Page 1 of Hustle

Prologue - Evi

Greedy, corrupt men fighting over things that don’t belong to them? Nothing new. Neither is me opposing them. But for the first time, I wonder if I can do it alone.

The huge enforcer looms over my desk, dark eyes blazing. Over his head, I stare hard at a framed print of the backpiece I inked for a local guy turned famous actor – an elaborate tableau of the Bunker Hill monument (which people always mistake for the Washington Monument - a dick’s a dick, I guess) – and count silently to ten.

When that doesn’t cut it, I try for twenty.Breathe.Trying to relax just pisses me off more: mafia corruption bullshit.

Again.

His oversized body crowds the lobby of my tattoo shop and I fucking hate him invading my space.

“Listen, Evi, don’t make me get rough,” the deep voice and heavy Boston accent drip menace.

His thick, square hands press down on the glossy surface of my desk, and I cringe when his dirty nails scrape against it. His sour breath reeks.

Bad hygiene. Bad attitude. And bad career choices.

I force myself to snort up into his face, even as fear and disgust constrict my throat. I won’t let this motherfucker see me sweat.

“You’re a fucking joke,” I lean forward and stare him down. There’s a deadness to his eyes that tells me what kind of guy he really is, sending traces of cold shivers down my spine. “Coming here to threaten me like some low-rent goon? Get out of my store.”

He flashes a grin tinged with stained teeth. Someone’s into chewing tobacco. “The Stacys and the fine city of Boston are offering you good deal, sweetheart. I think you should take it. Bad things could happen otherwise. Just be a good girl?” As he leans down, I get a close-up of his waxy, pimple-pebbled face.

I won’t back up, not matter how bad he stinks. Or how terrified I am.

“You should try exfoliating,” I gesture broadly with one hand at his face like we’re having a pleasant conversation.

“And then a toner. Moisturizer, too. People always think the answer to acne is drying out your skin, but really moisturizer is the key.”

His brow crinkles in confusion. I seize the opportunity to reach under my desk and grab the baseball bat I store there. Peacemaker, as I like to call her.

Listen, I don’t look it, but my upper body strength is impressive. Working with your hands tattooing clients all day long – and holding the criers – will do that.

Just kidding on the criers. Mostly.

His eyes widen and his nostrils flare when I shove the bat hard into his throat.

“Now, I asked you to leave,” I hiss. “Tell your sleazy bosses that I’ve got connections too. Don’t forget I grew up here, asshole.”

The bat pushes deeper into his neck, and he swallows visibly as he weighs his options.

“I could snap you in half, bitch,” he snarls, his face taking on a florid quality that’s not making it more appealing.

My palms sweat and my heart thunders in my chest, but I won’t break eye contact. No way that son of a bitch will see me flinch.

“If anything happens to me, this shop becomes the property of my lawyer, Seamus Doyle. You know him, Lurch?”

Finally.

There it is. The leverage I’m looking for. His fists clench and sweat’s starting to bead at his temples. Good. He’s not the only one that can throw around names.

I slide the bat over his Adam’s apple and into the underside of his stubbly chin. He winces.

“The Doyles are old friends of mine, and they won’t be happy to know you’ve been threatening me.”

“You’ve been warned, Evi. We’re taking this whole fucking block. This is your last chance to take this very generous offer. Don’t take it? We’ll get your store and you’ll get shit from the city for eminent domain.” His lip curls.

“And the Doyles don’t have the reach you think they do. Not anymore.”

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