Chapter Twelve: Welcome to the Jungle

Two Years Later: Concezio Yakavetta's Point of View

South Boston, Massachusetts

"Patience, nephew mine, you need to have a little patience," Uncle Lorenzo whispered.

My hazel eyes didn't leave my father's lowering coffin as I nodded my head in response to my Uncle's urging. He was my father's little brother, how could he even be suggesting patience at a time like this?

"Concezio, wake up!"

I jerked away, staring at my younger sister Gabrielle in a mixture of irritation and gratitude.

"Thanks, Gabs," I whispered.

"Same nightmare?" Gabrielle questioned.

"No," I shook my head. "Just remembering something."

"Daddy?" Gabrielle whispered.

"Yeah," I frowned.

Gabrielle had only been sixteen at the time of the trail. She had watched as four people stormed into open court, ranting and raving about delivering evil people, before they put our father on his knees. Murdering him in a courtroom filled with family members and so-called victims of my father's business.

For as long as I could remember, my family had been in the mafia, one of the off shoots of the Italian mob. I was no stranger to violence, having been groomed to take over the family business whenever my father handed over the reins. But, to see my father die at the hands of these so called Saints was more than I could bare. My Uncle Lorenzo had been visiting during all of this. He didn't go to the trail so he didn't know what had happened until he saw the news.

Lorenzo had barely reacted, disappearing down the hallway and into Dad's study. When he came out he said very little. Ever since the night that Dad and Lorenzo had almost killed the Saints, things had been different. Dad had been arrested and Lorenzo got all the more violent.

His face would forever serve as a memory of that night. Nearly everyone at the house that night had been murdered. Except for Lorenzo who had been found unconscious in one of the guest rooms, two deep scratches ran down the length of his face. Lorenzo had taken over the family until I was out of college, and could take over the responsibilities.

Now two years later we were still trying to rebuild the Yakavetta legacy. Between Uncle Lorenzo and I had been working steadily to rebuild my father's legacy. Only when things were functioning the way they should have been, could I focus on dragging the Saints back to South Boston. They had been all over the United States before they fell of the grid, vanishing completely.

"Patience, nephew mine, you need to have a little patience," Uncle Lorenzo whispered.

I had searched high and low for them, all the patience in the world wasn't going to make the Saints surface. After breakfast, I walked into the office, jumping when the door slammed open seconds after I sat down.

"I have an idea," Lorenzo smirked. "I don't know why we've been waiting for those damn Saints to surface."

"Uncle?" I questioned, curiously.

"If we can't find the Saints, then we'll bring them to us," Lorenzo grinned, wolfishly.

"How?" I asked.

"Kill a priest," Lorenzo smirked. "Kill a priest and make it look like it was them. Those bible thumpers will come running and that's when we'll kill them. You can kill the men, as long as I get the bitch."

"No one is going to kill a priest," I whispered.

"Don't you worry about a thing, nephew, I've got it handled."

Allison's Point of View

The Saints had been dead for nearly two years. After the IRA hit, Connor, Murphy, and I decided that we'd honor Smecker's request to lay low. We had buried anything that could remind us of that night and everything else that had happened. This time when we buried the chest, we knew that we wouldn't be digging it up.

Not for a few years at least. Things had gotten bad around a year ago. Investigations were held in the South Boston Police Department. The powers that be thought that we couldn't have possibly have gotten away without assistance, which was true. But, it still put pressure on the people who had helped us. Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly, and especially Agent Smecker.

I would always have a soft spot for that Special Agent, but now most of my feelings were tinged with sadness. Agent Smecker had died in the field a little less than six months ago. He had died working another mob hit. A copy cat Saint was running amok, causing a lot of trouble for Smecker, but the copy cat had messed up, gotten skittish, and Smecker had paid the price.

It was those kind of phone calls that I dreaded from the States. Hell, any and all calls from the States were grounds for concern. It was simply too expensive to just place a call because you felt like it. No, there was always a reason.

Surprisingly, Connor, Murphy, Da, and I had adjusted well to civilian life. Connor and Murphy had joined the rest of the boys, working on the sheep farm. I worked at the Anvil with Ro and Devin. Da did a little bit of everything, he spent a lot of time with Ma, worked on the farm, and helped out the entire family. It was an average bustling night at the Anvil. It was just as busy, if not busier, than it had always been. The entire family was there and the atmosphere was lively. It was nights like this that made me happy to be home.

"Ally, phone fer ye!" Devin called.

"Who?" I asked.

"Van," Devin said.

I picked up the alternate phone in the back, waiting until the main phone hung up before I spoke, "Van?"

"Ally," Van sighed. "Somethin's happened."

"Wot do ye mean somethin' happened?" I demanded. "Van, wot is it?"

"Things 'ave gotten bad 'ere, Ally, the Yakavetta's are gainin ground," Van explained. "They're stronger then they were wit' Poppa Joe runnin' 'em."

"Van, I…"

"Allison!" Connor yelled seconds before the back door opened. "Allison, we all need ta go 'ome. Uncle Sibeal said 'e had somethin' important ta tell us."

"Conn, it's Van," I whispered.

"Oi, Van, ye should be ashamed o' yerself," Connor scolded, snagging the phone from me. "Ye don call, ye don' write?"

"Ah, fuck ye, MacManus," Van chuckled good naturedly.

"Van, I'll call ye back, okay?" Connor asked. "We need ta be gettin 'ome. Family meeting and all dat."

"Connor, jus' call me back as soon as ya can, it's important," Van stressed.

"I'll talk ta ye soon" Connor swore. He hung up the phone and gestured for me to follow him.

I was concerned as Connor barely said a word on the way out to the car. And the fact that the car was here made me even more nervous. We almost always walked from the Anvil to our house and back, it was too close to waste the gas. I hopped into the passenger seat as Connor gunned the engine back to our house.

I couldn't help but think of what Van had told me about Southie and the fact that both Van and Sibeal both had something to tell us. Walking into the house felt different than all the other times. Normally the house was loud, at all hours of the night. This time, though, it was oddly silent.

Connor and I walked into the kitchen, sitting down on either side of Murphy as we regarded Uncle Sibeal curiously.

"Something happened in Boston last night," Uncle Sibeal began. "I have friends in the diocese there. A priest was murdered, Saints style."

All was silent for a moment as the news sunk in. Was that what Van had to tell us? That someone murdered a priest and left our calling card? The rage in the air was a near physical entity as we all fought to control our anger.

"Wot?" Connor, Murphy, and I growled at once.

"The priest, did they release his name?" Murphy asked.

"Father Douglas McKinney," Uncle Sibeal replied.

We all exchanged a look. "You knew him?" Uncle Sibeal questioned.

"Aye," Connor responded. "Everyone did. A regular Mother Theresa. Youth Hostels, soup kitchens."

"'E even made it inta tha papers sometimes," Murphy explained.

"Listen," Uncle Sibeal leaned forward, his eyes flickering towards Da before staring at the three of us "I think it's best dat ya jus' stay put and we'll try ta figure out wot…"

Without looking towards one another, Connor, Murphy, and I pushed back to the table, walking out of the house and into the barn. Connor tossed Murphy a shovel as I stepped back to give them space. It became apparent that we weren't supposed to take a break. Our mission hadn't been completed. So, unless we wanted to keep burying and digging up this chest, we had to come to terms with it. We couldn't stop, not now, maybe not ever.

Once Connor and Murphy dug the chest back up, and threw it on the old work table. Opening the chest once more, we pulled out our guns, rosaries, and all the American currency we had taken on various hits. I kept myself busy, counting the money as Connor and Murphy showered before changing into their typical dark tee shirt, jeans, construction boots, and pea coat outfit.

"Now lads, Ally, I really must insist dat we wait on this," Uncle Sibeal reproached. "We don' even know wot this is yet. Somebody could jus' be tryin' ta get away wit' murder here."

"Aye," Da agreed. "Only there's about a thousand easier ways t'do dat. Trust me. Someone's callin' them out , Sibeal. Ya kill a priest, in a church, and make it look like it was 'em. Ye bring 'em back wit' a vengeance. Don't know who. Don't know why. But someone thinks e's real fuckin' clever. Only one problem wit' his little plan."

"What's dat?"

"It worked," Da smirked.

"Jaysus Christ, Noah!" Sibeal barked. "D'er's too much we don' know. This is ridiculous. Wot do ye three intend ta do?"

Silence reigned as we all looked at one another before Connor withdrew a hand from one of his pockets and looked down. He flipped a penny on the table, five pairs of eyes watched as the currency clattered to a stop.

"Every last motherfucker dat had anythin' ta do wit' it," Murphy answered.

"Say g'bye ta yer Ma," Da ordered. "Lord knows if ye leave wit' out tellin 'er the rest o' us will hear bout it fer years ta come."

Following Da's order we found Ma upstairs folding laundry. She didn't seem surprised as we told her what happened. She was angry that someone had murdered a priest just to lure us back. Putting down one of the shirts she was folding she ordered us to pack some clothing, while she made some sandwiches. Then Da and Ma would drive us to the docks. Uncle Patrick had called in a favor with his old friend, Killian Farris. In exchange for work, he would let us travel back to the States for free.

I had never had the pleasure of meeting Killian Farris, he apparently like his boat a little too much. Even going so far as to name the boat after himself. After saying goodbye to our parents, Killian snuck us onto the boat, showing us a place between two stacks of freights, creating a little room. Killian told us that we could open the freights if we wanted to, for some extra cover when we were sleeping or wanted some privacy.

The first day passed by with little incident. We worked stacking grain with the other stowaways. I was one of the only girls on the ship and the only girl who worked stacking heavy bags of grain. We were given work cover-alls, of which I only wore the pants part, choosing to wear one of my brothers' old wife beaters on top.

"They're brawlin in the hold!" A deck hand shouted on the third day. "Better get your bets in now!"

I exchanged looks with Connor and Murphy before we moved into the ship's hold. It was nuts in there, people were moving equipment back and money was waving everywhere as people shouted bets. In the middle of the ring of people were two men. One was a giant, every visible inch of him was solid muscle. There was violence in those eyes as he glared at the Mexican man before him. The Mexican was significantly smaller and less muscled than the other one. With wild, bulging hazel eyes. He had a pony tail with the sides shaved off. So, it was like a cross between a Mohawk and a mullet. The most noticeable difference between the two men were that the Mexican's hands were tied behind his back.

"Why are his hands chained?" Connor asked, grabbing the person who told us about the brawl's arm.

"Romeo's fast, man," The deckhand grinned. "He says the Frenchman can't lay a hand on him."

"But he can't hit 'im back," Murphy retorted.

"That's the bet," The deckhand shrugged. "He's gotta last five minutes.

With a quick exchange of looks the three of us each whipped out money and handed it to the deck hand. "Fifty on the Mexican," We exclaimed.

I watched as the Mexican taunted the other man ducking away from punches with ease.

"Get outta the way!" The Mexican yelled running straight towards a freight he jumped up, pushing one foot off the freight only to land back on the ground with his hands bound in front of him. Intrigued, I walked closer, close enough to hear what he was saying.

"Don't be scared," The Mexican mocked. "Remember I can't hit ya. I ain't gonna hit ya." He avoided even more punches. "Ain't gonna hit ya. Ain't gonna…"

In the middle of his sentence the Mexican lunged grabbing his opponent's wrist, wrapping the chains around it as he kicked the larger man's stomach, bringing him to his knees. Before the bigger man could even get a breath, he was trapped in a scissor hold.

"Ooh, found a loophole, bitch," The Mexican whooped. "Oughta be a lawyer! Got the fine print on y'ass! Pro bono! Pari Pasu! I'll knock you out on contingency, mother fucker!"

I laughed along with Connor and Murphy as the giant of a man passed out. The Mexican rose to his feet, arms above his head in victory. Without looking back, he wandered away. I watched as the Frenchmen who were obviously friends with the giant, began to follow after him. Conn and Murph saw the same thing I did, causing us to follow after them weaving through the various freights that were all over the boat. Not that the fact was surprising, after all it was a cargo boat. But that made it so it was very easy to dispatch someone, who just lost you a lot of money.

As we walked between the rows I heard the Mexican yell, "Oh, shit. Fire! Fire!"

Exchanging confused glances with Murphy, the three of us burst onto the scene, straight from the shadows, standing between the Mexican and the angry Frenchmen.

"Out of zee way!" One of them ordered.

Choosing to keep silent as my brothers tried to calm the Frenchmen down in their native language, I noticed that it wasn't working. Instead they were only getting even more angry. When the argument suddenly escalated, the men swung the metal pipes clutched in their meaty fists. With the efficiency that only years of scrapping could bring, we dispatched the two quickly. Leaving one unconscious and the other gasping for air. Turning on our heel, the Mexican backed up hands held out in front of him in a I-surrender gesture as he regarded us curiously.

"Whoa!" The Mexican gaped. "Uh, merci, uh, si vous plait."

"Jus' protectin' our investment," Murphy rolled his eyes. "Ya made us a lot of money."

"Oh, thank God," The Mexican gasped. "Irish, huh? Finally some class. I'm Romeo."

"Ally," I smiled.

"Helloo, Ally," Romeo smirked, taking my hand and kissing the back of it.

With a giggle I retracted said hand as Connor and Murphy moved slightly in front of me.

"Connor," Connor introduced. "And, dat there's Murphy."

"Why were ye yellin' fire?" Murphy asked.

"I heard you were supposed to on TV," Romeo shrugged.

"That's if you're getting' raped," I corrected.

"Oh, I'd be more inclined to go with something like, 'that doesn't go there, man!'" Romeo joked.

Romeo's grin vanished at our lack of laughter, eyeing us curiously, as the three of us offered small smiles before we walked back to our little cluster. We had managed to make a little home out of our 'room'. We had a hot plate, radio, and Murphy was fashioning a tattooing needle. I was fiddling with the radio, after climbing onto one of the freights so I could see up and out. Once I found a station I tossed the radio down to Murph, who caught it without looking and put it down.

"People are still in shock as more details on the death of Father McKinney, a beloved local clergic, comes to light. His selfless contributions to the community are too numerous to list," The radio announcer began solemnly. "In related news, second generation crime boss, Concezio Yakavetta has not commented on whether or not he fears for his own safety…"

"Yakavetta?" Connor, Murphy, and I repeated angrily.

"Tha prodigal son, huh?" Connor hissed. "'E wants us, 'e fuckin' got us."

Connor shook his head, his face stony as he put the one chair we had in the middle of the floor. He straddled the chair as Murphy checked the tattoo needle. They had gotten new ink a few months ago, they'd add onto it every so often. Murphy's back had Christ's crucified feet, while Connor's had Christ's downcast head on the cross. Murphy was going to do a little more shading on Connor's cross as I kept watch, while adding to the conversation, my legs swinging into the open freight container.

"Why would 'e do somethin' so public?" Murphy asked.

"Think about it," Connor prodded. "People figure we did it. Makes it more likely someone will drop tha dime. Way easier ta get ta us in prison, isn't it, now?"

"'Ow would anyone recognize us?" Murphy asked.

"Ye don' remember tha sketches on tha news channel?" I asked.

"Shit, dat's right," Murphy shook his head. "Y'know, every time they show those composites on TV and they catch tha lad, it looks nothin like 'im. But ours?"

"Jus' our luck. We get Leonardo fuckin' Divinci a sketch artist."

"Maybe we should dye our hair?" Murphy suggested.

Murphy missed Connor's wicked smirk, but I didn't. I shook my head as I watched the fight that was about to unfold.

"Wot?" Connor smirked.

"Yeah," Murphy nodded, looking to me to agree with him. "These guys are always dyin their hair. Y'know, like in 'The Fugitive'. It's covert and shite."

"Wot color would ye dye it?" Connor asked.

"I don' know…lighter, I guess?" Murphy shrugged.

"Y'mean blonde?" Connor laughed.

"I didn't say dat!" Murphy retorted.

"California, surfer boy, gay, gay, gay, faggoty, blonde?" Connor laughed causing me to snicker as well.

"I'm warnin ya!" Murphy growled.

"Stay gold, Pony Boy!" Connor whooped. "Stay gold! Just keep yer hand off me arse."

"Aw, fuck ye," Murphy snarled, purposefully stabbing the needle hard into Connor's shoulder.

"Ahh!" Connor yelped, bolting to his feet knocking over to pot of hot water and pennies, as he pulled the pen out glaring at Murphy.

"Ye mother fucker!" Connor snapped. "Jaysus fuckin' Christ."

"Serves ya right," Murphy grinned.

"Wot kind o' fuckin'…?"

"I was fuckin' mad!" Murphy shrugged.

Just as the two were about to come to blows, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was directly under me, right by the freight doors. Gently clicking my gun's safety off, I jumped down from the top of the freight to land silently behind our eavesdropper.

"Don' move," I cautioned, jabbing the back of the man in question's head.

"Oh shit!" The man yelped loudly. Romeo?

"Fer Christ sakes," I groaned.

With a shift kick I pushed Romeo into the middle of the room gun still trained on the back of his head. Connor's head snapped towards us as would Murphy, if his head wasn't currently locked under Connor's arm. With one last noogie, Connor released him, so that both could stare at Romeo, who pointed at them before looking at the pennies.

"I know who you are," Romeo whispered. "You guys are the fuckin…"

"Shut it!" Connor interrupted.

Romeo didn't dare make any sudden movements as Murphy circled, locking the doors of the two neighboring freights to give us some privacy and prevent Romeo from running away. Wordlessly, Murphy walked back towards Connor, plucking the gun from my finger.

"Oh, this is so fucking cool, man," Romeo grinned. "I'm from Boston. I love you guys. Shit, everyone does! I mean, holy fucking shit! Maybe I could get in on this, you know? Bring some La Raza to this thing? Spice it up a little? Although you've already got a firecracker."

I rolled my eyes as Romeo turned to look at me, grinning before continuing his little rant. "Hey, is it true you guys say a prayer before you grease somebody?"

I moved out from behind Romeo seconds before Connor and Murphy lunged, tackling and pinning him to the ground. Murphy clasped a hand over his mouth while Connor put a gun to his head.

"And an awesome wailing was heard throughout heaven…" Connor began.

"As the terrible hand of tha Lord truck upon the earth," Murphy continued.

"And as Almighty God created you," Connor barked, ignoring the way that Romeo thrashed, cries of terror muffled by Murphy's hand. "He calleth you home!"

Connor pulled the trigger, but because the safety was on, all it did was click.

"Whoops," Connor grinned. "Busy signal. We'll hafta calleth back."

The three of us began to laugh, snagging the bottle of tequila from Romeo's nerveless fingers.

"That shit was not funny, man!" Romeo complained.

We laugh harder, passing the bottle around, taking some big sips. I watched as Romeo rolled onto his side, sliding a hand down the back of his pant. He seemed relieved as he muttered, "Oh, thank you, Jesus. Thought I greased my drawers."

If anything that made us laugh even harder as we continued to pass the tequila bottle again. Scowling, Romeo rose to his feet eyeing all of us as though he was in the presence in a celebrity, which, I guess we were.

"Wipe dat look off yer face, Ally," Connor chided handing me the tequila bottle.

"I don't have a look," I murmured.

"Come on," Murphy prodded.

I sat down lighting up a cigarette as Connor and Murphy dropped down on either side of me. Romeo sat down as well looking expectant and excited.

"No," Connor stated, noticing the same thing I had.

"But I got conex all over Bean Town," Romeo complained. "Romeo'll hook you up like a tow truck!"

"No," Murphy said.

"Why not?" Romeo whined.

"We don' 'ave ta give ye reasons," Murphy muttered. "Ferget it."

"It's because I'm Mexican, isn't it?" Romeo demanded.

"'Ow dare ye, sir, insinuate such a thing. Tha fact dat ye're a greasy spic's got nothin' ta do wit' it."

We laughed as Romeo once again scowled at us.

"I'm gonna let you have that one," Romeo rolled his eyes. "Look. I can do this. It's not rocket science. You three find bad guys doing bad shit and you kill them, right?"

"It's not that simple," Connor disagreed.

"Yes, it is," Murphy laughed.

"Aye," I agreed.

"S'pose ye're right," Connor sighed. "I'd sorta hoped we were a little more artistic than dat."

"Well, you ain't," Romeo said. "Can't you guys see it? This shit's fate, man. Like preordained type hit. Mea fucking Culpa! Why do you think you just happened to be in that hatchway today?"

"Oh don' start gettin' all super fuckin' natural on us," Murphy rolled his eyes. "We saw those guys gin in there!"

"Ah ha!" Romeo whooped. "That's what you say. I say it's because Jeeeeeesus wanted it that way!"

"No," Connor stated.

Fine," Romeo sighed. "Then what do you intend to do when you hit U.S soil?"

"We'll go after all of Yakavetta's people and operations till we get ta tha man himself," Connor explained.

"Yeah, work our way up tha food chain," Murphy added on.

Connor and Murphy seemed pleased with themselves as I stomped out my cigarette. I rolled my eyes, wincing when Murphy elbowed me in the side.

"What's your first gig?" Romeo asked. "What's the first thing you're gonna do?"

"Well, we don't have a succinct plan, y'know, per se."

"Yeah," Murphy mumbled. "It's not fully developed yet, y'know, as it were."

"Wot me bro'thers mean ta say is we 'aven't thought dat far ahead," I rolled my eyes.

"You three need to chill in the green room, sip on some Pellegrino's and let your manager handle the details," Romeo said. "And you better get my Cub Scout badge ready. 'Cause if you want to kick Yakavetta in the nuts, let him know you're in town, I got an ace in the hole for ya…"