My Irish Mafia King

Chapter 1

One

LUCY

Six Months Later

W hen I see Killian walking toward the entrance of The Celtic Crust, I try not to let my heart flutter like it did the first time he walked in six months ago. I felt like I was dreaming as I stared into his light blue eyes, as his blonde hair caught the light... seeming almost silver at certain angles. I’ve thought about my savior a lot over the years. Seeing him again felt like a dream.

I turn and start preparing his usual coffee before he enters the bakery. He swaggers over to the counter. In the reflection of the gleaming coffee machine, I see he’s wearing a suit today.

“Somebody’s dressed fancy,” I say. “A meeting about the restaurant? Or are you opening a new one?”

“Maybe I just wanted to impress you,” he replies.

“Ha ha,” I sarcastically mutter, finding relief in my turned back.

Our easy banter often heats me up, my body aches, and my heart pounds. Sometimes, when I’m preparing his coffee, I’m sure I can feel his gaze roaming over my body. But that’s highly doubtful, considering it’s been half a year, and he’s never so much as made a romantic comment.

“I’m interviewing for a manager,” he says. “It’s been a long road to get the restaurant up and running. Now, I’m ready to pass it on. But don’t worry... I’ll still be by for my morning coffee.”

I turn, raising my eyebrow. “Who said I was worried, huh?”

He smirks in that easy, carefree style of his. It was the same way he smiled all those years ago. “Look at me, kid. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I promise.”

“Are you taking a trip?” he asks now, gesturing at the books on the counter. He looks closer. “ And learning Gaelic.”

“I’m trying,” I say in my best Gaelic.

He replies in fluent Gaelic, his accent like he’s lived in Ireland his entire life.

“I didn’t get that,” I admit.

“I said, ‘That was good, lucky charm.’”

He doesn’t know this, but every time he calls me lucky charm, a simmer dances over my body. But he’s not interested in me like that. He’s a successful restaurant owner, a millionaire if my online searches are accurate, and tall, muscular, handsome, and comfortable in his own skin.

I place his coffee on the counter.

He winks as he takes the coffee, then says, “ Tá tú go hálainn.”

My heart thunders as my entire body heats at his words, my freaking soul aching, if such a thing is possible. He just called me beautiful. I try to play it off with an oh-so-casual eye roll. “Are you going to enlighten me?”

“What would be the fun in that?” he teases. “So, when’s the big trip?”

Behind the counter, I clench my fist when I see another customer approaching... then unclench it when they keep walking down the street. Killian’s morning visits are the only time I’m relieved when the bakery is quiet.

“I haven’t got a date. It’s more of a dream trip, really.”

He leans casually against the counter. “What have you got planned for this dream trip?”

“Caves, museums, hikes... I want to breathe in the culture. Why are you looking at me like that?” I toy with the pendant around my neck, then stop myself. Is it still okay wearing this ring after so many years?

“Like what?” he counters.

“Like I’m an exhibit in a museum.”

“It’s just, when I visit, I prefer horseback riding on private beaches and Michelin-star restaurants.”

“Excuuuuse me, Mr. La De Da.”

I love making him laugh. “Guilty as charged,” he says.

“You weren’t on a private beach when you saved me, though. You were hiking in a storm in the middle of nowhere.”

His smile falters. For the first time I can remember, he gets a bleak look in his eyes. I wonder if I’ve hit a sore point. “I wanted to clear my head,” he says after a pause. “But maybe somebody sent me out there to save you, Lucy. Maybe somebody or something knew you needed a handsome, not to mention modest, funny, and intelligent savior.”

“Modest?” I laugh.

I reach across the counter and playfully punch him in the arm. It’s the first time we’ve touched except for our hands grazing when I pass him his coffee. We can play that off like it’s an accident. But not this.

I quickly pull my hand back. I’m about to apologize when he quickly cuts me off. It’s like he knows I’m going to say sorry—going to acknowledge what just happened—and doesn’t want me to. “Let me know if you need any help with the Gaelic,” he says. “Or any recommendations for restaurants in the motherland?”

I take the hint, rolling my eyes, going back to easy banter mode. “If I go, I doubt I’ll be going to Michelin-star restaurants, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

“Why not? You’re doing a great job with The Celtic Crust. I’ve seen how much busier it’s been getting every day. Some mornings, I don’t even have you to myself.”

He stares deeply into my eyes. I try not to bite my lip, but it’s difficult. I’m back to clenching my fists behind the counter. Anything to relieve some of the tension. Does he want me all to himself? What for?

But I don’t dare ask those questions.

He says something in Gaelic again before leaving. I’m not entirely sure, but I think it means, See you tomorrow, beautiful.

As usual, the next few hours sparkle with the interaction. The exchange always gives me a jolt of energy stronger than any coffee ever could. Plus, we flirted . What else can I call it? He called me beautiful. I playfully punched him... The exchange simmers in my mind as I serve customers and then, when my cashier arrives for the afternoon rush, busy myself in the kitchen and at the coffee machine.

“Uh, Lucy,” Toby says, coming into the kitchen with that look on his face.

“Is it Shane?” I ask, my mood instantly souring.

Toby nods.

“That’s fine, Toby, thank you. Send him back here.”

Toby knows better than to ask questions about Shane. I think he knows what’s going on, but he’s never outright quizzed me about it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, though.

When my mother passed, the bakery wasn’t the only thing she left me. She also left an enormous debt owed to the local mob. I know little about the specifics, except that a few days before she passed, Mom told me in a croaky, depressed voice, “I’m so sorry, angel, but a man is going to be visiting you… you have to pay him. If you don’t, bad things will happen.”

That was all she said, and then, like clockwork, Shane showed up to collect a portion of the week’s earnings. So far, I’ve kept quiet and handed him the cash, but it’s getting ridiculous. How am I supposed to make this a successful business, not to mention live my life without constantly looking over my shoulder, when I have to deal with this nonsense?

Shane is a big man, ducking to get through the door into the kitchen, as wide as he is tall. He wears a dirty leather jacket and has a clover tattoo on his neck. He picks up an iced bun and stuffs it into his mouth, then wipes his hands on an apron hanging on the wall.

“You got something for me, girl?” he snaps.

I take a breath, remembering what I rehearsed last night, the promise I made to myself. “Shane, I’d like to discuss the nature of the deal you made with my mother.”

He snorts, then leans against the wall, looking at me like I’m an insect. “Oh, really? This ought to be good.”

“I don’t know who you are,” I continue, hating the shudder in my voice. “I don’t even know what organization you work for, exactly. Just ‘the local mob.’ For all I know, you’re just a man who threatened my mom and scared her into paying you.”

He pushes away from the wall and picks up a rolling pin. “These things are always heavier than you expect, aren’t they?” He hits it into his meaty palm.

I swallow, always caving, but then force myself to say, “Could you please give me some information about who you work for? Then maybe I could speak to them about a more reasonable payment plan.”

“You don’t need to worry your not-so-pretty little head about any of that,” he replies, slapping the pin into his hand again. “Let’s say I work for no one. That it’s just me. Do you think that changes things? Do you think that will stop me from doing what I need to do if you stop the payments coming? Or, let’s imagine you get clever, take me out somehow… which could never happen, but for the sake of argument. What do you think happens then?”

He walks right up to me, bringing the stink of whiskey and cigarettes. “My buddies would swoop in here like vultures on a corpse. It’d be even worse for you. Believe it or not, I’m one of the good guys. Enough talk. Where’s my envelope?”

I’ve got no choice. I want to scream in his face, slap him. But in the end, like usual, I grab the envelope from my desk drawer and hand it to him.

“Good girl,” he grunts. “See you soon.”

When he’s gone, tears prick my eyes. I feel like a lost little kid, a storm raging, waiting for my savior to rescue me. But I’m not a child anymore. I’ve got to handle this myself.