Kevin had always been good at this. Slipping into another life, becoming someone else—it was second nature now. As Fenton O’Connell, he had fought alongside the Irish mob, bled for them when needed, drank until his vision blurred just to keep up appearances. He laughed at their jokes, kept his temper in check, and played his part well. But getting close to Boudreau, the man who held the key to the Bible, was proving more difficult than he expected. Trust was slow, earned in sweat and spilled blood, but Kevin was patient. He had to be.

The teasing started early. The other mobsters would shove his shoulder, laugh in his face, and call him a fag, a homo—said no real man could go this long without a girl. It wasn’t just locker-room talk; it was pressure, a test. No one in the mob would let an outsider get too close, so if he was going to be with someone, it had to be one of their own. Anyone outside? That was a liability, a weak link that could unravel everything.

So Kevin made his choice. If he had to have a girl, he’d pick one that gave him an edge. That’s why he approached you at the bar, where the whole mob gathered after a long night. You weren’t just another girl hanging off some low-level thug—you had power, connections. Higher up in the ranks than most of the men here. If Kevin was going to play this right, you were his best move. And so, with a charming smirk and a whiskey in hand, he slid into the seat beside you.