Page 8 of King of Pain

I shouldn’t have left my mom back in Boston—not with him. It’s been years since my father last raised a hand to her, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. His violence always simmers just below the surface, like a storm waiting for the right moment to break.

His ties to the Black Crows and the Boston Police Department make him even more dangerous. In the neighborhood I came up in, he’s known simply as “Captain,” a title he holds in both organizations.

The Black Crows thrive on fear and violence, controlling everything from drugs to contract kills to extortion. They don’t just hurt people; they fucking annihilate them. Growing up, I saw it firsthand. My father wore their stench like a badge of honor, coming home stinking of booze, blood, and whatever cruelty he’d inflicted that day.

I hated him for it.

That hatred drove me to The Doves when I was seventeen. They weren’t saints, but they were the lesser evil. The Doves stood in stark contrast to the Black Crows—sometimes as their rivals—with a code that set them apart: no innocents, no drugs, no trafficking. For someone like me, that code was everything. They gave me what I needed to survive: brotherhood, loyalty, and the promise of protection for the people I cared about.

My mother always worried about my involvement, but I convinced her it was the best way to keep us safe. “If he ever lays a finger on you,” I told her after I joined, “we’ll make sure he never touchesanyoneever again.”

But even with The Doves watching our backs, my mother didn’t believe anyone could keep her safe from him. She’d lived most of her life as his possession, and in her eyes, escape wasn’t an option. For her. She did not accept that fate where I was concerned.

“Chance,” she would say, her voice firm, “you need to get out. You’ve been protecting me since you were a young boy. I don’t want that for you anymore. I want you to leave Boston. Go as far away as possible.”

I ignored her requests for years, refusing to leave. How could I? She was all I had. And the way my father treated her, how could I abandon her to that?

But she would not relent, her pleas growing steadier and sharper over the past few years.

“You’ve got a good heart, Chance,” she told me once, her hand resting lightly on mine. “Don’t let them turn it cold. You don’t belong in this world. You’ve done more for me than anyone ever could. It’s time for you to go live your life, one that’s not spent cleaning up after your father.”

“But Ma—”

“No,” she said, cutting me off with a look that brooked no argument. “It’s been six years, and he hasn’t so much as lifted a pinky finger at me. I won’t let you waste your life waiting for something thatcouldhappen. Murph already told me The Doves will keep an eye on things here. You think he doesn’t want you out of this mess too?”

She wasn’t wrong. Murph, my closest friend in The Doves, had practically shoved me out the door. “You’re not like the rest of us,” he said, pulling me aside after a job one night. “You can get out. Your mom’s tougher than you give her credit for. Let us handle things here.”

But I am like them. No one knows the monster bubbling under my surface.

Murph has seen more of it than anyone. He’s pulled me out of more than a few situations where my protective instincts caused me to fly into blind rages.

We have heavy security detail and resources—I could operate in the organization easily without ever raising a fist. But if it involves someone I care about, I’ll burn the world to the ground.

Leaving Boston wasn’t only about my father. It was about leaving that world entirely: the violence, the paranoia, secret hookups. I had to get out.

When the day finally came, my mother’s hands were steady as she helped me pack. “You’ve done more for me than I’ll ever be able to repay,” she said, her voice calm and strong despite the tears glistening in her eyes.

She folded one of my shirts carefully, smoothing out the creases before placing it in the bag. “But it’s time for you to become the man you were meant to be.”

She paused, her jaw clenching slightly as if she were choosing her next words with care. “I can handle a lot, Chance,” she said, her gaze locking onto mine. “Don’t forget, I grew up in this world. I knew what I signed up for when I married your father.”

Her hands rested on my shoulders then, her touch firm yet gentle. “What I cannot handle, my beautiful boy, is watching you hide parts of yourself that deserve to be seen. You don’t belong in the shadows. Not in any part of your life.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. She didn’t say it outright—she didn’t have to. The understanding was there, a quiet acknowledgment that left no room for doubt. She always knew.

It was breaking me to leave her. But in the end, I knew she was probably right. She usually was. Still, knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I stare at the plain package sitting on my bed, the one I found tucked away in one of my bags when I got here three weeks ago. Ma’s handwriting stretches across the front. My name is printed neat, but with the hurried edge of someone racing against their emotions.

Or time.

Inside, there’s a single postcard of Boston Harbor, the skyline mirrored perfectly in the water. A thick, bold red Sharpie X slashed across the image.

I flip it over. Three sentences I’ve read at least two dozen times now stare back at me:Proud of you. Love you always. Don’t come back.

The simplicity of her words hits harder than anything she could have said in person.

She’s proud of me.