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No. It hits me like a ten-ton truck.
I’m locking eyes with the Devil.
The man with the wolfish eyes that have haunted every dark crevice in my brain since I was nine.
His amber stare pins me to the pew, his mere presence gripping at my windpipe, threatening to cut off my air supply.
What you can’t see can’t hurt you.
But I can’t look away.
After what feels like hours, but is probably only seconds, he releases me from his vice-like stare, dragging his yellow eyes across the rest of the crowd instead.
“Dearly beloved,” he spits, his deep voice echoing off the high ceilings and the thick walls. “We gather here today to honor the life of my family. My father, Donal Quinn, and my two brothers, Eamon Quinn and Fergus Quinn.”
Ice runs through my veins.He’s a Quinn. My father’s boss.
The Devil lets the deafening silence hang in the air for a few seconds, just enough time for me to try to grapple at my senses and take him in.
Hard lines define him. Sharp nose, square jaw, and a mouth contorted into a permanent straight line. His eyes—those goddamn eyes—are set in his angular face like two rare gems on display in a museum. His beard is the type only achieved by rich men with time on their hands. Thick and black, the first signs of salt and pepper flecked around his chin. The hair on his head matches in thickness and in color, falling into waves just above his ears, and bizarrely, I can’t help but think, if he grew it a centimeter longer, it’d form into curls.
His suit costs more than my soul. The wool fabric probably has an exotic history, and it’s clad to his imposing frame like a second skin. The only relief to his never-ending darkness is the large emerald ring on his pinky and the vibrant pop of silk elaborately folded into his chest pocket.
Blood red.
When he starts speaking again, something about his demeanor shifts. His hard mouth curls upwards into something resembling a smile, and there’s a glint in his eye.
“But make no mistake,” he snarls, “we will not be honoring their life with nostalgic anecdotes and fake tears. We are the Quinn family,” his voice wraps around his last name with a cocktail of pride and authority. “We are gods among mortals. And there is only one way gods should be honored.” Those yellow eyes search the room, taking their time to land back on me. “Sacrifice.”
The blood rushes from my head, and my father’s hand tucks under the crook of my elbow as I stumble, stopping me from sinking into the pew.
A sacrifice.
Thisisa funeral.
Just not one for the Quinn family.
With the flair of a circus ringmaster, he takes the three steps up to the sanctuary and stands behind the simple pulpit. While his eyes aren’t boring into my soul, I take the chance to glance around the room. The fear is universal, etched into foreheads, balled up into fists and quivering on bottom lips. I catch the eye of one of the children, the same one with the big blue eyes. I force a smile, but it doesn’t feel convincing. Looking over my shoulder to the back of the church, I notice three large men in suits guarding the doors.
The only exit, and it’s guarded by the hounds of Hell.
A rustle from the front of the church forces me back around. The Devil produces a crisp sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and places it on the pulpit.
“You may be wondering why you’re here,” he addresses the petrified crowd, his nostrils flaring. “Or, if you were smart, perhaps you’ve already made the connection. Eleana Cummings,” he says swiftly, twisting to face the woman and her kids. She pulls them closer to her body. “On January 11th, you delivered a parcel to one-oh-four Pillsbury Street. My family’s warehouse—”
“Please,” the shell of a woman lets out a desperate sob, her body collapsing in on itself. “I’m only a mail carrier. I work for UPS. I had no idea—”
It’s not a word or even a hand that cuts Eleana Cummings off. Just one, simple look. A look that makes acid rise up my throat.
“And in that parcel,” the Devil continues, “was a mix of gasoline, propane, and fertilizer. A lethal, homemade bomb that took the lives of Donal, Eamon, and Fergus Quinn.” The tension hanging over the tiny congregation is suffocating. Every pair of lungs in the church is full of stale oxygen as everyone waits to hear what fate the Devil has decided for Eleana Cummings. “I’m a cruel man,” he says, almost softly. “It’s in my DNA. But I’m not an unreasonable man, even in the midst of grief. I won’t kill you, or your children.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eleana form a vice-like grip around the shoulders of her kids. “But rest assured, I’ll make you suffer. Your job is to be terminated immediately, and there isn’t a business, legal or illegal, that will hire you within a one-hundred-mile radius of Quinn territory. Within the same territory, no supermarket or restaurant will serve you. No landlord will rent to you. No church or charity will take pity on you. No, Eleana Cummings,” he says, a chilling smile creeping over his hard face, as if his special strain of punishment is amusing to him. “I won’t kill you. But I’ll make it impossible for you to live.” He glances up toward the back of the church, and the tiniest twitch triggers a stampede of heavy boots. I watch, helplessly, as the men guarding the church doors drag her and her screaming children down the aisle, back out into the harsh Boston weather.
The doors slam behind her, and in the sudden silence, numbness creeps over me.I’m not an unreasonable man.If barring a single mother from every resource in the city because she was simply doing her job isn’t unreasonable, then this man is more psychopathic than I first thought.
The unease creeps up my neck. With Eleana out of the way, there are two more punishments to be dealt.
“Marcus Murphy.” My father’s name echoes around the church, a horrifying ring to it.
I’m not a religious girl. God never saved my mother and no matter how many carpet burns I got on my knees from praying at the foot of my bed, he never brought her back to save me.
