Trust Me: A Mafia Romance (Monsters

of Boston Book 1) Reina Bell

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 Trust Me by Reina Bell
Published by Reina Bell

www.authorreinabell.com
Copyright © 2024 Reina Bell
ISBN: 979-8-9854184-6-0 (Digital)
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other
electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Lori Jackson Design
Cover Model: Lawrence Templar
Photographer: Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf www.michellelancaster.com
Interior Design and Formatting by Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design
Editing by Caroline Acebo
Proofreading by Liz Gilbeau
TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE
BOOKS BY REINA BELL
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
ABOUT THIS BOOK
FROM THE AUTHOR
TO THE READER
TRUST ME PLAYLIST
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MONSTERS OF BOSTON
Trust Me
SOUNDS OF THE CITY
Kismet
Adagio (Coming 2024)
STANDALONE
New & Unbroken
To my son—a gifted and talented writer—thank you for helping me choose the title.
I can’t wait to read all your future screenplays, buddy.
Love, Mom
(this is where you can stop reading now)
 The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.
—Edgar Allan Poe
A woman’s highest calling is to lead a man to his soul so as to unite him with Source.
A man’s highest calling is to protect woman so she is free to walk the earth unharmed.
—Cherokee Proverb
 MONSTERS ARE NOT BORN
After the death of her husband, young mob princess Willa Callahan returns to her hometown of Boston, where another marriage
awaits her. Her fiancé is Raphael Flynn, who’s just taken over the Flynn Syndicate—and the city. But just because Willa left
Ireland doesn’t mean that the dangers she once faced have followed suit. Her soon-to-be family is teeming with secrets and
betrayals—the kind that brought a vicious end to her charmed childhood and snuffed out her parents’ lives. Willa is determined
to get to the bottom of what happened to them, come hell, high water, or the most terrifying enforcer Boston has ever seen—the
man her father trained years ago.

THEY ARE CREATED

Lucifer Flynn is cold, calculating, and without human emotion. He’s earned a wicked reputation through blood, sweat, and tears
—other people’s, of course. As his brother’s right-hand man, Lucifer keeps the peace with breathtaking violence. But what he
lacks in empathy he makes up for with ruthless devotion to his clan and an uncanny ability to analyze people and situations. He
knows the naive Willa from his memory is no more. In her place is a beautiful but hardened woman who stirs something . . .
unfamiliar within him. She’s up to something—and is clearly in over her head—but he must stay vigilant, for Raphael’s new
reign has shaken up the power structure among the crime families, and new threats are emerging.
But sometimes the most dangerous people are the people you love. The ones you would give your life for . . .
This dark romantic suspense novel is recommended for readers age 18 and older due to mature content. It takes place in the
world of organized crime.
Please visit www.AuthorReinaBell.com for a full list of trigger warnings. Note that these trigger warnings may be spoiler-ish.
I left a part of my soul within the pages of this book.
It’s an honor to share it with you.
xo, RB
 CLICK HERE
“I’m Shipping Up to Boston”—Dropkick Murphys
“Red Right Hand”—Laura Marling
“Broken Bones”—KALEO
“Hold Me Down”—Halsey
“Creep [Explicit]”—Radiohead
“Quiet”—MILCK
“Ashes”—Claire Guerreso
“Sweet but Psycho”—Ava Max
“Where the Devil Don’t Go”—Elle King
“1000 Times”—Sara Bareilles
“Graveyard”—Halsey
“Start a War”—Klergy with Valerie Broussard
“God Is a Woman [Explicit]”—Ariana Grande
“Take Me to Church”—MILCK
“Devil’s Backbone”—The Civil Wars
“Look What You Made Me Do”—Taylor Swift
“God’s Gonna Cut You Down”—Kevin Lovatt
“Unsteady (Erich Lee Gravity Remix)”—X Ambassadors
“Start A Riot”—Banners
“I Walk on Water”—KALEO
“Unholy War”—Jacob Banks
 Willa
Age 7

“But, Da,” I pouted, “I’m literally starving.”

I flashed my father a smile showing off all the new teeth I’d grown since I’d started the second grade at St. Joseph’s
Catholic Academy last month.
“I heard you all ten times on the way here.” He grinned as he ruffled my messy hair. “We’ll go to Dunks for doughnuts
and hot chocolate after my meeting.” He lifted my chin with a gentle touch, but his blue eyes stared into mine with a look he
only gave me when he was being super serious. “Now go play in the garden—but stay out of the apple tree. Your mother will
break my fucking balls if you get hurt.”
I shoved my hand in front of him, eyes wide. “Pay up.”
My father sighed as he dug into his pocket. He grumbled something that made me think he now owed me two dollars
instead of one.
“Do you make your mother do this too?” he asked.
“Ma doesn’t curse.”
“Fuck that, she doesn’t curse my—”
I coughed like I’d choked on his swear word.
My father’s nostrils got real big, and then I had a twenty-dollar bill stacked on top of the one. “That should fucking cover
me for the weekend,” he growled before heading down a hallway toward the giant room he called Mr. Flynn’s study.
Mr. Flynn lived in a palace in Boston. He even had guards like he was a king or a sultan in one of my Disney movies.
When I begged hard enough, my mother would let me spend a whole entire weekend at my father’s apartment. But in all those
sleepovers, this was only the second time we’d ever made a pit stop to visit Mr. Flynn. I hoped that, like last time, Da would
bribe me with sugar and Barbies not to tell Ma.
I had a pretty good idea why my mother didn’t want me hanging out at Mr. Flynn’s. Mack Carroll, a sixth-grader who
rode my school bus, once told me that Mr. Flynn was a mega-rich bad guy who ruled over Boston and that my father was one of
his captains. But not a good-guy captain like Imogen Patterson’s father, who visited our class on Veteran’s Day last year.
No. My father, Mack told me, was a bad guy.
A real bad guy.
Mack said Da chopped off two of his uncle’s fingers because he’d gotten “too handsy” with one of the ladies at a place
called The Ruby Slipper. I didn’t know what that meant, but when I asked Da if it was an “eye for an eye” sort of thing, he
laughed and told me I was definitely his daughter.
On Sundays, I asked Father O’Brien to forgive my father’s sins, but I never admitted that I secretly hoped he’d continue
to curse until I had enough money saved to buy a pony.
I watched my father’s back as he walked away. My hands turned into fists. “If I were a boy, I’d be allowed to climb the
apple tree!”
“Feet stay on the ground, dollface!” my father called over his shoulder.
I hated that nickname. My dolls always broke eventually, even the really expensive ones that Da bought me for Christmas
every year.
I was not a doll.
I stomped toward the doors leading to the garden. My angry steps only lasted a few strides, and then I was skipping past
a couple of tough-looking guys who both wore ugly scowls and big guns. I waved at them as I passed. They grunted something
back to me using words I didn’t understand, but I smiled anyway.
I broke into a run the moment I was outside only to stop quick when I spotted someone standing by the apple tree. I
twisted my fingers together behind my back and took baby steps toward the stranger. He was barefoot on the wet grass, and he
wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was the middle of October.
What a weirdo.
A tattoo covered most of his back. I heard Sister Alice’s shrieky voice in my head telling me it was unholy to stare at a
half-naked man, but the picture on his skin made it hard for me to look away—a kneeling angel with his wings wrapped around
himself.
A fallen angel.
I crept toward him, careful that I didn’t make a peep. My father said I had the tread of a mountain lion—that’s how easy it
was for me to sneak up on him. Once, he’d pointed a gun at me when I’d gone into the kitchen for a cup of water. He’d forgotten
that I was in his apartment and that he’d tucked me into bed just three hours earlier.
I went home a hundred bucks richer that weekend.
A puff of smoke rose from around the man’s head. “Who’s there?” a deep voice asked.
I froze midstep. He’d heard me. The stranger had superpowers.
“Two thousand and nine,” I told him, planting my feet.
He turned around.
That’s when I realized he wasn’t a man-man like my father—he was a teenager. A wicked-tall teenager.
His lips were a straight line. “Interesting name.”
I covered my mouth with my hand as I giggled.
He didn’t giggle back.
I wasn’t used to that. My mother was silly, and we laughed together all the time. My father made more faces than Genie
in Aladdin. Even the nuns at school cracked a smile most days. But this boy? It was like he was wearing a mask.
A really boring mask.
“That’s the year,” I corrected. “And since it’s two thousand and nine, you should know better than to smoke cigarettes.
That stuff will kill you.”
The boy with the green eyes continued to look at me as though I were wearing an invisibility cloak. He didn’t speak. He
didn’t move. Was he breathing?
He wrapped his lips around his cancer stick, and the tip burned red.
He’s breathing.
I sighed. “You’re just like my da. You don’t believe me, but it’s true. Your lungs will turn black, and you’ll die. They told
me so in school.”
Disgusting fumes blew from his mouth, and I wrinkled my nose.
“Who’s your da?”
I stood a little taller. “Jack Callahan.”
Couldn’t he tell? Everyone said I had my father’s eyes. Sometimes Ma said I had his attitude too.
He raised an eyebrow. I’d made the mask move. Grinning, I told him, “He’s taking me shopping for my Halloween
costume today.” He was rude and didn’t ask what I was going to be, so I decided to tell him anyway. “I’m going to be Taylor
Swift.”
“Who’s Taylor Swift?”
He had to be joking. Though he didn’t seem like a funny kind of boy.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Why would I do that?”
He was getting weirder by the minute, but for some reason, I wanted to keep talking to him.
“Taylor Swift is only the most famous singer of all time.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. It happened so fast that if I’d blinked, I would have missed it. I knew the beginnings
of a smile when I saw them.
 “What are you going to be on Halloween?” I asked.
He tilted his head. Something in my tummy told me to take a step back, but I didn’t.
“A monster,” he finally answered.
Goose bumps popped up on my arms. “D-do you already have your costume?”
“I don’t need one.”
I frowned, but he didn’t say anything more.
He’s not very friendly, is he?
Even if he didn’t want to be friends, maybe he could at least help me out. Giving him the same big grin that usually
worked on my father, I asked, “Would you pick me an apple from the tree? My da doesn’t want me to climb it.”
The boy reached with his free hand, and he picked the biggest, reddest one. He held it out to me, and I paused, my eyes
drifting back and forth from his stone face to the fruit I’d been forbidden to eat.
As I carefully took the apple from his grip, he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Willa. What’s yours?”
The boy flicked his cigarette to the ground, and then crushed it with his bare foot while he continued to watch me.
“Lucifer.”
Without wiping the apple on my shirt, I took a bite.
 Lucifer
13 Years Later

A tooth skidded across the concrete floor.

I wiped my bloodied knuckles with a rag. The last punch had slipped. The next one wouldn’t.
I rammed my fist into the bridge of Dimitri Molotov’s nose. The chair he was bound to rocked backward before settling
on four legs again.
The Maritime Industrial Park warehouse in Southie served as more than the Flynn Syndicate’s armory and cargo storage.
It was also an excellent location to make our enemies spill their guts—figuratively and literally. These walls had witnessed
atrocities that braver men who’d fought legitimate wars hadn’t had to endure.
Our adversaries were infinite. For the Flynns to remain the most formidable and most feared crime family east of New
York, we needed to sustain our savage tactics.
The Russian spat a wad of congealed blood as fresh vital liquid poured from his nostrils. He glared at me from under
swollen eyelids that had turned a deep shade of purple. “It was the fucking Albanians!”
I drew my Glock 22 from its back holster and undid the safety. Leaning forward, I pressed the muzzle into the soft flesh
of the inside of his knee.
Molotov spewed Russian fury.
At this angle, I’d rip the entire joint to shreds with one perfectly placed bullet.
“I am the son of the fucking Pakhan!” he choked out. “You Irish bastard!”
Given my disposition and line of work, facts were the currency I dealt in. His first statement was truth. His second—a
fucking lie.
Indeed, he was the son of Kostya Molotov, the head of Boston’s Bratva.
But I was the son of an Irish Mob boss—the Ceann na Conairte—Lachlan Flynn and his departed wife, Nessa. My
parents were wed in a traditional Catholic ceremony at Boston’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral in 1990. Two fucking years before I
was born.
I was many despicable things, but an Irish bastard was not one of them.
An image of the Virgin Mary statue covered in my mother’s blood swam in my vision.
I pulled the trigger once for the erroneous name-calling. Then I shot out the Russian’s other kneecap for making me recall
my mother’s untimely death.
His body went limp from shock.
That was a fucking fact.
“Go home. I’ll take care of this motherfucker.”
 My head swiveled in the direction of Keegan’s voice. Our gazes met, and I nodded. I was already late for Sunday supper
—a Flynn family tradition.
As a captain and first-in-command over the foot soldiers, Keegan Kane didn’t attend most Sunday dinners even though I
considered him a brother. Someone needed to stay alert while those of us at the top checked out for a few hours each week.
“Tomorrow’s the big day, right?” Intrigue lit up his face.
My jaw spasmed, and I offered him a grunt of affirmation.
Keegan tied off a tourniquet around the femoral artery of Molotov’s left leg, then went to work on the right one. “I can’t
fucking believe that for the first time in ten years, the Flynns and Brennans are having a sit-down. If your father could see—”
“He can’t fucking see,” I stated.
Keegan righted himself. The corners of his eyes creased. “I know, man—it’s a figure of speech.” He shook his head.
“Raphael is really getting hitched. Never thought I’d see the day. To a fucking Brennan—to a widow—no less.”
A week ago, I would have concurred with his assessment of my twin brother. Yet here we were.
“Doesn’t matter if she’s a Brennan, a widow”—Molotov’s discarded molar crunched beneath my boot—“or the fucking
tooth fairy . . . she’s still a woman capable of producing an heir and unifying two Irish crime dynasties.” The words felt
treasonous on my tongue regardless of their accuracy.
Keegan rested his hands on his hips, engrossed in our conversation about Raphael’s pending nuptials and forgetting about
the nearly dead heir to the Russian throne in front of us.
I kicked Molotov’s foot, and he groaned.
He’d live. For now.
I wasn’t convinced the Russians hadn’t intercepted our latest shipment of artillery from New York, but that would have to
wait.
I was fucking late for Sunday supper.
“Finn dig up her deets yet?” Keegan pressed.
As gifted as I was at inflicting pain, my cousin was a genius when it came to technology. But in his effort to glean
anything of value about the widow, Finn had only learned that Colin Brennan, the youngest of the three Brennan brothers, was
his equal in that regard. The identity of Widow Brennan was as elusive as a sober Irishman.
“No,” I bit out. “All we know is her age. Even for the Brennans, it’s shady as fuck.” I shifted my gaze to watch Keegan’s
pending reaction, knowing I was about to make his goddamn night. “Raphael’s heading into this marriage blinder than our
father in his current state.”
Keegan smirked. “Nice. You cracked a joke, Lucifer. I knew you had it in you.” Then he winced. “A bit dark, and the
delivery was rather dry, but, fuck, I’m proud of you, man. This feels like the kind of moment where we should bro-hug.”
I ignored Keegan’s appraisal and reconsidered his status in our ranks as I began packing up my unused toolkit.
“Finn told me she’s ten years younger than you and the boss,” he said, citing the one detail that Raphael had been granted
about his future wife.
Hearing our childhood friend refer to my brother as the boss was foreign—but not unexpected.
Tension slithered under my skin. “Accurate.” I shrugged off the sensation and shrugged on my leather jacket. “She turned
twenty last week.”
“Damn. Raphael’s basically robbing the cradle.”
I glanced up. “Tiernan fucking Brennan robbed the cradle when he married her on her eighteenth birthday. The fucker
was thirty-nine.”
Keegan’s face contorted in a way that told me he also found the idea of a grown man marrying a teenager, albeit a legal
one, repulsive. Heir to the Brennan Syndicate or not, Tiernan was Irish, not fucking Italian.
“So he’s the one that—uh, Jack . . . right?”
“Aye,” I growled.
The mention of my former mentor and friend threatened to trigger something rare—an emotional reaction. With a flex of
my fists, I suppressed my lapse in self-discipline for the sake of the family. I couldn’t go into the first sit-down in a decade
between the Flynns and the Brennans with fucking feelings.
Keegan was just an errand boy for my father when the Brennan family visit that would forever go down in infamy had
taken place. He’d heard the stories, but that’s all they were to him.
I, on the other hand, had fucking lived it.
“Tiernan’s only been dead for three months,” Keegan remarked. “Hard to believe she’s marrying Raph so soon of her
own free will.”
I turned to him, reclaiming my inner calmness at the intersection of common sense and what I knew firsthand from being
raised in a Mob family. “She’s been a Brennan for two years, which means she’s long since accepted her fate—however Aiden
Brennan sees fit to bend it to his will.”
There was no denying that my brother and Ireland’s foremost boss—the widow’s current father-in-law—were as
business savvy as they were merciless. Both families anticipated the financial windfall and influx of power that would follow
once Raphael and Widow Brennan were married. Our stronghold in the Northeast was an international trade route away from
surpassing what any Irish-American crime syndicate had ever accomplished. And the Brennans would benefit from the
dependable shipments our stateside channels and connections with the Mejia Cartel could provide.
A win-win, so long as the past stayed exactly where it was—at the bottom of the Charles River. An executive order that
had come down from both bosses.
The one thing both sides could agree on was the future.
Not having a daughter of his own, Aiden Brennan had gained a silver lining when he’d lost an heir: a chess piece worthy
of sending overseas. Widow Brennan was the fucking queen, and Raphael had been chosen to be her king. That made her the
most powerful player on the board, even if it was Aiden Brennan calling the shots.
Widow Brennan wasn’t just my future sister-in-law—she was the linchpin in the Flynn and Brennan crime-family merger.
Keegan jerked his chin at me. “Tiernan fell off his horse and broke his neck, right?”
“Aye.”
He failed to hold back a lopsided grin. “Bet it was a high horse.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I shook my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the club.”
The sound of rustling plastic echoed as I moved toward the exit.
“Where am I ditching this piece of shit?” he called after me.
“Brighton. The doorstep of Kostya’s whorehouse.” The Pakhan should consider it a gift that I was returning his son with
blood still flowing in his veins.
“If this fucker bleeds out in my Hummer, you’re gonna owe me, bro.”
My feet came to an abrupt halt. I turned back and leveled my friend with a hard look. “If that fucker bleeds out on your
watch, you’re gonna have bigger problems than needing to get your rig detailed, bro.”
Keegan chuckled. “You better be careful, Lucifer. You’re almost developing a personality.”
Now that was fucking funny. And one crime I’d never be accused of.

I’d parked the Range Rover inside the sprawling Brookline estate within twenty minutes of leaving Keegan with cleanup duty.
It was the middle of February. Layers of snow and ice still covered every outdoor surface, and it’d been hours since the sun
had set.
A few soldiers moved through the shadows of the winter evening, patrolling the grounds—a new addition since Raphael
had become acting boss. A change of the guard and the reshuffling of the ranks had a way of making even the most commanding
families vulnerable.
I’d only made it into the grand foyer when Liam Black, another of my chosen brothers and Raphael’s personal guard,
appeared in front of me. “Did you get my texts, mate?”
“Aye.”
His first text demanding my presence at supper had arrived just as I’d started working over Molotov. His latest had
simply read: You best be dead motherfucker.
“You missed supper with the commissioner and the congressman. Raph is none too pleased with your arse,” he chided.
Since our father had traded his seat at the head of the table for a hospital bed in the master suite, unexpected dinner
guests had become more common. Boston Police Commissioner Owen Quill and Congressman Theodore O’Malley were just
the latest to secure what every corrupt official desired—an invite to dine with Boston’s elite crime family.
Fucking hypocrisy at its finest.
Liam gripped my shoulder and gave me a knowing look. “I’ll deal with your brother. Go wash the stench of Russian off
you and join us for drinks when you’re done.”
I trusted he’d handle the situation as I would—efficiently and without sentiment.
Liam and I had a similar ice running through our veins. Mine I’d earned through self-punishment; his came by way of a
strict upbringing by a father who’d served in the Irish army, a nun for a nanny, and Irish tutors who’d ensured he sounded like
he’d been reared in the Old Country and not Boston.
With a brief word of gratitude, I turned and headed straight for the imperial staircase, knowing full well I’d get hell from
Raphael for being late. But all would be forgiven after I told him that though the Russian confession never came, the Irish
message had been sent.
I paused when I reached the landing between the first and second story. I kneeled before the Virgin Mary statue and did
the sign of the cross.
“Forgive me, Máthair,” I prayed to a ghost that I knew could not reply.
My head rose to meet the fixed gaze carved in marble. Shame wrapped around my lungs.
 I stood and sprinted in the direction of my father’s wing on the second floor as though I were being chased by a monster.
But it wasn’t monsters that I ran from—my sins, yes, but never monsters—because I was the deadliest thing that lurked in
the night.
The Flynn family’s very own fallen angel.
The fucking lord of Boston’s underworld.
The one who fed on the pain and suffering of the damned—or so they said.
My father’s nurse scurried away from his bedside when I entered the master suite. She was young and attractive, and I
knew that Raphael had been fucking her every chance he got.
“Leave,” I demanded through the remnants of my self-loathing.
After she’d disappeared into the hallway, I took my father’s warm hand and pressed my lips to the emerald stone that
rested on his bony digit. It had been moved to the middle finger—another sign that my father continued to deteriorate despite
around-the-clock medical care from his live-in nurse and regular visits by the family physician.
“The Russians paid in blood tonight, Athair.”
The only response was the same desperate breath I’d been listening to since I’d returned from a routine trip to
Providence four months ago to find that my father had suffered a stroke. Fluid bags with his daily infusion of vitamins hung by
his bedside, and soon, he’d be fed via a permanent tube that’d been placed in his abdomen.
I swallowed something that resembled grief cloaked in pity.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I didn’t have to look to know it was Raphael and that Liam had informed him of my
arrival. A weighted sigh escaped my lips. I’d have rather spent the next few hours in an underground mixed martial arts arena
fighting my inner demons disguised as Boston’s best fighters, but alas, duty called.
Leaving my father’s bedroom, I glanced at the timid nurse studying the herringbone floor. Her cheeks flushed when I
passed. No doubt it was out of fear. There wasn’t a soul who walked these halls who didn’t know the story of the deadly twin.
I wondered if Raphael had informed her about his bride-to-be and if he intended to be faithful. The nurse was just a fuck
to him. They all were.
Not that it mattered.
Raphael and the widow were marrying for the greater good, not for love.
For the first time in my life, I thanked God for the two minutes that my twin brother had on me.
I’d gnaw off my right hand before I married a fucking Brennan.
 Lucifer
“Do you think O’Malley took the bait?” Raphael leaned back into the leather armchair, resting an ankle on his opposite knee.
After a necessary shower, I’d joined Raphael, Liam, and Finn for a nightcap in the study. My brother was eager to
debrief me on the scheming and plotting that had gone down in my absence with the commissioner and congressman, including
all the ways he intended to exploit the dark underbelly of Boston. Drugs, extortion, gambling, and guns; our money-laundering
strategy was a fine-tuned enterprise in and of itself, and now Raphael wanted to play middleman for one of Boston’s most
influential politicians and the Mejia Cartel—for a healthy cut, of course.
The corners of Finn’s mouth curled into a cocky grin. “Did you see how big his fucking eyes got when I showed him the
numbers? No doubt we’ll have his campaign in business with Mejia by the end of the week.”
Raphael rattled the ice in his tumbler. “Do you have time in your schedule to facilitate, or shall we inquire about Red
Murphy’s nephew? He’ll graduate from MIT in a couple months, and Red said he wants in. We could consider him for our IT
needs and that’ll free up your time to focus on the finances. Boston has a reserve of crooked public servants waiting for us to
call them to the table.” Raphael glanced around the room, boasting an air of self-importance. “We’re sitting on a fucking
untapped gold mine, gentlemen.”
Finn shook his head. “All set for now, boss.”
I knew firsthand my cousin was content in his position and had no desire for less responsibility. He was a workaholic
who thrived on spending his days shut in his skyscraper apartment downtown with his face plastered to a computer monitor or
between a woman’s thighs.
“Very well,” Raphael replied. “Should that change, I trust you’ll let me know.” He stroked his Burberry tie. “Changing
lanes—Quill’s taking care of the docks. Trade routes won’t be a problem on either end. By being in bed with the Brennans”—
he took a leisurely sip of liquor—“no pun intended, we achieve instant credibility with outside syndicates wishing to do
business with Boston. We need alliances however we can get them. Word on the street is that after the Russians, the fucking
Italians are now waiting with bated breath to take their shot at us.”
Mention of the Brennans charged my blood with contempt, but I held my tongue. I’d done my best to avoid letting my true
feelings on the merger be known to anyone, especially my brother. Call it innate or call it irrational, but I harbored a special
kind of hatred reserved for those connected with the Brennan name, including the woman I’d never met.
Was I shocked that Raphael hadn’t consulted with me, at the very least, before agreeing to marry the widow? Not
entirely. Was I insulted? No. Hurt? Perhaps.
“You may need to add the Albanians to that list,” I suggested, hiding the effects of my internal reflections with a casual
tone.
Raphael waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. They’re nothing more than fishermen with bargain-basement guns and
frail backbones. They’re hardly worth the salary we’re paying our foot soldiers to keep them in line.”
“Not according to Molotov. Two knees were the price he paid for his convictions.”
Liam cursed.
Finn whistled.
Raphael chuckled. “You kneecapped the son of the Pakhan?”
I raised an eyebrow.
Raphael’s laughter of approval boomed. “I’ll hand it to you, brother—you really are a savage fuck with lead balls.”
Could he offer an alternative as effective? How else was I to deal with the surplus of useless emotions trying to surface
in light of the Brennans’ pending arrival?
“The Albanians,” I stated.
“Are a waste of our resources.”
When I didn’t respond, Raphael let out an irritated sigh. “Let it go, Lucifer. The Albanians didn’t steal our fucking gun
shipment. Their business is crack and whatever the cartel has on sale.”
“And flesh.”
Raphael’s eyes narrowed. “Aye.”
My gaze drifted briefly to my cousin before returning to meet Raphael’s cold glare. “Finn said the number of missing
girls from Suffolk County has increased since Athair—” I dragged my thumb across the raised scar on my bottom lip, my
reminder to tread carefully. “Since his incident. Javier Delgado said his sister and her friend haven’t been seen since they left
the Celtics game a week ago Saturday.”
Raphael’s icy expression was unwavering. “Javy Delgado started that rumor because he doesn’t want anyone to know
that he knows that his whore sister is shacking up with some nameless prospect in Dorchester. He promised her snatch to the
cartel for payback on the last loan he defaulted on. This is exactly why we let Mejia’s men handle the street dealers. My
tolerance for junkies is nil.”
Raphael’s blatant disregard for one of the few honorable things our family stood for had my pulse ticking up a notch. I
made a conscious effort to relax before I shattered the glass in my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Finn’s
uncomfortable shift in position.
Raphael straightened, finishing his drink in one telling gulp.
“All I’m saying is—” I started.
“Pray tell, dear brother,” Raphael snapped. “Indeed—enlighten me.”
A whiff of something that likened criticism and my twin turned into a petulant child.
“All I’m saying,” I repeated, “is that our father has never condoned the dealing of human flesh. His policy on the matter
is nonnegotiable. Perhaps with him being . . . incapacitated, the Albanians are seeing this as an opportunity to retaliate for the
way he’s limited their business.”
It was no secret that even when our father was well, the Albanians still found ways to keep their human-trafficking ring
afloat, but they’d never dared to hunt for merchandise in our backyard before.
A devious grin unfurled. “I think the word you were looking for is was. It was nonnegotiable, Lucifer. Need I remind you
that Athair appointed me as his successor when he named me underboss? Therefore, he’s entrusted all former and future
policies to me. Knowing how you’re always so quick to apply blind faith to anything our father says or does—surely, you trust
his decision in this case, aye?”
He’d thrown similar sentiments in my face in the past, suggesting the loyalty and respect I held for our father were
misguided and naive.
I found Raphael’s insinuations contradictory and hypocritical.
My father was a wise man. I liked to believe that had he known his health was a concern, he would have named a new
heir apparent. The inexplicable tension that existed between my father and brother since around the time we’d turned ten years
old had grown more pronounced with each passing year since Raphael had begun serving as underboss. It hadn’t gone
unnoticed to those within the inner circle that since becoming boss, Raphael’s ideals had ventured farther away from those our
father had deemed the pillars of the syndicate. Was it an act of mutiny with our father one foot in the grave? A rebellious fuck-
you to the man who’d tried his best to raise us to be good men by syndicate standards?
Only time could provide those answers.
But one thing was for certain. Raphael hadn’t earned the moniker McIcarus because he looked like an Irish god. My
brother’s arrogance and excessive pride would inevitably be his downfall. The only thing left to be determined was what—or
who—would be his sun.
Raphael turned to Finn and Liam. “I think my brother and I are delving into immediate family territory, gentlemen. You’re
free to go—or you may stay and enjoy the show, if you’re so inclined.”
Without hesitation, Liam and Finn vacated the room—just as Raphael knew they would. His offer was a thinly veiled test
of their loyalty. The four of us were the first generation born to immigrant parents. We’d been bound by our syndicate bond
before we’d been enrolled in grade school. Liam and Finn knew the nuances of my twin’s character as well as I did. Had they
stayed, Raphael would have interpreted the decision as an act of solidarity with me. This was something their friend and
cousin Raphael would have let slide, but Boss Raphael would not.
The study door clicked shut, and Raphael set his empty glass aside. Absent an audience, his posture relaxed.
I recognized the shift immediately. He was regarding me as his brother now. These moments were few and far between,
but when they occurred, they felt humanizing. Restorative. They could have been a strategy on Raphael’s part, but I preferred to
think of them as glimpses of his true self refusing to die so that a narcissist could be born. This was the brother I’d played hide-
and-seek with in the catacombs of our family mansion, who steered me back to our shared childhood bedroom when I’d
sleepwalk, and who’d taken on two older bullies in the fifth grade because they’d called his twin brother an unspeakable name.
“The Albanians won’t be a problem,” Raphael said. “I’ll talk to Keegan about tightening their boundaries and keeping a
closer eye on what’s going on down at the docks. I’ll even send him to talk to Delgado about his sister and her friend.
Satisfied?”
I met his stare, unmoving.
He rolled his head to the side, conveying annoyance at my lack of praise. “Don’t tell me you’re becoming as soft as
Athair, Lucifer. I expect more from you.”
Static.
He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Yes! The policy remains the same, for Chrissakes.” He’d answered my silent question. With
a smug smirk, he added, “The only crack the Albanians are allowed to sell on our turf is the kind you can’t wash and sell
again.”
I dragged a hand down my face. I’d enjoyed the nostalgia while it lasted. “Your text earlier—you mentioned an update
from Dublin.” I couldn’t care any fucking less about the Brennans or Tiernan’s widow, but I knew asking the question would be
effective in redirecting the conversation, even if it did feel like a betrayal to Jack to do so.
“Aiden informed me that he’s not planning to attend the wedding.” Raphael stood to refill his glass. He’d given me his
back, but his disdain was evident. “The disrespectful cunt is sending his weasel son instead.”
“The middle son?”
“Aye.”
Silence filled the room. The sensation of simmering wrath from earlier returned tenfold.
Raphael turned around. “Let me guess, you have no opinion on Brennan’s slight?”
He’d guessed wrong, but this was hardly the time to share all the ways I wished a vicious death on anyone bearing the
Brennan surname.
Instead, I replied, “If the situation were reversed, Athair would send you rather than go himself. He’d avoid vulnerability
on either end at all costs. It’s just logic.”
“Fuck logic, Lucifer. This is yet another area where Athair and I will differ as boss. I intend to be active. I won’t sit
behind a desk plotting—a rather lazy approach, if you ask me. I intend to be a proud boss—one who’s not afraid to show his
face or get his hands dirty in order to get what he wants.” Raphael slumped into his chair. “If I didn’t need this trade route, I’d
consider outfitting Cillian Brennan with a pair of cement shoes and tossing him in the Charles.”
Raphael used the word I like it guaranteed him immortality. The idea that my brother could use his role as boss for a
personal crusade did not bode well for the Flynn Syndicate.
“Haven’t you and Aiden already finalized a deal—marriage pending?” I inquired. Not that I had any idea what those
negotiations included. All I knew was that the Brennans had extended an olive branch that still dripped with blood, a truce had
been declared, and the ranks in both families would remain the same. There would be mutual business ventures, but we’d also
maintain our individual identities.
Raphael grunted something that sounded like an affirmation.
“Then Cillian delivering the widow is nothing more than a formality,” I said. “He’ll witness the wedding, and then we’ll
send him back to the Old Country in whatever fucking loafers he arrives in.”
Raphael smirked. “Don’t tell me that after nearly thirty years, Keegan is finally rubbing off on you. You might be
spending too much time with the fucker. I need my cold-blooded, heartless brother at my side, not a grumpier version of
Keegs.”
I frowned.
Raphael sighed, then searched my face. A warmth filled his eyes, followed by a trace of something that looked like pity,
but it was quickly wiped away. We may have shared a twisted history that had pitted us against each other at times, but I
believed that when all was said and done, he did value me as his flesh and blood, as I did him. Family first, forsaking all
others—it was the code we lived by, regardless of our differences and how our current roles made us clash on every-fucking-
thing.
I would honor and protect my father, Raphael, and our syndicate brotherhood until the last breath was ripped from my
lungs.
 Which is the only reason I asked, “What about the widow?” My interest in her began and ended with keeping my family
safe.
“What about her?” Raphael drawled, seemingly uninterested in his bride-to-be. “She’s a twenty-year-old pussy who’s
been taking Brennan cock for two years. I’m sure she’ll be a real joy.”
“Do you know her maiden name?”
“I do not. Nor do I care. She’s young and well broke—of that, I am certain.”
I shook my head in distaste.
Raphael laughed without humor. “C’mon, Lucifer, you know they aren’t dubbed ‘The Brennan Butchers’ because they
fancy the taste of lamb. Have you ever met a more depraved group of bloody savages?”
Without warning, memories I’d long since tried to eradicate played like a movie reel in my mind. A dank room with thick
chains hanging from the ceiling. The flash of a steel blade. The screams of a voice as familiar to me as my own.
The back of my neck broke out in a cold sweat, and I rubbed a hand over the damp skin.
Raphael’s features smoothed into a knowing expression. “Exactly, brother.”
 Lucifer
There was an obnoxious pounding on my office door.
I looked up from the screen I’d been studying in earnest. “Come in.”
Keegan burst in wearing the expression of a teenager who’d happened upon his father’s porn collection. “Dude—you
gotta come check this shit out.”
That level of enthusiasm? Fine. I’d bite.
I exited out of the encrypted file on the desktop. A little personal light reading that had turned out to be boring as fuck.
Good news for the Albanians—in the wasted hours of my life that I’d never get back, Molotov’s claims remained
unfounded.
Not-so-good news for the fucking Russians.
Cillian and Widow Brennan had arrived at the estate hours ago, but Raphael hadn’t insisted on my presence yet. Perhaps
our talk last night had reminded him of how personal this was for me. Regardless, while my brother played host to our
enemies, I’d spent the day in my office at The Ruby Slipper reviewing Keegan’s latest reports on the Albanians.
Eight years ago, our father had transformed the Boston honeypot from a strip club with a seedy reputation to an exclusive
gentleman’s club that catered to a different sort of clientele. It was a place where we could run our operations and launder
money while hosting the very men who guaranteed our success.
Our regulars were high rollers who enjoyed our backroom card and roulette tables and puppet politicians who wanted an
indulgent place to unwind. Certain organized crime families in the Boston area chose The Ruby Slipper for meetings based on
its neutral ground and stellar view. Women were no longer on the menu, but that didn’t mean the ladies serving drinks and
trendy light fare weren’t pleasing to the eyes and scantily clad.
I trudged behind Keegan as we made our way next door to his office.
He motioned to one of the dozen monitors on his wall. “There she is.”
I followed his hand to take in the high-definition image within a smaller square on a screen. The last time I’d looked at
our surveillance footage, it had been black and white and grainy. Finn had definitely made some upgrades to Keegan’s systems.
Everything was digital now and—as I’d learned today—encrypted like it was a matter of national fucking security.
Through the vantage point of a camera positioned on the outside wall of the mansion, we could see a woman standing in
front of my apple tree. Snow covered the ground, and the temperature hovered at freezing, yet there she was, admiring the last
gift my mother had ever given me. A pane of golden hair cascaded down the back of her ivory overcoat, and a pink scarf was
wrapped around her neck.
“That’s gotta be her, right?” Keegan asked.
“Most likely.”
 “Sweet. Let me see if I can zoom in . . .” Keegan fidgeted with something in his hand and the image of the widow grew
closer.
At that exact moment, she turned, scanning the side of the mansion at the same height as the camera. She froze, perfectly
framed in pixels. The scarf covered most of her face, but her iridescent blue eyes shimmered in a way that Finn’s high-tech
camera couldn’t miss. She blinked, and then her gaze narrowed, but only for a moment. Then she dipped her head and moved
out of our line of sight.
“She knows she’s being watched,” I stated.
Keegan shook his head. “Impossible. Finn’s cameras? Un-fucking-detectable to the naked eye, bro.”
It wasn’t worthy of a debate. I trusted my initial analysis—at the very least, Widow Brennan was observant as fuck.
And there was something else. Something . . . disconcerting.
A sensation I couldn’t define developed in my chest.
I grabbed Keegan’s jacket off the back of his desk chair and tossed it at him. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
A sly smile spread across his face. “You wanna go home and check out the boss’s new wife?”
“They’re not fucking married.”
“Semantics. Let me rephrase—you wanna go home and check out the boss’s new woman?”
Ignoring him, I replied, “I’d rather have a heart-to-heart with a city planner with a past-due balance.”
Keegan followed in my steps, locking his office door on the way. “You’re in a fucking mood.”
An hour later, my hands—wearing the proof of Mitchell Gosselin’s paid debt—gripped the steering wheel as I took I-93
out of Cambridge and headed toward Southie. Keegan rode shotgun, reading something on his phone.
“Liam says she’s hot,” he mused. “Says Raphael is a lucky fucker.”
Fucking Liam and his goddamn texting.
I turned up the volume on the KALEO track to drown out Keegan’s racket as well as the body tumbling around in the boot
of the car. The city was now shy of one planner.
Execution wasn’t the standard penalty for defaulting on a payment, but Finn had come across some indisputable evidence
that Gosselin’s perverted sexual taste in little boys had been buried by men who stood to gain from keeping the bastard’s sick
secrets.
Castration and a lethal beating hardly felt like appropriate sentences for his crimes, but they would have to do.
The vehicle rolled to a stop, and I cut off the engine.
Keegan stared straight ahead at the nondescript building with tattered siding. “Dude,” he groaned when he realized
where I’d taken him. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Can’t we just get rid of the stiff and call it a night? You really wanna fight,
bro?”
It had nothing to do with what I wanted and everything to do with what I needed.
Raphael bringing up Jack last night had reignited the rage that had been living beneath the surface for the past decade.
The closer I got to coming face-to-face with that part of my past, the more I would need to work it out of my system the only
way I knew how: the Octagon.
The steel door that would lead us down a narrow staircase and into the pits of Boston’s man-made hell was guarded by a
member of a local biker gang.
“Number and location,” I ordered.
Keegan mumbled something about Chipotle and a Celtics game before relenting with a sigh. “Two. Front waistband—
right side—behind the cut. Left boot—outside.”
“You’re claiming he’s a southpaw?”
“Fucking right I am.”
“And what if he chooses to slit your throat with the blade he has stored up his right sleeve.”
Keegan wagged his chin with loathing. “Fucking ambidextrous asshole.”
“It’s not his asshole you need to be concerned with.”
He implored me with a bored expression. “You done, Obi-Wan? Can we just get this the fuck over with? I don’t even
know what we’re doing here anyway. Liam said you were here last fucking week.”
“Sounds like our friend needs to be reminded of what happens to snitches.”
Keegan chuckled. “You really gonna give Liam stitches? If so, I wanna be there.”
“Snitches end up in ditches, young Padawan.”
His head hit the back of the seat as he laughed. “I don’t know how this new Lucifer came to be, but fuck, I think I like him
even more than the original.”
My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I expected it to be Liam, but it was Raphael’s name flashing across the screen.
I pressed the device to my ear. “Raphael.”
“Lucifer. Are you somewhere you can talk?”
“Aye. Just Keegs and me here.”
 There was a prolonged silence, which suggested in the next breath he’d instruct me to take the call privately, but then he
cleared his throat. “What do you recall about Jack’s daughter?”
I rubbed the center of my chest with a closed fist. The sensations from earlier in Keegan’s office had resurfaced without
warning.
“Her name is Willa.”
It was the first time I’d spoken her name out loud, and it had been a decade since I’d heard it. I’d only ever laid eyes on
her one time, and that was thirteen years ago. Though Jack had taken me under his wing when I’d become a foot soldier at
seventeen, he’d rarely mentioned his kid. A measure he’d implemented to protect her innocence, I assumed.
“What else?” he pressed.
And that’s when I heard the strain of urgency bleeding through.
I glanced at Keegan, who was scrolling through Instagram—the proverbial leaving the room—before I continued, “That
night . . . Athair ordered you to deliver one hundred thousand dollars in cash to her mother with instructions for her to take the
child and disappear. I never heard of her again.”
Silence.
“Very well. I need to get back to dinner.”
I swallowed the lump that had lodged itself in my throat as my gaze dropped to the dark screen in my hand.
Dots—blue dots—connected in my mind.
Cold realization filtered through my bloodstream.
There’s no fucking way.
I hit the keyless ignition with more force than necessary, and the engine roared to life.
“Drop yourself off,” Keegan said. His voice stabilized me in the present. “I’ll take it from here.”
I met his eyes, and he gave me a solemn nod. He’d read the room. He didn’t ask questions because he didn’t require
answers.
But I did.
 Willa
“I apologize—business.” A debonair grin rearranged Raphael Flynn’s chiseled features as he pocketed his cell phone and
folded into his seat at the head of the Flynns’ dining table. “How’s the cottage pie?”
After a few hours spent with the man, I’d come to learn that my future husband was slick and refined. If I didn’t know
what a monster he was, I could have found him charming.
I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. “Splendid. Everything is lovely, thank you.”
I was certain that when Raphael had heard my first name and looked into my telltale Callahan-blue eyes that he’d thought
he’d seen a ghost. My useless travel companion and current brother-in-law, Cillian, was so oblivious to anything that didn’t
have a vagina or wasn’t triple distilled that he’d missed the spasm of disbelief and shock in my fiancé’s stare.
Raphael held me with an assessing gaze. “As are you, Willa.”
Every time he drawled my name, it hung in the air like a poisonous gas capable of disintegrating my insides.
I forced a smile and relaxed the tension in my shoulders before taking a sip of water.
Raphael’s brow tightened. “Do you not care for the Pinot Noir? It typically pairs well with lamb.”
I shook my head. “It’s fine, I just prefer to rehydrate properly after a long flight, that’s all.”
It wasn’t a complete fabrication.
Cillian snorted beside me.
Okay, perhaps it was a wee bit more than a stretch of the truth, but if Raphael or his guard, Liam, had read into Cillian’s
reaction, they didn’t let on.
If I found myself in the unfortunate situation of being alone with Cillian in the near future, I’d have to remind him that
we’d been sent with explicit instructions to be on our best behavior. Included in our marching orders was do not dredge up
bygones—as my father-in-law had so heinously labeled my past. He didn’t want us saying or doing anything that would risk
nullifying the agreement he’d struck between the families before we’d made it official. When I’d asked how I should reply
when the man I was marrying would inevitably inquire about my origins, his answer had resulted in my blackened eye.
Aiden Brennan wasn’t one to waste words when he could let his fists do the talking.
Reflecting on Aiden’s severe response reminded me that Willa Callahan was destined to remain a long-forgotten memory
to anyone with a pulse.
But—maybe not.
I turned to Raphael. “I’ve been told you have a twin brother,” I said, hating the slight quiver in my tone.
Zadkiel Flynn, or Lucifer, if you believed the tale—which I didn’t.
“Lucifer,” Raphael replied, not lifting his eyes from his plate. I tried to decipher the underlying nature of his tone.
Unsurprisingly, I failed. Raphael Flynn was a master of deception, especially when it came to his brother. “You’ll meet him
soon enough.”
The story of Boston’s devil was a secret that’d been buried for so long that there were only two living souls bearing the
Flynn surname who knew what really happened on that fateful night. One was a common cold away from meeting his maker,
and the other had agreed to make me his old lady. But that didn’t mean there weren’t others who wielded that truth like a
loaded weapon.
Recalling the five minutes I’d spent in the Flynns’ empyrean garden with Lucifer thirteen years ago was all it took for me
to surmise that the two brothers named after archangels could not be any more different.
Or any less angelic.
Raphael’s dark mahogany hair was coiffed just right with not a strand out of place. His face was clean-shaven with sharp
cheekbones and an angular jawline. He was lean and muscular under his ridiculously expensive suit. I’d felt the contours of his
body during our brief embrace. It was obvious that becoming acting boss hadn’t caused him to go soft. Raphael Flynn could
hold his own in a fight, but if the rumors were true and it was against his identical counterpart, my money was on Lucifer.
I found myself wondering how the devil had aged.
Dinner plates were cleared away and replaced by a dessert of whiskey truffles. The faint scent of liquor wafted off the
decadent dish, and I felt the self-control I’d been clinging to starting to fray.
I smoothed the cloth napkin on my lap to steady my trembling hands. When I raised my head, I was caught off guard by
another of Raphael’s surveying looks. Everything stilled except the thundering of my heartbeat in my ears.
Aiden had been so giddy about sending me here that I doubted he’d ever considered that Raphael may call his bluff and
make me fish food before dawn.
Or maybe he had—totally plausible.
I pulled the corners of my mouth back into what felt like a plastic smile. “I’m feeling a bit jet-lagged . . . would it be
okay if I retired to my room for the evening?” The lie peeled off my tongue with an ease that should have engendered shame,
but there was none to be found.
Raphael’s gaze softened as he inclined his head. His simulation of sincerity was unnerving. “Of course. Do you
remember where it is, or shall Sosanna escort you?”
I shook my head as I got to my feet, feeling the dance of the impractical diamond earrings Raphael had insisted I wear
tonight. They dragged like anchors.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I remember. There’s no need to bother her.”
The earlier tour of the mansion was all I needed to commit each square foot to memory.
Sosanna, the Flynns’ nanny turned head housekeeper and cook, had been gracious in helping me get settled when I’d
arrived. But the elderly woman was perceptive and keen. I was certain she hadn’t missed the guarded signs of my relief when I
realized I’d have my very own sleeping quarters located in a wing opposite my fiancé’s.
Raphael reached for my hand, curling his fingers around my palm. His skin was soft, and the gesture was gentle, but it
still felt like a brand. My breathing grew shallower with each passing second.
“Good night, Willa. We’ll visit more tomorrow.” His grip tensed, and I winced out of reflex. “Sleep well.”
He released me, and I fought against every urge to cradle my hand to my chest.
With tears burning behind my lids, I slipped through the heavy double doors of the dining room and stepped into the main
hall. I was grateful for the solitude and quickly regained my equilibrium and the courage to press onward. My heels clicked on
the onyx-veined marble as I navigated the first floor. The mansion was exactly how I remembered it—grand and breathtaking. It
had every modern convenience and luxury but somehow flaunted an old-world appeal.
A palace fit for a king.
And a queen.
The knot in my stomach tightened, and I hastened my movements.
I hiked up my jade dress by the lace-embellished skirt as I ascended the winding steps that would lead me to the guest
wing on the second floor. I side-eyed the Virgin Mary statue as I passed it. Then my gaze landed on the massive oil painting
lording over the second-story landing. I’d caught a glimpse of it earlier, but this was the first time I found myself alone and had
the time to admire it.
Hesitantly, I stepped forward until I was close enough to touch it if I wanted to.
The painting depicted a much younger version of the Flynn family. Lachlan was posed behind a seated and strikingly
beautiful Nessa, his hands lovingly cupping her shoulders. The hardened criminal beamed like any proud husband and father
would.
One of the twins stood beside his mother, and the other sat on her lap. Even at the tender age of maybe five years old,
Raphael was dressed and smirked like a tiny businessman who’d just swindled a sweet old lady out of her retirement fund.
Raphael’s mini-tyrant impression and Lucifer’s unruly hair and fuller cheeks were dead giveaways—as was the way Nessa’s
arms curled protectively around the latter.
The only thing that looked out of place? The shy grin teasing at Lucifer’s mouth. I definitely hadn’t seen that side of him
in our one encounter. I would have remembered if I had.
“Are you lost?”
The gravel-filled voice settled in my bones.
It had been thirteen years since I’d heard that coarse Irish timbre. The familiarity—however superficial it may have been
—made my soul long to rewind the hands of time.
I turned around.
Lucifer Flynn.
He stood as though carved out of stone. I dared to meet his gaze. His piercing eyes reminded me of the moss-covered
trees in Ireland after a heavy rainfall.
My heart did something strange inside my chest.
Lucifer was as dangerously handsome as his bookend, maybe more so due to the bonus muscle and trimmed scruff that
he’d acquired since our initial meeting. He was taller, broader, more masculine, and, if possible, even more intense than I
recalled. His hair was the same thick umber that it’d been when he was a teenager, though now instead of a disheveled mess, it
was smoothed, shaped, and groomed into place.
I wondered if Lucifer realized his new hair regimen was symbolic of who he’d become. Who he’d been molded into by
the same shadow side of the Mob that had destroyed his perfectly imperfect innocence.
Had my soul found its mirror?
It was widely known among the Brennan Syndicate that Lucifer had remained loyal to my father until the very end. It was
a small comfort, but one I’d held on to for ten harrowing years. I prayed that my father had died knowing that not every man
he’d chosen as a brother—men he’d have laid down his life for—had been cowards when he’d needed them most.
My unsure smile gained confidence and spread a little wider. I blinked at him as I held my breath.
Nothing in his empty expression told me that he recognized me. I felt my heart drop just a little.
“Not lost. Just winded from climbing Croaghaun.”
His brow drew tight. “There’s a lift.”
The man still didn’t grasp the concept of sarcasm.
I shook my head. “I’m just saying the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. All these mountainous twists
and turns seem like overkill.”
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I realized how they could have been interpreted, and my insides liquefied.
But it didn’t matter. The man standing before me didn’t even bat a clinical eye.
His lack of reaction was . . . unsettling. Maybe the gossip was true. Maybe Lucifer Flynn was a black hole after all.
My skin prickled with unease.
I needed to remember that whether he recognized me or not, syndicate law labeled me the enemy until I was bound by a
marriage that could only end in death.
I was foe, not friend.
Willa Brennan. Not Willa Callahan.
That thought hurt more than it should have.
I was struck by the impulse to rebel, to push my luck and engage him further. I wanted to see if he’d reveal his opinions
of me and where we stood with each other.
Or maybe I had a death wish.
Maybe both reasons were at play as the internal war waged between the girl I was, the monster I was forced to become,
and the woman I could never be.
I held out my hand, insisting on its steadiness. “I’m Willa.” I batted my lashes. “You must be my future brother-in-law.”
His strong hand swallowed mine whole, the contact shattering my brief resolve. The callused skin riddled with cuts, both
aged and fresh, felt . . . calming . . . grounding. I’d once known a similar set of hands whose appearance also told a story of
violence, but they’d only ever shown me love and gentleness.
Da . . .
An invisible warmth swaddled me from head to toe.
“Lucifer.” His name had barely fallen from his lips when he released me. “You should go to your room,” he added, his
eyes hardening.
I’d been dismissed. Emotion burned my throat.
Without making eye contact or so much as bidding him good night, I turned to escape to the illusionary privacy of my
bedroom.
In one interaction, I’d been reminded that the devil wasn’t an angel disguised in a red cape and horns.
He was danger veiled in temptation.
A Flynn.
My enemy.
Another random document with
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“mere incidents.” From the review given below, in Chapter XIII, it is
clear that the main determinants of American culture accumulation,
after the first primitive start, were internal; and the case seems as
clear for metal working as for any phase.

109. Zero
One of the milestones of civilization is the number symbol zero.
This renders possible the unambiguous designation of numbers of
any size with a small stock of figures. It is the zero that enables the
symbol 1 to have the varying values of one, ten, hundred, or
thousand. In our arithmetical notation, the symbol itself and its
position both count: 1,234 and 4,321 have different values although
they contain the identical symbols. Such a system is impossible
without a sign for nothingness: 123 and 1,023 would be
indistinguishable. Our zero, along with the other nine digits, appears
to be an invention of the Hindus approximately twelve or fifteen
hundred years ago. We call the notation “Arabic” because it was
transmitted from India to Europe by the Arabs.

Fig. 28. Maya symbols for zero: a, monumental; b, c, cursive. (From Bowditch.)

Without a zero sign and position values, two methods are open for
the representation of higher numerical values. More and more signs
can be added for the high values. This was done by the Greeks and
Romans. MV means 1,005, and only that. This is simple enough; but
1,888 requires so cumbersome a denotation as MDCCCLXXXVIII—
thirteen figures of six different kinds. A simple system of multiplying
numbers expressed like this one is impossible. The unwieldiness is
due to the fact that the Romans, not having hit upon the device of
representing nothingness, employed the separate signs I, X, C, M for
the quantities which we represent by the single symbol 1 with from
no to three zeroes added.
The other method is that followed by the Chinese. Besides signs
corresponding to our digits from 1 to 9, they developed symbols
corresponding to “ten times,” “hundred times,” and so on. This was
much as if we should use the asterisk, *, to denote tens, the dagger,
† , for hundreds, the paragraph, ¶, for thousands. We could then
represent 1,888 by 1 ¶ 8 † 8 * 8, and 1,005 by 1 ¶ 5, without any risk
of being misunderstood. But the writing of the numbers would in
most cases require more figures, and mathematical operations
would be more awkward.
The only nation besides the Hindus to invent a zero sign and the
representation of number values by position of the basic symbols,
were the Mayas of Yucatan. Some forms of their zero are shown in
Figure 28. This Maya development constitutes an indubitable parallel
with the Hindu one. So far as the involved logical principle is
concerned, the two inventions are identical. But again the concrete
expressions of the principle are dissimilar. The Maya zero does not
in the least have the form of our or the Hindus’ zero. Also, the Maya
notation was vigesimal where ours is decimal. They worked with
twenty fundamental digits instead of ten. Their “100” therefore stood
for 400, their “1,000” for 8,000.[17] Accordingly, when they wrote, in
their corresponding digits, 1,234, the value was not 1,234 but 8,864.
Obviously there can be no question of a common origin for such a
system and ours. They share an idea or a method, nothing more. As
a matter of fact, these two notational systems, like all others, were
preceded by numeral word counts. Our decimal word count is based
on operations with the fingers, that of the Maya on operations with
the fingers and toes. Twenty became their first higher unit because
twenty finished a person.
 It is interesting that of the two inventions of zero, the Maya one
was the earlier. The arithmetical and calendrical system of which it
formed part was developed and in use by the time of the birth of
Christ. It may be older; it certainly required time to develop. The
Hindus may have possessed the prototypes of our numerals as early
as the second century after Christ, but as yet without the zero, which
was added during the sixth or according to some authorities not until
the ninth century. This priority of the Maya must weaken the
arguments sometimes advanced that the ancient Americans derived
their religion, zodiac, art, or writing from Asia. If the zero was their
own product, why not the remainder of their progress also? The only
recourse left the naïve migrationist would be to turn the tables and
explain Egyptian and Babylonian civilization as due to a Maya
invasion from Yucatan.

110. Exogamic Institutions

In many parts of the world nations live under institutions by which
they are divided into hereditary social units that are exogamous to
one another. That is, all persons born in a unit must take spouses
born in some other unit, fellow members of one’s unit being regarded
as kinsmen. The units are generally described as clans, gentes, or
sibs; or, where there are only two, as moieties. In many cases the
sibs or moieties are totemic; named after, or in some way associated
with, an animal, plant, or other distinctive object that serves as a
badge or symbol of the group. Often the association finds expression
in magic or myth. Since under this system one is born into his social
unit, cannot change it, and can belong to one only, it follows that
descent is unilateral. It is impossible for a man to be a member of
both his father’s and his mother’s sib or totem; custom has
established everywhere a rigid choice between them. Some tribes
follow descent from the mother or matrilinear reckoning, others are
patrilinear.[18]
Institutions of this type have a wide and irregular distribution. They
are frequent in Australia, New Guinea, and Melanesia; found in parts
of the East Indies and southeastern Asia; quite rare or stunted in the
remainder of Asia and Polynesia; fairly common in Africa, though
they occur in scattered areas; characteristic again of a large part of
North America, but confined to a few districts of South America. At a
rough guess, it might be said that about as many savage peoples,
the world over, possess totemic-exogamous clans or moieties as
lack them. The patchiness on the map of exogamic institutions
argues against their being all the result of a wave of culture
transmission emanating from a single source. Had such a diffusion
occurred, it should have left its marks among the numerous
intervening tribes that are sibless. Further, both in the eastern and
western hemispheres, the most primitive and backward tribes are,
with fair regularity, sibless and non-totemic. If therefore a
hypothetical totem-sib movement had encircled the planet, it could
not have been at an extremely ancient date, else the primitive tribes
would have been affected by it; and since records go back five
thousand years in parts of the Mediterranean area, the movement, if
relatively late, should have left some echo in history, which it has not.

Fig. 29. Distribution of types of exogamic institutions in Australia: 2M, two classes,
matrilinear; 4M, four classes, matrilinear; 4P, four classes, patrilinear; 8P,
 eight classes, patrilinear; black areas, no classes, patrilinear exogamic
totems; X, totems independent of classes; Y, totems replace sub-classes; Z,
no organization; ?, uninhabited or unknown. (After Thomas and Graebner.)

It is therefore probable that totem-sib institutions did not all

emanate from one origin, but developed independently several
times. The question then becomes, how often, and where?
The evidence for America has been reviewed in another
connection (§ 185). It can be summarized in the statement that at
least two of the three sib areas[19] of North America, and probably
the two principal ones of South America, seem to have resulted from
a single culture growth which perhaps centered at one time, although
subsequently superseded, in the middle sector of the double
continent. This movement may have had first a patrilinear and then a
matrilinear phase, though at no great interval of time. The third North
American area may have got its patrilinear sib institutions from the
same source but probably developed its matrilinear ones locally as a
subsequent growth. If so, this would be an instance of convergence
on the same continent—a rather rare phenomenon.
For Australia, New Guinea, and Melanesia, the geographical
proximity is so close as to suggest a single origin for the whole area.
Patrilinear and matrilinear descent are both found in Australia as well
as Melanesia. This fact has been interpreted as the result of an
earlier patrilineal and a later matrilineal phase of diffusion. It is
interesting that this conclusion parallels the tentative one
independently arrived at for America, although in both hemispheres
further analysis and distributional study must precede a positive
verdict.
In the principal other sib area, Africa, the reckoning is so
prevailingly patrilineal, that the few cases of matrilineate can
scarcely be looked upon as anything but secondary local
modifications. As to whether the totemism and exogamy of Africa
can be genetically connected with those of Australia-Melanesia, it is
difficult to decide. The more conservative attitude would be to regard
them as separate growths, although so many cultural similarities
have been noted between western Africa and the area that stretches
from Indo-China to Melanesia, as to have raised suspicions of an
actual connection (§ 270). Yet even if these indications were to be
confirmed, thus sweeping most or all the Old World sib institutions
into a single civilizational movement, the distinctness of this from the
parallel development of the New World would remain.
It is significant that in the three successive continents of America,
Oceania, and Africa the patrilinear and matrilinear phases of the sib
type of society exist side by side, and that the same duality even
holds for each of the separate areas in America. That is, the
Northwest American sib area includes matrilinear as well as
patrilinear tribes; the Southwest area includes both; and so on.
A similar tendency toward geographical association is found in
other phases of social structure: the clan and moiety, and again
totemism and exogamy.
The clan or multiple form of sib organization is logically distinct
from the moiety or dual form. Under the plural system, a person,
being of clan A, may marry at will into clans B, C, D, E, F. Three of
his four grandparents would normally be of other clans than his own,
but of which they were members, would vary in each individual case.
In a patrilineal society, one member of clan A would have his
maternal uncles of clan B; the next, of clan C; a third, perhaps of
clan F; according to the choices which their fathers had made of
wives.
Under the dual system, however, a member of moiety A may just
as well be regarded as having a wife of moiety B prescribed or
predestined for him as being forbidden an A wife. Two of his
grandparents, say his father’s father and his mother’s mother, are
inevitably of his own moiety, the two others of the opposite one.
Every possible kinsman—his maternal uncle, his cross cousin, his
father-in-law, his wife’s brother-in-law, his daughter’s son—has his
moiety affiliation foreordained. Where descent is paternal, for
instance, everybody knows that his future mother-in-law must be of
his own moiety. Evidently the effect of this dual system on the
relations between kinsfolk, on social usages, on the individual’s
attitude of mind toward other individuals, should normally tend to be
profoundly different from the influence of a multiple clan system. On
theoretical grounds it might seem likely that the dual and multiple
schemes had nothing to do with each other, that they sprang from
distinct psychological impulses.
Yet such a belief would be ungrounded, as the facts of distribution
promptly make clear. In every multiple sib area of any moment,
moieties also occur, and vice versa. In the California-Southwest
region, for instance, tribes like the Miwok are divided into moieties
only, the Mohave and Hopi into clans only, the Tewa and Cahuilla
into moieties subdivided into clans. So in the Eastern, the Plains,
and the Northwest areas of North America, clan tribes and moiety
tribes live side by side; whereas as soon as these regions are left
behind, there are vast districts—much of Mexico, Texas, the Great
Basin and Plateau, northern Canada and the Arctic coast—whose
inhabitants get along without either clans or moieties. So again in
Melanesia and in Australia (Fig. 29), the two types of organization
exist side by side, while most of Polynesia, Asia, and Europe are
void of both. Only Africa shows some development of multiple clan
institutions but no moieties. In short, as soon as areas of some size
are considered, they prove in the main to be of two kinds. Either they
contain both clan tribes and moiety tribes, or they contain neither.
That is, the clan institution and the moiety institution are correlated or
associated in geography, as patrilinear and matrilinear descent are
correlated, which indicates a community of origin for them.
A similar relation exists between exogamic units, be they moieties
or clans, and totemism. The first constitutes a scheme of society, a
method of organization; the second, a system of symbolism. Sibs are
social facts, totems a naming device with magico-religious
implications. There is no positive reason why they should be
associated. They are not always associated. There are American
tribes like the Navaho and Gros Ventre that live under unilateral and
exogamic institutions without totems. Placenames or nicknames
distinguish the groups. In Australia, the Arunta possess unilaterally
reckoning exogamic groups as well as totems, but the two are
dissociated; a person takes his group by descent, his totem wholly
irrespective of this according to place of birth or conception. In Africa
there are no less than six tribes or series of tribes in which exogamy
and totemism are thus dissociated; a person takes his totem from his
father, his exogamic unit from his mother, so that the two ordinarily
do not coincide for parent and child. Exogamy and totemism, then,
are theoretically separate factors.
Yet since they are distinct, it is remarkable that in probably seven
or eight tenths of all cases they coincide, and that in each of the
continents or areas containing them they are found associated. If
exogamy and totemism had grown out of separate roots, one could
expect at least one considerable area somewhere in which one of
them appeared without the other. But there is no such area.
Wherever social exogamy appears among a larger group of nations,
social totemism also crops out; and vice versa.
It must then be concluded that exogamy and totemism,
matrilineate and patrilineate, multiple and dual sibs, all show a strong
tendency toward association with one another. In other words, their
correlation is positive and strong. Even where they seem mutually
exclusive in their very nature, like matrilinear and patrilinear
reckoning, ways have been found by unconscious human ingenuity
to make them coexist among one people, as when one reckoning is
attached to the exogamy, the other to the totemism; and still more
often they occur among adjacent tribes.

111. Parallels and Psychology

Such associations as these are common enough in the history of
civilization. A number are touched upon elsewhere in this volume
under the name of culture trait associations or complexes (§ 97,
149). But usually such a complex or nexus consists of culture
elements that have no necessary connection: Christianity and
trousers, for instance. It is accident that first throws them together;
association ties them one to the other; once the cluster is
established by usage, its coherence tends to persist. But there is
something arbitrary about this cohesion, generally. There is no
inherent reason why a hundred American tribes that grow maize
should also grow beans and squashes and nothing else; but they do
limit themselves to the three. The distinctive feature of the sib-
complex is that it has an almost reasonable quality. Its elements,
however separate or even opposite logically, do have a certain
psychological affinity to one another. Also, the arbitrary maize-
beans-squash complex and other complexes are generally not
duplicated. But the intricate and psychologically founded totemism-
exogamy-descent complex looks as if it might have been triplicated
or quadruplicated. This parallelism, if the facts prove to substantiate
it, is parallelism raised to a higher power than any yet considered.
Heretofore the discussion has been of the parallelism of single
culture traits. Here it is a case of parallelism of a complex of culture
traits. Such complex convergence might suggest something peculiar
to or inherent in the human mind, leading it, once it is stimulated to
commence the development of one of the factors of the complex, to
follow with the production of the other factors.[20]
Similar instances would be the tendency of agriculture to be
followed by town life, if it could be demonstrated, though this seems
doubtful; of settled living to be accompanied by migration legends; of
religions with personal founders to become propagandizing and
international but in time to die out among the nations in which they
were originated.
In regard to all such cases it may be said first of all that an
exhaustive analysis is necessary to ascertain whether the seeming
association or correlation is borne out by the facts. Second, the
possibility of diffusion must be eliminated. If Melanesian and African
totem-exogamy are both products of one culture growth, they cannot
be counted as two examples of the same association. If they should
ultimately both prove to be linked with the American system by a
wave of migration or culture contact, as has, indeed been maintained
in two separate hypotheses recently advanced, parallelism is of
course disproved altogether. But such views are as yet
undemonstrated and seem extreme; and if, after continued search of
the evidence, two or more such associations or complex parallels as
the exogamic-totemic scheme of society stand as independent
growths, it is evident that they will be something in the nature of
cultural manifestations of psychological forces. In short, we should
then be beginning to grasp specific psychological determinants for
the phenomena or events of civilization. But as yet such a causal
explanation of the data of anthropology by the mechanism of
psychology has not been achieved.

112. Limitations on the Principle

From the evidences reviewed in this and the last chapter, the
conclusion is confirmed which social philosophers had long since
reached, that imitation is the normal process by which men live, and
that invention is rare, a thing which societies and individuals oppose
with more resistance than they are ever aware of, and which
probably occurs only as the result of the pressure of special
circumstances, although these are as yet little understood. Not only
are a hundred instances of diffusion historically traceable for every
one of parallelism, but the latter is regularly limited in scope.
Something tends to make us see phenomena more parallel than
they actually are. They merely spring from the same impulse, they
inhere in the properties of objects or nature, they bear resemblance
at one point only—and differ at all other points. Yet they tend to
impress us, in some mysterious way, as almost identical. The history
of civilization has no more produced two like cultures, or two
separately developed identical culture traits, than has the evolution
of organic life ever duplicated a species by convergently modifying
two distinct forms. A whale may look fishlike, he is a mammal. The
Hindu and the Maya zero are logically the same; actually they have
in common nothing but their abstract value: their shapes, their place
in their systems, are different. The most frequent process of culture
history therefore is one of tradition or diffusion in time and space,
corresponding roughly to hereditary transmission in the field of
organic life. Inventions may be thought of as similar to organic
mutations, those “spontaneous” variations that from time to time
arise and establish themselves. The particular causes of both
inventions and mutations remain as good as unknown. Now and
then a mutant or an invention heads in the same direction as another
previously arisen one. But, since they spring from different
antecedents, such convergences never attain identity. They remain
on the level of analogous resemblance. Substantial identity, a part
for part correspondence, is invariably a sign of common origin, in
cultural as well as organic history.
 CHAPTER X
THE ARCH AND THE WEEK

113. House building and architecture.—114. The problem of spanning.—

115. The column and beam.—116. The corbelled arch.—117. The true
arch.—118. Babylonian and Etruscan beginnings.—119. The Roman
arch and dome.—120. Mediæval cathedrals.—121. The Arabs: India:
modern architecture.—122. The week: holy numbers.—123.
Babylonian discovery of the planets.—124. Greek and Egyptian
contributions: the astrological combination.—125. The names of the
days and the Sabbath.—126. The week in Christianity, Islam, and
eastern Asia.—127. Summary of the diffusion.—128. Month-thirds
and market weeks.—129. Leap days as parallels.

In exemplification of the principles discussed in the last two

chapters, the next two are given over to a more detailed
consideration of several typical ramifying growths whose history
happens to be known with satisfactory fullness. These are the arch,
the week, and the alphabet.

113. House Building and Architecture

The history of human building makes a first impression of an
endless tangle. Every people rears some sort of habitations, and
however rude these are, structural principles are involved. Obviously,
too, geography and climate are bound to have at least a delimiting
influence. The Eskimo of the Arctic cannot build houses of wood; the
inhabitants of a coral reef in the Pacific could not, however much
they might wish, develop a style in brick. In structures not used as
dwellings, their purpose necessarily affects their form. A temple is
likely to be made on a different plan from a court of law. Temples
themselves may vary according to the motives and rituals of the
religions which they serve.
 Bewilderment begins to abate as soon as one ceases trying to
contemplate all buildings reared by human hands. Obviously a
dwelling erected by a small family group for the utilitarian purpose of
shelter is likely to be more subject to immediate adaptations to
climate than a large communal structure serving some purpose such
as the service of a deity. If consideration be restricted still further, to
religious or public buildings set up with the idea of permanence,
another class of causes making for variability begins to be
eliminated. A structure intended as an enduring monument is reared
with consideration to the impression that it will create in the minds of
future generations. Its emotional potentialities, be these evoked by
its mere size, by the æsthetic nature of its design, or by a
combination of the two, come into the forefront. Such permanent
buildings being in stone or brick, techniques which flourish in wood
or other temporary materials are eliminated. Finally, a monumental
structure is possible only at the hands of a community of some size.
An unstable group of nomads, a thinly scattered agricultural
population, cannot assemble in sufficient numbers even for periods
each year, to carry out the long-continued labors that are necessary.
The aggregation of numbers of men in one spot is always
accompanied by specialization in advancement of the arts.
Consequently the very fact that a structure is monumental involves
the probability that its builders are able to rise above the limitations
of mere necessity, and can in some degree execute products of their
imagination.

114. The Problem of Spanning

If now our attention be confined to large buildings of the more
massive and permanent sort, it becomes clear that one of the chief
problems which all their constructors have had to grapple with, is
that of roofing large spaces and spanning wide openings in walls. A
pyramid can be heaped up, or a wall reared to a great height, without
much other than quantitative difficulties being encountered. A four
hundred foot pyramid does not differ in principle from the waist-high
one that a child might pile up. The problems which it involves are
essentially the economic and political ones of providing and
controlling the needed multitudes of workers. Architecture as such is
in abeyance and the engineering problems involved are mainly those
of transporting and raising large blocks of stone. Much the same
holds of walls. The Incas, for instance, reared masonry of astounding
massiveness and exactness without ever seriously attempting to
solve architectural problems.
Once, however, a structure is planned to cover a wide space, it
becomes architecturally ambitious. The roof of a large dwelling can
be made easily of poles and thatch by such collaborators as a family
might muster. But to span a clear space of some size in stone
requires more than numbers of workers. The accomplishment also
yields definite sense of achievement which is strong in proportion as
the extent of the ceiling is great. The difficulties are diminished in
proportion as the mass of the structure is large and the clear space
is small, but the satisfying effect is correspondingly decreased. A
vault whose walls are thicker than its interior is wide, produces as
chief impression an effect of massiveness. One feels the solidity of
the structure, the amount of labor that has gone into it; but one is left
without the sense of a worth-while difficulty having been self-
imposed and mastered. Sooner or later, therefore, after men began
to hold themselves available for co-operative enterprises in numbers,
adventurous minds must have been fired with a desire to grapple
with problems of æsthetic construction, and to leave behind them
monuments of triumphant solution. The story of these voluntary and
imaginative endeavors is the history of monumental art.
Two principal methods have been followed in the solution of the
problem of covering large free spaces. The first is the method of the
column and the lintel; the second that of the arch or vault. The
column and lintel do not differ fundamentally from the idea of the wall
with superimposed roof beams. The elements of both are vertical
support and horizontal beam. In the arch, however, this simple
scheme is departed from, and the covering elements take on a
curved or sloping form. The apparently free float of the span is
stimulatingly impressive, especially when executed in a heavy and
thoroughly rigid material. The beam is subject to bending stress.
Timber makes a good material because of its strength against
breakage by bending. Stone is unreliable or outrightly weak against
a bending stress, besides adding to the stress by its own weight.
There are therefore inherent limitations on the space that can be
covered by a horizontal stone beam.

115. The Column and Beam

Most early architecture developed the column. Even so superb an
architecture as that of the Greeks never rose above it. The æsthetic
value of the Parthenon lies in the balance and feeling with which a
fundamentally simple plan has been elaborated, not in the daring
way in which an inherently ambitious problem has been met.
On account of its essential simplicity, columnar architecture grew
up among several historically unconnected nations. In the case of
most of them, there can be distinguished an early stage of building in
wood, when the column was the trunk of a tree, and a later stage in
which the post was replaced by a monolith, or by superimposed
drums of stone. This change appears to have taken place somewhat
independently in Egypt and in Greece, and wholly so in Mexico. It
has been thought that Greek architecture was derived from Egypt,
but there was probably little more than a transmission of stimulus,
since Greek temples were wooden pillared several thousand years
after the Egyptians were rearing huge stone columns. Furthermore, if
the Greeks had borrowed their column outright from Egypt, they
would probably have copied it slavishly at the outset. Yet their early
capitals are without the lotus flower head in which the Egyptian
column terminated. Here, then, and still more in Mexico, there was
parallel development.
The failure of the Greeks to pass beyond column and lintel
architecture may seem strange for a people that showed so unusual
an artistic faculty and so bold and enterprising a spirit as they
manifested in most departments of civilization. The cause appears to
lie not in any internal arrest of their artistic evolution, but in the
conditions that prevailed in another field of their culture: their political
particularity. The Greek state remained a city. All attempts to
establish larger political aggregates, whether on the basis of
confederation or conquest, failed miserably and speedily. The Greek
was ingrainedly addicted to an outlook that was not merely provincial
but literally municipal. The result was that really large coöperative
enterprises were beyond him. Paved roads, aqueducts, sewers, and
works of a like character were scarcely attempted on any scale of
magnitude. With the rather small numbers of individuals which at
best the Greeks assembled in one spot, such works were not
necessary, and undertaken in mere ambition, they would have
encountered public antagonism. Consequently Greek public
buildings were, by the standards of many other nations, mediocre in
size of ground plan, low in height, without endeavor to impress by
sweep of clear space. This fact illustrates the almost organic
interconnection existing between the several sides of the culture of
any people; it illustrates also the importance of knowing the whole of
a civilization before trying to provide an explanation for any one of its
manifestations.

116. The Corbelled Arch

The arch brings in an inherently new principle of architecture. It is
a device for carrying construction over an empty space without
horizontal beams. But it may take two principal forms: the corbelled
or “false” arch, and the “true” arch. Both are arches in form, but the
blocks that form the curvature of one are not self-supporting; in the
other they are.
The corbelled arch achieves its span through a successive
projection of the stones or bricks that abut on each side of the open
space. The stone at the end of the second course of masonry
extends part of its length beyond the end stone of the first course. At
the opposite side, the second course hangs similarly out above the
first. In the third course, the end blocks again project beyond those
of the second. The arrangement thus is that of two series of
brackets, or two staircases turned upside down. The higher the
masonry rises, the more do the clear space narrow and the two lines
of hanging steps approach until they meet and the arch is complete.
What keeps the projecting stones from toppling into the clear space?
Nothing, obviously, but such weight as is put on their inner or
embedded ends. Suppose a stone projects a third of its length
beyond the one below, so that its center of gravity is still above the
lower stone. It will then lie as placed. Suppose still another stone
again projects a third of its length beyond the second. Its center of
gravity now falling outside the lowest block, it will topple both itself
and the second one. Only if other blocks are inserted behind will
their counterweight hold up the projecting blocks. Obviously, there
will be more such counterweights needed the higher the side of the
arch rises. In general, the area of wall needed as counterweight is at
least as great as the area of overhanging. If the arch is to clear ten
feet horizontally—hanging over five feet from each side—there must
be five feet or more of masonry built up on each side of the clear
space. A corbelled arch forming a relatively small doorway in the
face of a wall presents no difficulty, but a corbelled arch that stands
free is impossible.
The same principle holds for the vault, which is a three-
dimensional extension of the virtually two-dimensional arch. The
hollow or half-barrel of the corbelled vault has to be flanked by a
volume of building material exceeding its own content. This need
eliminates corbelling as a possible method of rearing structures that
rise free and with lightness. Hence the clumsy massiveness of, for
instance, Maya architecture, which, so far as it employs the vault,
often contains more building material than spanned space.
Another difficulty, beyond that of counterweighting, which besets
the user of the corbelled arch, is that the projecting stones of each
course are subjected to the same bending strain as a beam. The
weight above strives to snap them in two.
The corbelled arch and vault have been independently devised
and have also diffused. They were employed in gigantic Bronze age
tombs at Mycenæ in Greece—the so-called treasure house of
Atreus,—in Portugal, and in Ireland (Fig. 41). These developments
seem historically connected. On the other hand the Mayas of
Yucatan also built corbelled arches, which must constitute a
separate invention. This parallel development differs from that of the
true arch, which seems everywhere to be derived from a single
original source.

117. The True Arch

The true arch differs from the corbelled in needing no
counterweight. The blocks that form the under surface or soffit of its
span are self-sustaining. The true arch thus yields an æsthetic
satisfaction which can be attained in no other way, especially when it
soars in magnitude. The fundamental principle of the true arch is the
integration of its elements. Such an arch is nothing until completed;
but from that moment its constituents fuse their strength. Each block
has a shape which is predetermined by the design of the whole, and
each is useless, in fact, not even self-supporting, until all the others
have been fitted with it. Hence the figure of speech as well as the
reality of the keystone: the last block slipped into place, locking itself
and all the others. The features of the blocks or “voussoirs” which
makes possible this integration, is the taper of their sides. Each is a
gently sloping piece of wedge instead of a rectangular block. When
bricks replace dressed stone, the mortar takes the place of this
shaping, being thinner toward the inner face of the vault and thicker
toward the interior of the construction.
A true arch in process of erection would instantly collapse if not
held up. It can be built only over a scaffold or “centering.” Once
however the keystone has wedged its parts together, it not only
stands by itself but will support an enormous weight. The greater the
pressure from above, the more tightly are the blocks forced together.
Instability in a true arch is not due to the bending stress coming from
the superimposed mass, as in the corbelled arch or a horizontal
roofing. The blocks are subjected only to crushing pressure, which
stone and brick are specially adapted to withstand. The weakness of
the arch is that it turns vertical into horizontal thrust. With more
weight piled on top, the sidewise thrust, the inclination to spread
apart, becomes greater, and must be resisted by buttressing. This is
what the Hindus mean when they say that “the arch never sleeps.”
 118. Babylonian and Etruscan Beginnings
While the exact circumstances attending the invention of the true
arch are not clear, the earliest specimens preserved are from the
ancient brick-building peoples of Babylonia, especially at Nippur
about 3,000 B.C. Thence the principle of the arch was carried to
adjacent Assyria. Both these Mesopotamian peoples employed the
arch chiefly on a small scale in roofing doors and in tunnels. It
remained humble and utilitarian in their hands; its architectural
possibilities were scarcely conceived. They continued to rear their
monumental structures mainly with an eye to quantity: high and thick
walls, ramps, towers ascending vertically or by steps, prevailed.
The true arch and vault are next found in Italy, among a
prosperous city-dwelling people, the Etruscans, some seven or more
centuries before Christ. All through the civilization of this nation runs
a trait of successful but never really distinctive accomplishment. The
Etruscans were receptive to new ideas and applied them with
energy, usually only to degenerate them in the end. Whether they
discovered the arch for themselves or whether knowledge of it was
carried to Italy from Asia is not wholly clear, since history knows little
about the Etruscans, and archæology, though yielding numerous
remains, leaves the problem of their origin dark. The Etruscans, or
Tyrrhenians as the Greeks knew them, were however active traders,
and a number of features in their civilization, such as liver divination
(§ 97), as well as ancient tradition, connect them with Asia. It is
therefore probable that the principle of arch construction was
transmitted to them from its earlier Babylonian source. The
Etruscans also failed to carry the use of the arch far into monumental
architecture. They employed it in tombs, gates, and drains rather
than as a conspicuous feature of public buildings.

119. The Roman Arch and Dome

From the Etruscans their neighbors, the Romans, learned the
arch. They too adopted it at first for utilitarian purposes. The great
sewer of Rome, for instance, the Cloaca Maxima, is an arched vault
of brick. Gradually, however, as the Romans grew in numbers and
wealth and acquired a taste for public undertakings, they transferred
the construction to stone and introduced it into their buildings. By the
time their polity changed from the republican to the imperial form, the
arch was the most characteristic feature of their architecture. The
Greeks had built porticos of columns; the Romans erected frontages
of rows of arches. The exterior of their circus, the Coliseum, is a
series of stories of arches. Much of the mass of the structure also
rests upon arches, thus making possible the building of the huge
edifice with a minimum of material. On the practical side, this is one
of the chief values of the arch. The skill which evolved it eliminates a
large percentage of brute labor. Earlier peoples would have felt it
necessary to fill the space between the interior tiers of seats and the
outer wall of the Coliseum.
Once the fever of architecture had infected them, the Romans
went beyond the simple arch and vault. They invented the dome. As
the simplest arch, such as a doorway or window, a perforation in a
wall, is essentially two dimensional, and a vault is the projecting of
this plane area into the three dimensions of a half cylinder, so the
dome can be conceived as the extension of the arch into another
three-dimensional form, the half sphere. Their relations are those of
a hoop, a barrel, and a hollow ball. Imagine a vault revolved on a
central vertical pivot, and it will describe the surface of a dome. Two
intersecting arches can be served by a single keystone.
Theoretically, more and more arches can be introduced to intersect
at the same point, until they form a continuous spheroid surface.
Neither construction nor the evolution of the dome did actually take
place by this method of compounding arches, which however serves
to illustrate the logical relation of the two structures.
The Roman engineers put domes on their Pantheon, the tomb of
Hadrian, and other buildings. In the centuries in which the
Mediterranean countries were Romanized, the dome and the arch,
the vault and the row of arches set on pillars, became familiar to all
the inhabitants of the civilized western world. After Roman power
crumbled, the architectural traditions survived. Even when there was