost with my tie, completely naked and looking fucking glorious as she writhed underneath me.

'You want me,' she says and she's right, I do. 'You want me like you always wanted me. You want me because you're not supposed to. You want me because you know it's wrong. You want me right now.'

'Oh, I want you, do I?' I say, anger bristling down my back and along my shoulder blades. 'Here's how much I fucking want you, huh?'

I walk over to where she sits and grab her by the wrist and then, yanking her coat and stole off the coat stand, I pull her over to the door and shove her against it, pushing her stuff into her arms.

'Get out, Lucille,' I say, leaning close to her face, one arm resting by her head, the other with my hand on the door knob. 'Go back to the North-side. Go back to your family. Go meet a nice Italian boy and have nice fat Italian babies. Don't come back here again. There's nothing here for you.'

I expect her to cry. Hell, I expect her to wail. Most girls would.

But Lucille Cerone isn't most girls and I should always remember that.

Lifting her chin, she looks me dead in the eyes, her face firm and resolute. Damn, if I didn't need her out of my life right now, I reckon I could love her a little for that. She's got guts, that's for sure. There's not many that can hold up in the face of my anger, but she bears it better than most men I know would.

'You think you're so tough, don't you, Harper Cain?' There's a hard edge to her voice and I admit, it turns me on to hear it. 'You think you don't need anyone or anything, but I know that you do. I know you far better than you think I do. You know what else I think?'

She's goading me. I know she is. I could just throw her out now and be done with it, be done with her, but I let her go on anyway. She's beautiful when she's mad, the way she breathes so hard that I can hear it, the way her eyes blaze pure incandescent fury, the way her nipples harden and I can see them through the thin silk of her dress. Hell, I think she's as aroused as I am right now.

'You are scared. And I'm not talking about Joe or any of that. You're scared of being alone and you hate that it scares you so much.' She drops her stuff to the floor. 'You can pretend to not want me all you like, but I know it's a lie. I can feel it's a lie.'

She reaches down between my legs and grips me there, rubbing her hand up and down my côck on the outside of my pants and looking me right in the eyes as she does it. There's no triumph there, no mockery in her stare this time, just a hunger that's consuming her, just as it's consuming me. Her hand moves faster, but it's not enough.

I push it aside to unbutton my fly, and without a word she drops to her knees, her fingertips lightly grazing my chest on the way down. Kneeling on her coat, she tugs on my underpants and releases me, stopping to run her hands over the tops of my thighs as she looks at me there. I've always loved how unabashed Lucille is. Despite the convent schooling, she's confident and brazen and never blushes or giggles or any of that shy girl shit that I hate.

Taking my côck in her mouth, she sweeps her tongue over the tip, long languid strokes that make me want to bunch her hair up in my fists, but I don't. She wants me to want her and I do, but she doesn't need to know that. Not yet. For now, I'm just going to enjoy her on her knees.

I push forward a little, easing more of it into her mouth and she welcomes it, and begins to move her head slowly along my length, using her lips and tongue with expertise, just like she always does. She's good at this and she fucking knows it too. She doesn't need to look up to see me watching her, she knows full well that I am, in fact, I'm hypnotized by her beautiful mouth wrapped around me. There's an art to what she does, something I never taught her but that I'm so fucking thankful she's learnt from someone else, because Lucille on her knees is better than any of the girls down at The Sportlight.

She's moving faster now, sometimes pausing to run her tongue up and down the shaft, sometimes teasing the tip and if she doesn't stop soon, I won't be able to either and I don't want that. I want to be inside her. I want her mouth free so she can scream my name and beg me not to stop fucking her. Making small thrusts against her tongue, I relish the last moments before reluctantly pulling away, hearing her groan of disapproval as I do.

As she rises to her feet, my hand finds her throat and I gently caress it with my thumb, before pushing up her chin to expose the delicate pale skin. It's smooth and so fucking flawless that I hold her there for a moment, admiring it, all the way down to where the front of her dress skims the soft swell of her breasts. She's watching me now, exhaling in short, shallow gasps as I deftly unbutton it down to her waist. It slips off her shoulder and I toy with the thin strap of her chemise before pulling that down too, freeing one breast.

My fingers encircle her nipple, hues of pink against porcelain perfection, and I know she wants me to put my mouth right there, but I like watching how her body moves when I touch her. The way her lips part. The way she arches her back slightly. The way she clutches at her dress and bunches it up in her clenched hands, pulling it up her perfect thighs.

I lower my face to her neck and brush my lips against her throat. She tastes good, everything about her always tastes so good, and I kiss and suck gently at the skin, my fingers still playing with her nipple as she trembles, exhaling a pleasured sigh.

Her hand moves against my leg again but when it doesn't find my côck, I glance down to see she's pulled her skirt right up with one hand and the other is moving between her thighs, touching herself as I'm kissing her neck.

'Wait,' I say, urgently. 'Stop.'

Grabbing her arm, I pull her over to the bed, making her lay down on the crumpled covers and pushing her dress up so I can see her.

'Again,' I demand. 'Do that again.'

With so much fire in her eyes that it makes my côck stir to see it, she lifts one knee and lets it fall slightly to one side as her hand slides slowly over her breasts, down her stomach and slips under the lace trim of her peach silk underwear. Everything's quiet now. I can't hear the sound of the streetcar rumbling outside, can't hear the sound of the people in the apartment above, I can't even hear the tap dripping in the bathroom. All I can hear is the sound of our breathing, as she touches herself and I stand watching her.

She's a goddess. An actual, living breathing goddess. Her eyes are half-closed, her face exalted in blissful rapture as her hand moves between her thighs.

I need to see it. I need to see all of it, so I kneel by her side and ease her underwear down her stockinged legs. It's perfection. She's perfection and I move between her thighs, captivated by the rhythmic motion of her hand and the contrast of her red nails against creamy-white skin. She knows exactly what she's doing and loving every second of it. I have the urge to kiss her right there, greedily consume everything that I see, but I don't want her to stop.

Her breath quickens, her fingers repeating the same circular motion and she increases the pressure, her thigh muscles tightening as she begins to move her hips, unable to keep still.

This is what I want. This. Watching her let go. Watching her come as she touches herself and she does now, gasping as she pushes her feet against the bed and bucks up her hips.

She's still gasping for breath and barely finished when she sits up, clutching the back of my neck with one hand and touching the other - the one that she was just touching herself with - to my lips, sliding her fingers into my mouth. I grip her wrist and hold it there, sucking hungrily and thinking I'll never taste anything as good as this again.

'Fuck me, Harper, please, just fuck me.'

Christ, she's good. She's really fucking good and this time, I do as she says, letting her have what she wants, because fuck it, I want it too. I need it. And what's more, I need her, just for this moment, I really need her.

I groan as I feel her heat against my côck, feel how much she wants this, and I push inside her, loving the gentle whisper of her breath against my ear, loving the burn of her nails as she grips my shoulders. I even love the dull, insistent ache of my bruised body, like the pain is a perfect balance to the pleasure and both feel fucking great. She arches her back again, desperate for more, trying to urge me deeper still and I do, easing myself in because I know it teases her to hold back a bit, even though it's kinda torture for me to go slow.

I lower her back onto the bed and she looks fucking incredible with her dress bunched up around her waist, the sheen of perspiration on her chest, the silk of her chemise clinging to her damp body. Gripping her hips, I push all the way in, hard and deep, again and again, hearing her cry out and feeling like I'm losing a little bit more of myself with every thrust. She's so damn beautiful like this, so completely captivating that I almost wish things could be different, that she could be mine and I could be hers, but even as I move harder and faster inside her, I know this is all it can ever be.

'Yes, yes,' she pleads. 'Harder, please, harder.'

I can't handle it when she begs. It's like flipping a switch that sets off an explosion in my head, something that fires through my veins, spreading heat outwards and I know if I don't let go now, I'll just burn up. I feel her tighten around my côck and it's so damn good, I can't stand it.

So I let go. I let go with everything I have and she's crying out my name over and over and I'm struggling to breathe, consumed by her and this and us.

Finally, it's over, but I don't move away, instead I bury my face into her neck and just breathe her in until everything goes back to normal.

Footsteps pound overhead. The streetcar rumbles outside.

And that damn tap just keeps on dripping.

Nothing's changed. And all of a sudden I'm not sure how I feel about that.

*

I sit on the edge of the bed and look towards the window.

The light outside is starting to fade and she needs to leave soon, before it gets dark, before they realize she's not home and come looking for her. The room smells of sex and perfume and damp and I'm not sure which is more suffocating. I run my hands through my hair and glance back at her, where she's sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, running her fingers over a snag in her stockings.

'Luce, you need to get going. It's getting late.'

She smiles, but doesn't lift her head, just keeps looking down at the tiny hole. 'Yeah, I know.'

It's like she's here but not here, and I worry suddenly whether it was too hard, too intense, even for Lucille. I shift closer and touch my hand to her face.

'Luce?'

She looks at me and I see it straight away. That need, that compulsion to say words I don't want her to say, words I don't want to hear because if she says it, then that'll be it. Everything will be completely fucked up and I'll have to make a decision which will hurt her and I don't want to do that. I don't understand why she can't just be happy with this, knowing that the alternative will be far, far worse.

But she says it anyway. She opens her mouth and says those damn words, only when she says it, it's not what I thought she was going to say.

I was wrong. The alternative isn't worse. This is worse. In fact, it's the worst fucking thing she could possibly ever say.

'I'm pregnant.'

My world explodes.