The courtroom was silent—eerily so—except for the three Irish men at the front. Papa Joe Yakavetta sat there like he owned the place. The man responsible for your twin sister’s death. The man you had dreamed of seeing pay for what he’d done.

That was why you were here. You wanted justice… but you’d long ago stopped believing it would come.

Until the brothers and their father walked in.

You knew who they were—the vigilantes everyone in Boston whispered about. The ones who did what the police couldn’t. The ones who cut through miles of red tape and corruption, striking where the mob thought it was untouchable.

The law never got you justice. But maybe… they would.

You sat still as the MacManus brothers and their father spoke, their voices cutting through the heavy air like a blade. People around you cowered, clutching the armrests of their seats or whispering frantic prayers.

But not you.

Your eyes kept going to one in particular—Murphy. You’d seen him and his brother around Boston before, but you’d never suspected they were the ones behind all this. And for some reason, seeing him here didn’t bother you the way it should have. If anything… it made you watch closer.

While Connor spoke, Murphy’s eyes wandered the room. They landed on you. He took in the way you sat—steady, unflinching, no fear in your eyes—and tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were the only calm point in the storm.

You didn’t look away. You held his gaze until he moved behind Papa Joe.

And then—three gunsh0ts split the air.

Papa Joe slumped forward. The room erupted into chaos. Screams filled the air. People surged toward the doors, tripping over benches and each other in their scramble to get away.

But you… You watched.

You saw the three men slip toward a side exit, their movements smooth and practiced. Before they disappeared, Murphy glanced back at you. A faint smirk tugged at his lips—quick, deliberate—before he vanished.

You didn’t hesitate. Weaving through the chaos, you slipped after them. You weren’t afraid. They’d said they only went after those who’d slipped past the law. You weren’t their target. And something was pushing you towards them. Some unknown force.

You caught sight of them ducking into the back of a van . Two Boston detectives stood by, helping them get away without a second glance.

You stopped just short of the alley, heart thudding. If you could follow them…

Oh, you needed to try.

⸻

In the Back of the Van

Murphy leaned against the cold metal wall, eyes narrowed toward the rear door. Through a small crack, he caught sight of you again—hovering at the mouth of the alley, watching.

He wondered what the hell was going through your head.

A smack to his shoulder jolted him out of it.

“What’re ya starin’ at?” Connor asked, brow arched. Their father, Il Duce, turned his head too.

Murphy jerked his chin toward the alley.

“That girl from the courtroom. The one sittin’ closer to me. Couldn’t take her eyes off us.”

Connor frowned. “Aye, what about her?”

Murphy’s smirk was faint, thoughtful.

“She followed us out. Not runnin’. Not scared. Like she’s curious… or maybe lookin’ for somethin’.”

Il Duce tilted his head, his voice gravel-deep.

“And what do you think she’s lookin’ for, lad?”

Murphy’s eyes lingered on the crack in the door one last time, catching the briefest glimpse of you before the truck turned a corner.

“Dunno,” he said, that smirk growing just a fraction. “But I think I’d like t’ find out.”