Filthy Sinner: The Sinners & Five Points’ Mob Crossover Novel

1

MARY CATHERINE

I was sixteen when I first saw the bikers.

Primarily, I noticed their rides outside our house in Westchester, where Daddy never stayed anymore and I had to hole up with Mother in suburban hell until he hauled us into the city for our ‘family duties.’ I.e., church with Father Doyle and his endless sermons.

Bleugh.

It was a surreal sight to behold, though.

Amid the pristine prettiness of ‘Stepford Wife Lane,’ the royal blue bike was riderless, but the owner had dared to drive over our lawn, leaving tire tracks behind that showed the earth beneath.

Mother was going to have a literal cow over that.

As for the other bike, it was a stark, bright red with a fire pattern on its body. The rider had been considerate, however. He was currently parked on the driveway, his head tilted down as he stared at his cell phone.

With that tousled mop of hair, he should’ve looked dirty, but he didn’t. Oh, his hair was definitely tangled and in need of a brush, and combined with the bushy beard, he certainly wasn’t as elegantly attired as I was used to guys appearing. 

Perhaps that was why he caught my eye and why I couldn’t stop staring as I walked toward my house.

With every step I took, the more I could see of him.

That mop on his head, which should have been a deterrent, doubled his appeal, and the massive biceps and how he filled out a Henley helped matters too. Enough that my curiosity at the reason behind the bikers’ presence in my driveway was minimal.

More focused on trying to catch as many glimpses of the stranger’s face as possible, I didn’t think about things like security or my mother’s safety…

That was when my BFF reminded me that we were on the phone together.

"Why are you ignoring me when you called me?"

I’m not ignoring you, Sarah, I breathed. There’s the hottest guy in the world sitting in my driveway.

"Sitting in your driveway, she repeated. What is he? A traveling salesman?"

My lips twitched as I studied the bike. I don’t know what he’d be selling if he were.

How hot is he? Jensen-hot or Harry Styles-hot?

I mock-gagged. Jensen isn’t hot. I don’t care if he’s the star QB or not.

His ass is beautiful.

Asses aren’t beautiful.

I swear you’re asexual.

Not a crime, is it? I snapped, even though I’d often thought the same thing about myself.

Well, until today.

Until this gorgeous specimen crossed my path.

He’s Charlie Hunnam-hot, I muttered, not letting her answer me.

She whistled. Take a picture?

The tapping of my heels against the sidewalk finally drew the man’s attention, and when our eyes clashed and held, I was sure I felt that connection in my soul.

God, had there ever been browner eyes?

They were both hard and soft, piercing yet uber aware.

I can’t take a picture, I gasped, trying to catch my breath. He can see me.

Are you having an asthma attack?

I didn’t think so, but it was only because she was marring the moment with her commentary.

For a second, with his gaze locked on mine, the link between us burned brightly, a solid connection that settled inside me.

That made something burn to life in my belly. 

That made my nipples tighten. 

Then his glance drifted, flying over my prep-school uniform, and I felt his dismissal to my bones.

Interest averted now that he saw I was jailbait, the stranger returned his focus to his cell phone.

Though disappointed, I appreciated the fact that he wasn’t a pervert. Plus, it gave me the chance to take in the ink on his throat and how his fingers were loaded with more tattoos. It let me absorb just how massive he was, those muscles in his shoulders bulging in a way that made me want to melt. Then, there was his size.

He was a giant.

He’d probably be able to lift me up with one hand.

Swoon.

He has muscles on top of muscles on top of muscles, Sarah, I keened.

Picture or it didn’t happen.

I heaved a sigh. Then it didn’t happen.

Share the spoils.

Nope.

That was when the front door burst open.

Another biker, this one with a buzz cut, stormed out of the house, slamming the door closed behind him with such force that I thought the front windows shuddered in response to his wrath.

Jesus Christ! What was that? Sarah demanded.

The stranger’s rage simmered along the airwaves, a visceral force that replaced my curiosity with fear. That cooled my budding arousal instantly. 

What the hell had I been thinking by walking toward the unfamiliar, scary biker and not running far, far away?

Daddy wasn’t here to protect us anymore. 

It wasn’t like he could come racing after this stranger to defend us all the way from Hell’s Kitchen. Heck, he might not have cared if I did contact him.

Mother had a guard, but because she spent most of her time at home drinking, he usually went off and did his own thing, and she never said a word because it meant she could bang the pool guy without it coming to Daddy’s attention. That mattered since he’d moved out and her allowance was under threat.

As for the neighbors, sure, they’d see what was happening, but would they care? Mother wasn’t popular and, by extension, neither was I. 

Should I call the cops?

The bikers didn’t seem to have done anything wrong, but they’d…

Why was he in my house?

Why was the second one waiting outside? 

MARY CATHERINE! What was that noise?

My front door. I-I, someone, I, he⁠—

Speak English.

Stop being a bitch, I retorted, but, much as always, she calmed me down.

The new guy didn’t notice me, but I couldn’t avoid noticing him. He sucked the oxygen from the air itself, much as my mother did when she was in one of her tempers. 

As terrifying as his wrath was, what stole the breath from my lungs were the similarities between the biker and my grandfather. 

What the hell? I whispered with a shaky exhalation. 

What is it?

This guy just came out of my house. He’s the one who slammed the front door closed. He’s an exact replica of my grandad.

The Vietnam veteran?

Yeah.

We had pictures of Grandad fresh from ‘Nam: head shaved, eyes haunted, body rippling with muscles but somehow gaunt too. As if something were eating him alive.

This guy was the same. 

It was even stranger because his current facial expression, as well as his features, were all my mother’s. Which, to be frank, would explain the matching tempers if nothing else. 

Finally, he glanced at me, but there was zero acknowledgment there. His dismissal was more abrupt than his friend’s.

Unlike the other guy, I didn’t mind escaping his attention.

Yet, as I wondered who the hell he was and why he was storming out of my house like he’d left a fire in his wake, he was jumping onto his bike, kicking his foot against the stand, and a second later, the engine was roaring to life with the iconic rumble that could only be…

Was that a Harley? Sarah blurted in my ear.

Let’s get the fuck out of here, the guy shouted, riding off.

That was when I saw the back of his leather vest which declared Satan’s Sinners’ MC, Mother Chapter, West Orange to the world. 

The other guy tucked his cell phone away and, without a single glance at me, took off as well.

With faint wistfulness, aware I’d never see him again, I watched the guy go, noticing that his vest sported the Sinners’ patch too. 

West Orange? I knew that town.

When you said he looked like Charlie Hunnam, what you really meant was that he’s Jax Teller in the flesh, she teased.

A brown-haired one, I muttered as the world returned to normal around me.

Can’t believe you didn’t send me a picture, she said with a pout, but I ignored her.

In under five minutes, the boring ‘burbs had been stirred to life before the vibrancy of the unusual faded away, shifting it back to the perpetual state of deadly dullness.

Of course, when I thought about that biker’s wrathful expression, deadly might be more apt than I realized.

He was so angry, I murmured in a daze. So like Mother.

Could they be related? A cousin or something?

I don’t think so. But, maybe?

If they have matching tempers, can you imagine the argument you missed? She released a heavy exhalation. Didn’t she throw a vase at your dad the last time they argued?

I nodded, though she couldn’t see it. He moved out the next day.

Mother hadn’t hurt the biker—I’d seen no sign of injury on his person.

Had the stranger who shared my features hurt her?

Your mom could piss off a Buddhist monk.

I had to snort. And make a saint pull out their hair.

My brain whirred as Sarah demanded, "It’s one thing for someone who looks and acts like Miss American Bitchface to come racing out of your house, but bikers? And, why were the Charlie Hunnam and Grandad impostors at your place?"

How should I know?

Are you safe, Mary Catherine? Should I call the cops?

I rubbed my forehead. No! They’ve gone now. You heard their bikes.

I wasn’t sure why I did it, had no real idea what made me retrace my steps to the bus stop, but my body took control of the situation for me.

It’s taking you a while to get to the house, Sarah said dubiously. What’s going on?

I’m not going inside. Yet.

Huh. Why not?

Could I tell her?

Should I?

You know I hate her.

She’s a bitch. Everyone hates her, was Sarah’s dismissive retort. I bet God hates her too.

I ignored that. What if he killed her? Sarah fell silent so I continued, You didn’t see his face⁠—

Because you didn’t take a picture.

No, it was Grandad, not Charlie. Grandad-guy was furious, Sarah. Honestly, just like how Mother gets.

What are you thinking?

Maybe he killed her, I said in a rush.

I think that’s wishful thinking, Mary Catherine, was my best friend’s dubious yet judgment-free response. Everyone wants our bullies to drop dead, but no matter how hard we pray, it never comes true. Elizabeth Ferrier would have died five years ago if that were the case.

I grimaced because she was right, but how often did anyone from a group called the ‘Satan’s Sinners’ come to Westchester?

Maybe it was my lucky day.

So, what? You’re taking the long route home so that if she’s in the middle of croaking it, you can’t fuck things up by saving her?

My cheeks tinged bright red—the curse of being auburn. When you put it like that, it sounds bad.

She snorted. Because it is? Still no judgment, though.

It let me whisper, I’d be free of her.

Ugh. True. She’s such a bitch. She has everyone but me hating you in school.

Hurt washed through me as I started back toward the house. I know.

And at church, they all avoid you like you have leprosy.

I’m well aware, I grumbled. You don’t need to rub salt in the wound.

Just keeping it real. She hummed. "Hey, if the bitch is dead, you’d be able to move in with your dad. And we’d be closer. His house is only two blocks away from mine."

The hurt faded and was replaced with hope. That would be awesome.

"On the other hand, if the biker did kill her, then you’re fucked because you’re a loose end."

That’s tomorrow’s problem.

She snickered. It’s a pretty big problem but I’ll hide you under my bed. Don’t worry.

My smile was feeble. Either way, if she’s dead or not, it’s best if she doesn’t know that I saw what I saw.

I don’t know what you saw.

Me either, but she wouldn’t have wanted me to see it. Whatever it was.

Confusing.

Definitely. But you know what she’s like.

Spiteful? Cruel? Vindictive? Makes the Wicked Witch of the West look warm and cuddly?

Yeah. All that. But she’s secretive as heck too. I sucked in a breath as I walked along the garden path toward the front door. I’m here, I mumbled. I’d better go.

Keep me on the line. If she’s dead and you have to find her body, you’ll need moral support.

I had to reason that both of us were so blasé about my mother’s potential murder because we were the spawn of the Irish Mob—the Five Points.

Well, that, and Mother truly was horrible.

I didn’t think Father Doyle liked her and he was a priest—he had to treat everyone with the same amount of disdain apart from Uncle Aidan, the head of the Five Points, of course.

Okay, I’m going in.

One small step for man, Sarah teased, one giant step for Mary Catherine.

Ignoring her, I opened the door then called out, I’m home!

There was silence. 

My heart started pounding. 

Hope spilled inside me. 

"Maybe she is dead? Sarah whispered. Just think, with her gone, you might make up with your dad?"

Grief splintered inside me.

Sarah had a habit of hitting the nail on the head. If I didn’t love her, I’d probably hate her for her candor.

He sees her when he looks at me, I whispered miserably. All the stunts she’s pulled and everything she’s done to hurt him… I-I remind him of all that. The affairs and the arguments and the harsh words. The spite and the laziness and the bitterness. I bit my lip. She’s hell to live with. I never blamed him for moving out.

I mean, I didn’t either, but it sucks that he ignores you like he does. It’s so irrational to pin her shit on you just because you inherited her DNA.

I didn’t disagree, but Sarah had only heard about everything Mother had done secondhand. She hadn’t witnessed it for herself.

When I heard Mother’s stiletto heels clattering against the marble tiles, my heart sank. That noise came first as those spindly shoes clacked down the hall.

Ah, shit. I hear her shoes. Fuck. Sarah sighed noisily in my ear. Maybe next time?

I swallowed. Maybe. I gotta go.

Call me later?

Will do.

By the time I was shoving my phone in my pocket, she was there.

Mother was always dressed to impress even though I was the only one who saw her some days.

She kept herself too thin and encouraged me to be the same. Size 0 was too fat for her, but it was starting to weather badly. Her features were looking haggard, and the amount of wine she drank was beginning to creep up on her.

I’d tried to love her, but she wasn’t particularly lovable, so I’d stopped when I was five.

Something she reminded me of as she hissed, You’re late!

My brow furrowed. Barely. Is it my fault the bus was five minutes behind schedule?

She narrowed her eyes at me. What happened? Why was it late?

Jeez, I don’t know. It just was. There was traffic. I stared at her. Is everything okay? She was riled up, and I knew why. Not that she was going to share that with me.

When she hissed some bullshit at me about always being tardy, I knew I’d been wise to play innocent about the bikers in our front yard.

I didn’t know why it was a secret, just knew that it was.

She didn’t normally give a damn about what time I got home, but today was clearly different thanks to those bikers… 

Two days later, when I checked the letters on the stand that Mary, our maid, had placed there when she collected the mail that morning, I saw a bubble-wrapped envelope with my name on it, and I got a ‘sort of’ answer and a ‘sort of’ confirmation about why she was worried.

Tucked around a cheap cell phone, there was a slip of paper with a note inscribed on it that read:

You don’t know me, but I know you, Mary Catherine.

I’m Padraig. Your half-brother. We’ve met before, but I doubt you remember.

Anyway, we both know she’s insane. You can reach me on the cell phone if you ever need me, but I hope for your sake you never do.

Good luck. 

Sin (Padraig)

As much as his letter and his existence rocked my world, he’d never know that that phone would become my lifeline. 

That it would be the light at the end of the tunnel...

2

MARY CATHERINE

HYSTERIA - MUSE

HELL’S KITCHEN, NEW YORK

PRESENT DAY

It’s time for you to get married, Mary Catherine.

As crazy as he sounded, and as crazy as I was for not reacting, I knew the rest of my life hinged on this moment.

My reaction to his statement was pivotal.

Over the last few years, Daddy had morphed into Dad then into Father as his bitterness grew, his hatred for my mother alongside it.

As a result, while his declaration should have had me bursting into tears, I remained calm. 

Losing my shit would get me nowhere.

So, instead of rushing to the bathroom to puke, and rather than hurling my plate at the wall in a tantrum, I scooped up some chicken noodle soup and raised the spoon to my mouth.

His tone brokered no argument—defiance wouldn’t serve a purpose in this interaction. But that didn’t mean I was about to roll over and take whatever bullshit he was handing out.  

Not this time.

Him dictating what I wore and which college I went to was different than him deciding my future husband.

Swallowing the small puddle of broth on my spoon was like asking me to chug down Niagara Falls, but I managed it then asked, When?

He arched a brow at me. That’s your only question?

What else is there to ask? I queried, shooting him a calm, polite smile while trying to exude the elegance he demanded from me.

Elegance he insisted my mother didn’t have. 

Elegance that appeased him and made him a tolerable dinner partner. 

Who your groom is, of course. When I didn’t leap to ask him, he stated, Bill Murphy.

Inside, I felt everything youthful in me shrivel up as if I were on the brink of death. 

He eyed me, a challenge in his expression as if he knew what I was thinking, as if he longed for my reaction.

As if he wanted to punish me for it. 

Bill Murphy was closer to sixty than fifty, older than my father by a good ten years, and had six dead wives to his name.

Aside from the rumors of him being a very merry widower, rumors that were pretty goddamn bad on their own, I didn’t think he had a reputation for being cruel.

He’d always been pleasant to me when he came over for dinner. By comparison to my father, he’d probably be the lesser evil. 

Jesus. 

What had I ever done to deserve the lesser evil? 

I wanted to ask him why he hated me so much, enough to tie me to a man that old, to a man who had married six times already, but he wouldn’t answer.

The past taught me that much. 

My fate had been sealed a long time ago.

I was a broodmare.

I’d learned that the hard way, but I’d hoped it would be with somebody I knew and who was of my generation, not my grandfather’s. Somebody I could at least tolerate.

There were young Five Pointers. Not all of them had a marital history worthy of The Oprah Winfrey Show. He could have married me off to Jonny Kendall or Cade Frasier. Men I’d been raised with. Both jackasses and loyal to the Five Points but, because of their ages, due to marry.

That he hadn’t chosen them was a punishment in itself. 

But the punishment wasn’t mine.

Like always, it was aimed at my mother, then at me for daring to share her genes, but she wasn’t the one who would be dealing with the aftermath of this.

I was.

This was my future. 

She’d already ruined hers by screwing around on my father and now was a prisoner in her own home. By passing on her DNA to me, she might have destroyed my life too…

But I wasn’t going to take this lying down.

I refused to.

Carefully, I placed the spoon between my lips and carried on eating the chicken broth. 

Aren’t you excited? he derided, his satisfaction clear even though my lack of reaction appeared to annoy him. Isn’t this what every girl wants? Bill is quite a catch. He’s high up in the ranks. You’ll be able to rub shoulders with the O’Donnellys as his bride.

We’re related to them. If it hasn’t happened by now— I almost wanted to slap myself for the retort because reminding him of our low status was a recipe for disaster.

Shit. 

We were related to the leaders of the Five Points—through Mother. 

That link should have been enough to have them invite us to all the big events including Finn and Aoife O’Grady’s wedding, but we hadn’t been because of two or ten fuckups on his part.

He’d been complaining about that ever since. It didn’t matter that the day had ended in a bloodbath. He’d just resented the lack of an invitation.

Seeing his ears turn red with rage, quickly, I added, But of course, you’re right. I hope that my marriage will be… I hope… Finish the sentence, Mary Catherine. Finish it! Now! Before he gets even more suspicious than he already is. I hope it serves our family well.

His eyes widened, and his shoulders straightened. But his mouth didn’t pinch, and the usual sight of his anger didn’t blast me like flames from a dragon’s maw. No, if anything, he stunned me by actually smiling.

It had been so long since I saw that smile that I almost expected him to leap from the table, hand raised to slap me.

But he didn’t.

He smiled at me, and it was genuine.

Which was terrifying.

I felt my stomach start churning with nausea as I recognized the precariousness of my situation.

I’d pleased him. Pleasing him was always short-lived.

My 4.0 GPA, the scholarship to NYU, the high grades, and the accolades I’d already started to accrue in my Urban Design and Architecture Studies course—none of those things had earned me a smile. 

This did.

Our family’s future rested on my ovaries. Ovaries he was going to tie to Bill Murphy.

God help me.

I’m so pleased you agree, Father drawled, but his tone was content, cordial, and he picked up his spoon and continued eating.

A good sign. The best, actually. 

He’d come prepared for