Boston Blood

Sixteen

No one spoke for several minutes. Frankie closed her eyes and concentrated on stopping the tears. She was furious for breaking and showing them how scared she was. It dawned on her, then, that it was the first time she'd let herself cry in over eight years.

She took a deep breath and opened her burning eyes. O'Shea was still smiling as he took out a cigarette and lit it. Frankie's eyes flickered to O'Shea's thin lips and his eyebrows furrowed. "I'm sorry. Where are my manners?" He nodded towards one of the disgusting bald men in leather jackets behind her and in a heartbeat, there was a smoke in her wet hand. She wiped the blood on her thigh and shakily reached for the cigarette. The bald man lit it for her and she inhaled, deeply. It stung her swollen throat, making her wince and absent-mindedly rub it. She could see Cillian shift his weight as his eyes flickered to hers. She must have imagined it but she thought he looked apologetic.

"So, what's it gonna be Miss Ryan." Frankie took another large puff. Mostly because the nicotine was helping to calm her nerves but also because she was trying to buy herself some time. Her stomach felt like it was on fire. She wasn't actually considering helping these vile people, was she? She hated her father with every fibre of her being but these bastards were no better than him. If she helped them it would make her the same as them. She wanted to be good and to try to heal. Billy had helped her get her shit together leave as much of the trauma she had suffered behind her. She wanted to move on but a huge part of her ached to see Tommy Ryan suffer and finally pay for murdering her mam.

O'Shea was getting pissed off. Frankie knew he wasn't going to indulge her silence any longer. But none of this actually mattered, really. She wasn't stupid. She knew he actually wasn't asking. If she refused to help them he would kill her. She contemplated this and shook the thought from her mind, the thought that she worked very hard on suppressing over the past thirteen years.

So maybe she should just help them? If he was going to kill her anyway then one of her last acts might as well be to help kill her father.

No.

She had to think of Michael. He's out there, somewhere. She had lost hope that she'd ever find him but he was keeping her going. Just like he had done her whole life. And what would her mother think? She would be turning in her grave to know that her only daughter was involved with these people. Margaret never had a choice but Frankie knew deep down that her mam wouldn't want this. And Billy and Mary? All the help they have given her? She was a good person, deep down. She refused to be like them, like all the evil fuckers who just hurt people and take what they want. She wasn't going to do this.

God, what the fuck am I doing?

She was lost in thought and didn't realise that Cillian was now standing behind her. The two goons were leaving. What is going on?

Her face must have given away what she was thinking. She whipped her head around and saw a handgun in Cillian's hand. She raised her head to meet his eyes. They were wild and frantic. He looked like he was silently trying to communicate with her. He looked like he was begging.

She turned back to O'Shea who was shaking his head in disappointment. "So, you're not going to help us? I really thought you would. If I were you and had gone through the pain you have, I would be jumping at the chance to make it right. He murdered your mother after putting her through years of hell. He humiliated her and beat her and you and poor young Michael. He's the reason you had to live with the nuns. He's the reason you were there for two years suffering all the pain and torture, the reason Michael was taken away." O'Shea's voice was like honey. He was loving this, loving seeing what his words were doing to Frankie. She was trembling, again, shaking her head in fury and aguish. She tried to get off the chair but Cillian's left hand was grasping her shoulder, tightly.