Mob Star (The O’Rourke Brotherhood Book 2)

Chapter 1

I fecking hate office parties. Well, not mine because my colleagues are my brothers and cousin. When we gather for work, it’s never for fun. Since I work with my family, I suppose it’s all relative. But these feckers…

My head shoots up from the cocktail I’m mixing. I look to my left to see who made the racist comment about a woman. My hands curl into fists. I will not tolerate bigots in McGinty’s.

“Jenny, take these to table five.”

I don’t even look at the waitress who’s waiting for the six drinks I just made. I walk to the douche who spoke. That joke isn’t the only one he has, but I don’t let him get past the first two words.

“You’re done.” I interrupt. I’m not having it.

“What?”

Fuck face looks up as though he just realizes he’s in public and not jacking off to some shite homemade porn.

“You’re cut off, and you’re leaving.”

“Why?”

“Because I heard what you said. It’s my bar, my rules. Out before I throw you out. I’ll even give you your drinks on the house.”

“What the fuck, bro? Why’re you even listening in on my private conversation?”

I have ears like a dog, so most people wouldn’t have heard him. But my keen sense of hearing is why I haven’t looked like a piece of Swiss cheese many times in my life.

“It’s not private when you have it where anyone— I —can hear it.”

“What’s so bad about what I said?”

I look at him as though he’s lost his mind. But my attention shifts when one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen walks over. She’s average build, but that’s the only thing average about her. She has pale— almost translucent —green eyes, thick dark hair, and skin that’s smoother than— feck, I don’t even know what. She carries herself with confidence, and her gaze tells me she’s nobody’s fool. That’s why what she does next surprises me.

She’s wrapping her arm around this fucker’s waist.

“What’s wrong?” Definitely not a New York accent, but it’s super subtle. Somewhere on the East Coast.

“This asshole’s trying to throw me out.”

“I’m not trying. I am throwing you out.” I signal to Cormac and Seamus, tilting my head toward the door.

Neither of my cousins says a word before they crowd the fucker and the arsehole’s coworker, the femme fatale— she’s shooting daggers at me with her sea green orbs —that’s the best I can describe them.

“Miss, please move. He’s done for tonight. I won’t tolerate his comments in my bar.”

I don’t think his second racist comment about some woman would have been as bad, but the first one is what got my hackles up. He sneers at me as he stands. He has something more to say, and it’s going to piss me the fuck off. I can feel it. He keeps his voice low, but he doesn’t even get the second word out.

I reach across the bar and grab a fistful of his shirt, yanking him forward.

“You’ve pissed off the wrong person. I not only own a fuck ton of bars spread throughout the five boroughs, but I own ones in Jersey and Connecticut. Look at the security camera behind me and smile. You can even say cheese. Not only are you banned from any establishment I own, I’ll make sure you’re banned from every bar, nightclub, and strip joint worth visiting.”

Because either my cousins own them, or members of the other syndicate families do. We don’t get along, and we almost never agree. But none of us allow people who mistreat women in our places of business. I don’t give a shite that the woman now standing with her arm around this fucker clearly has shite taste in men, since she’s obviously way too well-acquainted with him. If he’d made any equally disgusting comment about a man, I’d still toss him on his arse. My bar, my rules.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what he said that was so bad.” My mystery goddess isn’t going to budge, and my cousins won’t force her.

“He can tell you outside.”

“It was nothing bad, babe. I swear. I just called you a?—”

Those comments were about her? Motherfucker better run.

“Nope. Take it outside.”

This time Cormac and Seamus ease in, so Cormac doesn’t touch the woman. They each grab the guy by an arm, though either of them could take this arsehole outside without a problem. Together… They won’t hurt him, but they will scare the shite out of him.

The woman stares at me before she realizes the entire bar is now watching the scene. Her cheeks darken, and she’s even more pissed at me than she was before. She didn’t rush after the guy, and she didn’t put up much of a defense. But there’s still more than just colleague familiarity between them.

Her gaze sweeps the bar, and so does mine. There are some regulars relegated to corners since there’s about twenty people in here who came together for whatever the hell this office shindig is. It’s an enormous bar, so there’s more than enough room, but this new crowd has spread out and taken over. They’re buying plenty of drinks, so I don’t care. Most of them have ordered meals because we’re known for generous pours— until midnight, then they get stingier and watered down. Patrons are usually already drunk and willing to pay for what they don’t notice is less booze, which makes them buy more —along with our food.

The goddess looks back at me, then glances at the window, looking out to the street, then back at me.

“Was it really that bad?”

“I thought it was enough to kick him out.”

“And you won’t repeat it?”

“No.”

“And it was about me?”

“Yes.”

She looks back at the window and nods. We can see the guy arguing with Cormac, who weighs at least eighty pounds more than the DB. That’s eighty pounds of muscle because Cormac is the cleanest eater I’ve ever met. My uncle’s been making vegan birthday cakes for him since he was twelve and read some article that made him refuse to eat most processed sugars or most things that aren’t plant-based. Fortunately for the rest of us, plenty of vegan foods are delicious, and my uncle’s a great baker.

“Shit!”

Green Eyes hurries to the door as we watch the shitbag lunge toward Cormac and try to shove him. I promise you; it was like hitting a brick wall. I have a completely unobstructed view, and I watch Cormac tense just before numb nuts’ hands touch my cousin’s chest. He’s not preparing for impact. He’s making his body as hard as he can. The guy’s kinetic energy is enough that he rebounds from Cormac and stumbles backwards. Seamus steps up, so the guy lands against him, now boxed in. Neither of my cousins touch him except for where he’s collided with them.

I observe as the woman— who’s likely a doctor or nurse since everyone else in the party is —walks up to them. She doesn’t insert herself into the conversation or try to intervene. She shakes her head at something Seamus says then turns toward the street, raising her arm. She hails a cab and grabs the guy’s arm. Now she’s talking to him, and the douche follows her to the waiting car. I watch it drive away before my cousins come back inside.

Cormac’s lip curls as they come over to the bar. They’re not even a year apart since Cormac was two months premature. You’d never guess at the sight of him now. The man’s an ox, and so is Seamus. They could be twins like my brothers Sean and Shane. Yes, we are that Irish.

“Can I get some hand sanitizer? I feel dirty just being near a fecker that skeezy.”

I pass him one of five bottles I keep under the bar, never mind the two I have attached to the wall behind the bar where all the bottles sit. All the patrons have lost interest in the exchange that just happened. Even the others in the party are more interested in their libations and sustenance. That’s what Nana called it to justify her grandsons doing more than having a nip of whiskey on a frosty night. Never mind that she got me the liquor license three months before I turned twenty-one.

“What’d the woman have to say?”

I try to keep my tone neutral and not give away my interest, but they turn matching smirks at me. It’s fecking annoying because it’s practically like looking in the mirror. They’re near replicas of each other, and all of us in the O’Rourke family share the same shade of emerald-green eyes and varying shades of red hair. That’s the easiest way for people to tell us apart, besides the fact that Sean has a freckle on his throat that distinguishes him from Shane. This is what happens when three sisters marry three brothers.

Cormac’s smirk turns into a scowl. “She apologized and said she’d get him home. By the time we got outside, the drinks were catching up to him. How many did he have?”

“Like three light beers. Not much for a dude his size.”

“Lightweight.” Cormac rolls his eyes.

“Didn’t you smell the scotch on his breath?” Seamus’s brow furrows as he looks at his brother, who shakes his head as he frowns.

“I didn’t serve him any hard liquor. He must have pre-gamed, which is alarming since half of them are still in scrubs and came straight from the hospital. He’s one of them.”

When he sat down with his friend, I got the impression they’re nurses from something the other guy said. But I don’t know about the woman. A doctor or nurse doesn’t matter to me if she makes house calls. But if she left with the douche, then they’re probably a couple. His comments about what he’d like to do with her weren’t just your average misogynistic shite that even I’m guilty of, too. They were more than that. Gross enough to make me certain they aren’t related, but I didn’t see a ring on either of their left hands. I even checked her right hand.

“They’re gone now, so as long as he doesn’t come back, who gives a feck?” Seamus, the perpetually pragmatic one.

I nod and go back to serving drinks, but it nags at me. I don’t know why the woman created such a lasting impression. When you have the wealth my family has, attractive people have a way of glomming onto you. She’s stunning, and I’m definitely attracted, but I’m not used to beautiful women making me think about them for hours after they walk away. Maybe it was a combination of my attraction to her and revulsion toward him. But it just doesn’t sit right.

It should be out of sight, out of mind. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I lock up. But it feels unresolved, and I don’t like that.

“Dillan?”

“Yeah. We’re in the kitchen.”

We used to have an open-door policy at each other’s homes for all the cousins. Now that Dillan’s with Mair, it’s different for them. I texted just as I came through their property’s gate. They recently moved into a gated community in Queens. Dillan didn’t feel the security was adequate outside his Brooklyn brownstone, and he wouldn’t consider Mair’s place in Harlem. Now we all have to knock or text ahead of time. The last thing any of us wants is to walk in on his kinky arse with his wife. All our proclivities run in the same direction.

“Hey, Finn.”

Mair— Márgrég —grins at me as I join them. She hands me a glass of wine and points to the table. They’re just about to have dinner. I didn’t realize that. She’s more Irish than we are. She was born in Ballycastle, Northern Ireland, but moved to the States as a kid. She goes by Mair— like the horse —when she’s with us. Her real name isn’t hard for a Gaelic speaker, but it would confuse the feck out of most Americans. It’s easy— Mare-greeg. Only Dillan calls her Greta.

I’m letting my mind wander as they whisper something to each other, and Dillan’s hand wanders south to her arse. I’d blame it on them being newlyweds, but considering how our parents behave, I think this is inherited.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I could have come at another time.”

Dillan shakes his head as he pulls corned beef out of the oven. It’s not St. Patrick’s Day. It’s not even Sunday. We’re that Irish.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Mair curls her nose. “This way there won’t be leftover cabbage.”

Dillan waggles his eyebrows. “I’ll get you to enjoy cabbage. I have sixty years to do it.”

We like to think we’re going to have a long life, but there isn’t one of us in this family who doesn’t know it could end before the sun comes up. It’s the life we were born into. No one in my generation or our parents’— or even our grandparents’ —asked to be part of the mob. It was decided four generations back when our family was still in Ireland. We can’t leave. We won’t leave. We do our best to have a normal life when we’re at home.

So, I’m carving the corned beef right now as Dillan brings over the vegetables, and Mair grabs the apple cake for dessert. It’s really a side dish in this family.

We laugh and joke throughout the meal. Mair shares her newest assignment for the newspaper where she works. She’s on the National Desk, and it’s been interesting since she married Dillan. Even when they were dating. Fuck. Their relationship is complicated. But they make it work. Her editor is still walking on eggshells around her. I had a little chat with the Editor-in-Chief, Chuck, to make sure he and Gary understand Mair gets treated with the utmost respect just like before she got involved with Dillan.

“I have work to do, so I’ll get out of your way.”

Mair grabs her bag and heads to her office, which is downstairs but at the opposite end of the mansion. What else do you call a home that can sleep them, five cousins, and three sets of parents? Dillan and I move to his office where we each take an armchair. I naturally settle into the one to his right, and his is closest to his desk. I’m his right hand. Part of it is because I’m the second oldest of the six cousins. Part of it is because we’re best friends. But most of it is because we balance each other. It’s probably because my younger brothers are a matched pair as twins, and Cormac and Seamus may as well be. I’ve been Dillan’s conscience and DD as many times as he’s been mine.

He has a mind for strategy, and I can make Uncle Scrooge look extravagant. I see numbers, and they tally themselves in my head. I’m the family accountant, so I ultimately decide how we allocate our money. Dillan comes up with the plans, and I tell him how much we can spend.

“How’re things coming along with Marco?” Dillan crosses his left leg over his right thigh. I look down at my legs. We match. Fecking nature versus nurture.

“Things are falling into place. The FBI and ATF are asking how high when I tell them to jump. Trying to get them to go after Lorenzo was a bust, but Marco is a solid target.”

It was more than an inconvenient failure. It’s been a long time since I’ve lost a fight. Enzo came to my boxing gym and fucking lost his shite in the ring. I ended up with a broken nose and ribs that have just recovered from the severe bruising. He thought I was into his now-wife. I thought I kinda was when Enzo started sniffing around. Getting the shite knocked out of me made me realize I literally wasn’t going to fight that hard to have her. I might have lost, but he could barely limp out on his own.

“The Mancinellis still haven’t guessed our role in the whole Kansas City-Chicago deal. Fucking numb nuts. I can’t believe at least Carmine hasn’t figured it out.”

That fecker. Maniacal genius.

“Yeah, well, Carmine’s still living in his newlywed bubble just like Enzo.”

Dillan grins at me as he glances toward the door. Gross. “What do we need to do to move things along?”

“Nothing right now. The ball isn’t in our court, but I’ll take it back if the FBI and ATF feck this up. As long as they keep looking away from us, we’re good. Any other direction is better than us.”

“True. Where do we stand with the shipment coming from Prague?” Dillan’s ready to move on from the Mancinellis, and so am I.

“It’s due to arrive any minute now. My brothers are at the docks to meet the ship. They know the customs officers, and they’ll make sure they cooperate. Hopefully, all it takes is one look at them. But they have five grand for each.”

“That much?” Dillan’s sarcasm makes me mentally roll my eyes.

“I told Sean and Shane they better come home with change.” I’m frugal, not a miser. I understand just fine that you gotta spend money to make money.

“What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“I’m going to the clubs for payroll, then I need to pop round to McGinty’s. There’s another private party, and Shannon’s been a little trigger-happy with the pours. I want to make sure she has a jigger glued to her hand. I got a new one just for her. It’s not double-sided, so there’s no accidentally pouring double what she should after ten.”

We have plenty of bottles that line the wall behind the bar, but the ones we serve from are under it. That way, at ten, we switch out and start using the watered-down shite. Their fault for getting too intoxicated to figure it out.

“What about after that?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping to get out of there early. We’ll see.”