I'm trying really hard to breathe, but there are hands wrapped around my throat and they're squeezing, wringing out the last remnants of my no-good bastard life like they're wringing out a dirty dishcloth.

Because that's what I am. I'm dirt. Filth. Scum.

I'm the waste-of-flesh son of a hypocritical, weak preacher and an open-all-hours slut of a mother. And yeah, I could blame them, I guess. I could blame him for never showing me what it was to be a man and I could blame her for all the times she opened her legs to some poor schmuck who fell under her spell. I could do that.

But the truth is I'm dirt because of me. Because of all the shitty things that I do. Because most of the time I have a choice, and when I'm standing at the fork in the road and I'm looking up ahead, I choose the wrong route. Every fucking time. I choose the road that disappears into darkness, the one where the wind screams at you through the trees, where the journey looks like it will beat you down with every step and I do it with my head held high, a swagger in my step and a look in my eye that tells everyone they can think what they fucking like, because I don't give a shit.

Only the problem is, I've been trying to breathe since Lucille left – all the while telling her, it will be okay, it will, everything will be fine, trust me (bastard) – and people who don't give a shit don't have any trouble breathing. They get on with things. They smile, and they smooth back their hair and they carry on just like they did before, because what does it matter? What does anyone matter? Nobody matters. Not the father that you love and hate in equal measure, not the mother that you despise and certainly not the Italian girl you got pregnant. The girl who's about to get ostracized by her whole family or sent to some convent somewhere where she can have her baby in secret, because that's what she'll be to them now. Nothing but a shameful, filthy-as-sin secret only fit to be farmed out and married off to some Italian mobster who'll beat the shit out of her every day because she had a kid that wasn't his, because she let some barely-Irish fuck stick his dîck in her. The type of guy who won't look at her and see how fucking incredible she is. The type of guy who won't see that she's a goddess among women.

Yeah, I'm dirt. I'm fucking dirt because I'm standing at that fork again and I'm looking ahead.

On one side, I see marriage. I see a family. A home. A wife and a kid, maybe even two or three. I see myself flipping the bird at Joe Lombardi and Jackie Cerone and yeah, maybe even at Frank. I see myself with Lucille and I know I wouldn't be a good husband, because I'm not a good man, but I see myself trying to be. I see myself getting by. Maybe even being happy once in a while.

On the other side, I see myself walking away. I see myself tossing Lucille to the wolves and not looking back once as they tear her to pieces, as she becomes nothing but ground meat and a pile of bones for them to pick over. I see myself not thinking once about that child I helped create, the one that'll probably have my eyes and her smile. The one that'll have my bad attitude and her courage. The one that'll spend its life hating me, just like I hate my folks.

It's dark on this road, but darkness is all I've ever known, and I'll walk it forever, on my own, but that doesn't mean I don't give a shit and the thought of that is choking me.

I pour myself a large measure, slouching slightly over a table in a corner of The Sportlight. The whole place drowns in the stench of stale cigar smoke and booze and I can feel it in my hair and on my skin. It gets into everything and I think it might even live in my bones now, and no matter where I go in life it'll always be there, that staleness. That smell.

I can also smell Kitty's perfume, strong and overpowering, a sickly scent that forces me to sometimes breathe out of my mouth and not through my nose, because too much of it makes me want to gag.

The place is empty save for me and her and the barman, a pasty-faced runt with small hands and nervous eyes. He's polishing the glasses like it's his vocation in life, which is totally a Frank-thing, he likes those glasses to sparkle – 'because this joint might be a low-rent Southie speakeasy, but it's gonna have something all the others ain't got; class, Cain, fucking class' - and occasionally the kid's gaze flickers to Kitty and me in the corner. He's a nothing, a nobody, but he's a nobody with a mouth and I don't need that mouth running to Buddy or any of the other guys.

'Penny for them, Harper?'

Kitty breathes out the words, all wide-eyed innocence even though I see it there, that glint that tells you there ain't nothing innocent about her. I swear, she could ask you for a glass of water and you'd get a hard-on just from the tone of her voice and from the way she looks at you from under those lashes.

'You ain't rich enough for my thoughts,' I say gruffly, barely even glancing her way. My eyes are on the half-empty bottle in front of me and on the glass from which I take a long swig. It's strong, one of Frank's special bottles, but the burn feels fucking good as it goes down.

If she senses my mood, she slips into the seat beside me regardless, but that doesn't surprise me with Kitty. If anything, I reckon my bad moods always seem to attract her more, like breaking past it and getting what she wants is like winning a race, busting through that finish line with a big grin on her face as if she just won first place or something. Strange because Kitty's never been my first place anything, not even my second or third if truth be told.

'Well, what I ain't got in money, I've got in time and I've got all the time in the world right now.'

She reaches for my glass and takes it from me, a smirk dancing at the corners of her pretty mouth as she drinks. She slides her tongue across her lips afterwards in a gesture that would look like a corny move on anyone else, a second-rate attempt at seduction, but Kitty has some skills, I'll give her that.

I do look at her now, really look at her, and she looks damn good in the low lights of the speakeasy. I mean, Kitty looks good in any light, that's another thing I'll give her, because there's no doubt she's a looker. Not Lucille-standard, of course, but more than enough to turn a man's head and harden his côck when she licks her lips.

It takes seconds for that one small action to harden mine. Mere seconds. Maybe that's my problem, I don't know. Maybe it's because with that one sweep of her full lips, I'm already remembering what it was like to feel that tongue working its magic, remembering what it was like to feel that mouth on me, open and hot and always so fucking ready.

All I know is that it takes just seconds for me to choose the dark path.

Never let anyone tell you that following the darkness is the difficult route. It's not. It's fucking easy. It's a flip-of-a-switch decision that flows over you like molasses, smooth and warm and syrupy-sweet, and as soon as you take that first step, the fingers stop digging into your windpipe and you can breathe again.

I breathe now, a deep inhale and exhale, and I don't even gag on her perfume, because I feel like I just swallowed the darkness whole and it's inside me, swelling, filling every part of me until I'm not just walking the path, I'm running along it like I'm on the home stretch.

I grab the bottle and drink straight from it, not taking my eyes off Kitty the whole time.

She slides along the seat, all black silk and pale skin, and places her hand on my leg, just above my knee, as I settle back against the velvet couch, which always looks way more comfortable than what it is. Leaning into me, her breasts press against my arm as she rests her elbow on the back of the seat, reaching out casually to stroke my hair, except there's nothing casual about it. It's all premeditated with Kitty. Well-rehearsed, clichéd shit that she thinks will do the job and it mostly does, but I grew tired of hearing the same lines drip from her glossed lips and seeing her pull the same badly-acted stunts a while ago. She's done all this before, and back then it had been okay at first – bearable, just so I could get a quick fuck – but it wasn't long before I saw the desperation creep in and knew I had to shake her off before she got her claws embedded too deep. What I'm doing is risky, because one, I've got no intention of letting her back in, and two, Buddy will be pissed, but right now, I want her to pour herself on me and I want to pour myself into her, just because I fucking can. Because I want to.

Looking over to the bar-runt, I nod at him to make himself scarce, which he does quickly, his flustered cheeks and jittery gaze telling me that he knows to keep his trap shut. He knows enough about me to know I'd make him regret opening his mouth to the wrong people if he ever dared to utter a word about this. I might even pay him a visit afterwards and remind him of that.

As soon as he's gone, leaving the door to swing violently behind him, Kitty slides her hand up my thigh, reaching between my legs and rubbing her palm firmly over my hardened côck. There's never been a smoothness to Kitty's touch. There's a slight judder to it, a clumsiness that comes with girls who arrogantly think they know what they're doing. Whatever it is, it's fair to say, I've always preferred her mouth to her hand action, not that I'm going to deny either right now.

'I've missed you, you know,' she purrs close to my ear. 'No man ever feels as good as Harper Cain, that's for sure.' She follows up with a little squeeze, like the squeeze is affirmation of fact, then she quickens the pace of her strokes. 'I mean, Buddy's great and all...'

'Don't talk about Buddy. I don't wanna hear about Buddy.'

It comes out in a low, guttural growl, which prompts her to smile – to preen – and I see the look on her face instantly. She thinks I'm jealous. The dumb broad actually thinks I give a shit that she's screwing soft-jowled Buddy, with his goofy grin and dirty shoes. It's not even that talking about him will make me want to turn back – it won't, I don't care – I just don't want to talk full-stop. I just want to fuck her. Hard.

She tugs on my chin, turning my face towards hers and presses her open mouth against mine. She tastes of whiskey and recent memories, of cigarettes and Tabac Blond and I let her tongue consume my own for a moment, enjoying the warmth of her kiss. I'm not touching her yet, one hand still grasped around the neck of the bottle, the other by my side and I know she thinks she's in charge here, when actually I'm just reeling her in, using her desperation against her.

I reach around Kitty, not to embrace her, but to stretch my arms out along the back of the couch, slouching slightly in the seat and splaying open my legs. Relaxed. Expectant. I give her a look, one that's full of challenge, of demand, and I resist the urge to flinch at the flicker of disappointment in her eyes, the resigned submission in the way that she visibly swallows back her pride, her fight.

I do that to her, you see. I stifle her need to protest, to stand up and walk away from the man she knows will never truly want her, the man who just wants what she can do for him, the man who wants her for her pretty mouth and her clumsy hands and the tight grip of her thighs around his waist. I know I do that to her and I just don't care enough to stop. I should, because through all her coquettish giggles and hot-as-Hell looks, Kitty O'Brien isn't as thick-skinned as she pretends to be. Scrape away the outer layers of her snake-skin and she's as fragile underneath as the glasses Frank likes to see polished so much. Drop her and she'll shatter.

And I reckon I'm about to drop her from a ten-storey tenement block.

Without a word, she unbuttons my pants, tugging on the fabric to allow more ease of access and releases me. With another lick of her lips – not strictly just with desire now, but with that knowledge of what she's about to do to herself – she leans down and takes me into her mouth, hesitant at first, but with a growing confidence when she hears my sharp intake of breath and low moan. I can't help it. She's good at this – really fucking good – and I have to exhale and close my eyes, relishing the feel of her warm, wet mouth moving up and down my côck.

Her movements are slow, assured, full of long languid sweeps of her tongue, while using her hand to massage my balls which tighten under her touch. She takes my full length in her mouth, almost all the way to the base, before pulling back, agonizingly slowly up the shaft, where she concentrates on the tip and I have to open my eyes. I have to see her.

She's trying to throw glances my way, straining her gaze to look up at me as she licks and sucks, and I touch her hair now, stroking at the soft blonde curls around her ear and taking another swig from the bottle as I do. Damn, she looks fucking good, she feels fucking good.

It's not going to take long, I can feel it won't as she consumes me again, gripping the base firmly and moving those lips of hers all the way down the shaft. Her tongue toys with the hardened ridge, flicking over it, increasing the sensation with gentle squeezes of her hand. The combined rhythm of her mouth and fingers makes me groan, the pressure building, and I place my hand lightly down on the back of her head, before grabbing a handful of her curls and holding her there, urging her to take me deeper. I start moving my hips, thrusting upwards, controlling the pace to how I need it to be.

If I close my eyes again, I know I could wipe away the image of those blonde curls in my lap and replace them with the glossy, mahogany waves of Lucille's. I could think about her perfect mouth and exquisite tongue, but I know that this time, if I do that, that'll be it. The killer. The kiss of death on the orgasm I so desperately need. It's crazy, I know, because Kitty doesn't even remotely rank on the same scale of goddess as Lucille, but right now I need anyone but Lucille. I force myself to keep my eyes open, force myself to watch Kitty as she works me over.

With a growl of frustration, I pull her head up and dismiss the surprised look on her face. This isn't about her, it was never about her, and she should know that by now, but she gives me that look all the same, that stupid, innocent what-did-I-do-wrong look that she thinks makes her look vulnerable and sexy, when all it does is make her look needy and I hate that.

Her dress, a shimmering black silk wraparound, accentuates her body, clinging to her curves and sinking to a deep V over her pale breasts. It's tied at the waist and I pull on the bow ends, opening it up at the front and dragging it from her shoulders until she's sitting there, knees together, almost demurely, in just her black underwear and sheer black stockings. Kitty always wears black – always – and she often makes a lame joke of it, saying how it matches the color of her heart, but I know that ain't true. Kitty's heart is a deep, rich red and alive, she just pretends it's not to protect herself.

It's mine that's black. Black and cold and unyielding and she's going to know that now, more than she ever did.

She pushes herself backwards on the couch, leaning back to rest on her palms, pushing out her chest and lifting one leg so she can part her thighs slightly. There's a small darkened patch on her panties and I know she's wet as fuck down there. She always is when she's with me.

'I knew you'd come back to me,' she whispers huskily, a small smile on her lips. 'I knew you wouldn't be able to resist.' She puts one foot up onto me, her heeled shoe dangerously close to my côck which still glistens with her saliva and which still remains hard in my lap.

She's a dumb fuck for saying it and I want to tell her that. Something twists inside my gut, telling me to get up and walk away, leave her laying there on the couch in just her underwear. Teach her a lesson. Teach her that she's not irresistible, that no one is irresistible to Harper Cain and that I'm in control, I'm always in control. But I know I'm not going to. I'm going to rip those panties from her body and fuck her, and not because she wants me to, but because I do, and I always get what I want.

I grab her foot, gripping her ankle tight and move it back onto the couch.

'Turn around,' I order. 'Get on your hands and knees.'

That bravado in her eyes falters, weakens, and I can see she's torn between wanting to tell me to go fuck myself and wanting me to fuck her. In the end, she chooses the inevitable and obediently does as I demand, twisting herself around and perching on all fours, her perfect ass pointing straight at me.

She really does have a good ass.

Without bothering to remove my shirt, I move between her thighs and run my hand over the smooth skin of her behind. It's soft and warm, the feel of it barely any different to the silkiness of her underwear. She's holding her breath, I can see it in the way her back is tensed, the way her thigh muscles tighten under my gaze and I know just why she's doing it. She's waiting. Not wanting to prolong this any more than I have to, because fuck, I need to be inside her, I lift my hand slightly and then bring it back down, hard. The sound of my palm smacking her ass echoes around The Sportlight and she flinches and gasps loud. I rub, smoothing my hand over the reddening skin and then, do it again, closer to where her mound strains against her damp panties. She moans this time, a sound that comes right from the base of her stomach, full of want and need, and my côck stiffens at the beauty of it.

She looks back at me over her shoulder, her eyes begging, pleading for me to touch her there and I smile, not because I'm going to give her what she desires, but because I'm going to take what I desire. To me, Kitty O'Brien, with her delicious ass and plump breasts, is about as significant as the bar-runt. She's nothing. A nobody. A means to an end. My path to darkness.

I yank on the silky fabric of her panties and pull them down her smooth, pale thighs, my eyes flickering to where her soft, pink flesh glistens under the muted lighting; swollen and desperate for my touch. I take myself in my hand and push against her, inside her, hearing her groan of frustration, but she's open and yields to my control anyway. Gripping her hips, I slide all the way in with ease, feeling her muscles instinctively tighten around me, before relaxing. She grinds against me, pushing me in deeper and I wait for a moment, holding her there as I admire the small dip at the base of her spine, the way her shoulders flex with the effort of holding herself up, relishing her warmth around my dîck.

She exhales small whimpers of pleasure as I begin to thrust, slowly at first, looking down intently at where I move in and out, half-hypnotized by how good it feels to be inside her. I can't say it never felt good to fuck Kitty, but the truth is she could be any of the speakeasy whores right now. She's faceless.

She's not Lucille.

I grip her tighter, begin to thrust hard and she tries to open her legs wider, hampered by her underwear which I've pulled down to her knees where they rest on the couch. She reaches back to grab my hand and I know what she wants me to do and slap it away. Kitty likes me to caress between her thighs as I fuck her, she wants my côck inside her and my fingers massaging her most sensitive spot, but I'm not playing her game. Not today. Realizing I'm not about to give her what she wants, she resorts to having to rest precariously on one elbow as she slides her hand down her body, over her stomach, slender fingers disappearing between her legs. I feel her hand down there, fingertips sometimes brushing against me as she touches herself, her pace quickening as I push faster inside her.

I don't give a damn that she's having to do it herself and it's not even like it was with Lucille, when I watched her touching herself, because I just don't care so much when Kitty does it. I'm just focused on fucking her and getting this over and done with.

I hear my ragged breaths like cold, whispered curses exhaling from my mouth. The darkness within stretches out to fill me completely and I'm drowning from the thirst, overpowered by the relentless pounding of my obsidian heart. The shadows bare their teeth and I bite down.

The pressure explodes violently, and I pull out just in time, throbbing hard against the hot flesh of Kitty's ass. I'm still pulsating against her as she's frantically rubbing her fingers between her legs, whimpering, until finally she comes with a noise that sounds like a half-groan, half-sob. Her shoulders shake, her whole body trembles, only I've been so lost in the darkness, I hadn't even realized.

I pull away, and sort myself out, fastening the buttons on my pants, knowing I'm going to have to shower and change in the room out back before Frank and the rest of the gang get here tonight. Taking one more swig from the bottle, I swallow it down and grimace, my lips curling back from my teeth.

When I glance back at Kitty, she's removed her panties and is wiping gingerly at her cheeks and the backs of her thighs with the silky fabric. She doesn't look at me as she does it, but she doesn't need to for me to see the dampness under her eyes or the smear of mascara marring her cheekbone.

I should regret it. I know I should. I used her and got what I wanted, just like I've always done, but I know this time was different. This time was the last time and I can feel that as much as I can feel the dying warmth in the base of my stomach.

Without another word, she walks away, wrapping her dress tightly around herself as she crosses the club, towards the door that leads through to the girls dressing room. Her heels clip sharply on the floor, her pace quickening until she's almost running by the end.

Running from me and the monster I've become.

Kitty O'Brien is finally done with me, but that's fine. We monsters don't need anyone to hold our hands in the darkness.

We don't need anyone at all.

*

The water of the shower was cold, but I needed something harsh and unrelenting to wake me up, so I can start to make plans. This Lucille thing is going to explode at some point very soon and I've got to be ready for it. If I'm not, then I'll be saying goodbye to my balls and my life, and I'm not about to let that Italian bastard Joe Lombardi come good on his threat to kill me.

I stand in front of the mirror, greasing back my hair, turning my face this way and that, examining the bruises still fresh on my skin and trying not to think how they've cost me my place in the heist.

You prove your worth on the job. Get through one without getting yourself and your buddies busted, or worse, killed, and you earn yourself another mark on your score card. Keep on scoring and you move one rung up the ladder. I'd been getting there too, moving closer and closer to the top despite being relatively new compared to some of the other guys, but that's because I've shown Frank I've got guts. He knows I'm a risk, I can see it when he looks at me. I'm volatile. Unpredictable. But I get the job done, no matter how fucking distasteful it is.

My run-in with Lombardi's boys feels like a step back, like I'm hanging onto that rung with the tips of my fingers, and this whole situation with Lucille could see me thrown clear of the ladder completely.

I can't let that happen. I won't. I'm going to sort it.

Taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I straighten my collar and cuffs and fasten the button on my suit jacket, brushing down my lapels. That's it. Clean shirt, sharp suit and I'm fucking ready for anything.

I hear voices as I head back into the bar, a boy's – must be the bar-runt – and a woman's, which is drowned by the chink of glasses and a high-pitched laughter, not hers, and I wonder if Kitty is still here, that fake smile fixed back on her face, ready to entertain the evening's clientele, or Buddy, or whatever man is stupid enough to get his head turned by the jiggle of her ass.

I stop dead when I see her.

She has her back to me, her body wrapped in candy-pink silk with black embroidered flowers. It would look garish on any other woman, but she wears it well and it fits her like a glove. Pinched tight at her slim waist, skimming her full behind, it's befitting of a woman of class despite the fact she's teamed it with seamed black stockings and precariously high heels. Her long black hair is curled expertly – it always is – and when the bar-runt says something to her, his cheeks flushing an even brighter red than before, she throws her head back and laughs, the sound richly seductive, like honeyed milk.

I grimace, balling my hands into tight fists.

The kid behind the bar spots me and stands straighter, a little soldier boy fearful of his captain's displeasure, and the woman turns slowly to look my way, her eyes widening slightly upon impact.

'Hello, Harper,' she drawls.

A thick row of pearls lines her throat. Deep red gloss stains lips that curl up into a smile no woman should give her son.

But then again, this isn't just any woman.

This is Martha Cain. My mother.

And I hate the fucking sight of her.