Her Irish Savage (Diamond Ring Boston Mob Trilogy #1)

Chapter 1

1

FIONA

S omeone has to be the grown-up in this relationship.

I’m determined to make Madden Kelly do the right thing. He has to return the money we stole from his brother three days ago. If I play my cards right—and I always do—Madden will believe giving back the cash is his idea.

That’s my secret power: getting men to do what I want them to do. They think I’m a helpless twenty-four-year-old girl. But I’m actually a woman who has grown up in the heart of Boston’s Irish mob. I can hold my own against anyone. I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram.

Capping my Louboutin lipstick with a decisive click, I purse my lips at my reflection in the mirror. Satisfied with the scarlet shine, I twitch the waistline of my Tom Ford leather corset to lie flat against its short matching skirt. The boned bodice is tight enough to make me regret the burger and fries I wolfed down at dinner. I should have stuck with a salad .

Fuck it. The fries were the best part of the meal. Regret is for losers.

I slip into my four-inch stilettos and head out to the living room.

I expect Madden to be on the couch, thumbing the remote between his precious Philadelphia sports teams—hockey playoffs to basketball playoffs to spring baseball. Instead, he’s studying something on his phone, a diagram that looks like a subway map for a very crowded city. He’s pacing as he looks at it, muttering under his breath.

I consider picking up my own phone from the coffee table and sending him a text to get his attention. Instead, I clear my throat, twice. When he finally looks up, he crams his phone in his pocket like I’ve caught him watching porn.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand. Just last night, we added Headmistress and Naughty Schoolboy to our bedroom repertoire. I never expected he’d go off that fast. He was mortified about the sticky mess he left in his briefs. I sure as hell intend to use that information, going forward.

“Jaysus!” His Irish accent goes thick when he’s startled. Or embarrassed. Or angry. “Don’t ya be sneakin’ up on a man!”

I raise my eyebrows, making it clear I didn’t sneak. But I keep my eyes on my true goal—getting him to return Braiden’s money. Crossing the room, I sway my hips a lot more than necessary. I raise one fingernail to trace from the tip of his chin to the bottom of his Adam’s apple. “Let’s go out tonight,” I murmur.

He flinches. “I’m busy.”

“Just a couple of drinks?” I need him relaxed and happy. I push my shoulders back, testing my corset’s zipper.

He ignores the show and reaches for his pocket instead. He wants his phone more than he wants my body. “There’s plenty of booze in the kitchen,” he mutters.

“Fine. I’ll fix us both a drink.” But my fingers find his before he can tap his screen to life. Melting against him, I pull his hand under my skirt.

He growls when he discovers I’m not wearing panties.

I’ve been getting sounds like that out of Madden Kelly since the night we met in Dublin, six months ago. We were both visiting the old country. Da thought a month or two in Ireland would get the wildness out of my system, and I’d finally settle down like a good girl. Let him marry me off to one of his carefully selected mob associates. Secure more of his criminal empire.

Blah, blah, blah. Da’s plan was boring.

Not like the high stakes poker game where I met Madden.

I made sure to lose three quick hands before I pleaded an empty purse. A handjob across the console of Madden’s cheap rental car made up for the grand I owed him. We closed down a pub after that, and the blow job I gave him after hours earned me an invitation to visit Pennsylvania.

I knew it would drive my father crazy, so I took Madden up on his offer. And ever since, I’ve had front row seats to Philly’s version of The Godfather . More specifically, I’ve watched Madden’s power struggle with his brother Braiden, the captain of Philadelphia’s Irish mob. Madden is only second-in-command.

Sucks to be Madden, I guess.

Three days ago, he took me on the milk run, collecting envelopes of cash from every business on the long list of his brother’s protection racket. I thought Madden was joking at first, stealing the money. But the joke was on me, especially when Madden headed into a back room at one of the brothels, at Mimi’s place.

He kept me waiting a full hour.

Great. Madden proved he has power over me. We never said we were exclusive. I’m not allowed to get upset about his fucking a couple of whores.

But I need him to return his brother’s money now, before Braiden makes both of us pay. It’s all fun and games until someone takes a knife beneath the ribs.

Now that I’ve got Madden’s hand between my thighs, I finally have his attention. He hooks two fingers into me and I sigh his name. Panting like he has me racing, I handle his zipper. “God,” I moan as I reach inside his jeans and his briefs. “That’s so good.” My fingernails on his dick seal the deal; he’s hard in seconds.

I let him force me over to the couch. He pins my wrists overhead, and I catch a fake scream at the back of my throat. I breathe faster and faster as he pumps between my thighs.

He finishes with a single vicious thrust, holding himself deep inside me as every muscle in his body turns to stone. His cheek is sweaty against mine when he collapses with a grunt.

I hook my heel around the back of his knee and hold him close. “Hey, big guy,” I whisper.

He isn’t big. He’s barely average. But I’ll tell a lie or two to spare us both from Braiden’s fury.

I rock a little, trying to get his attention. “Hey,” I say again, while his dick is still inside me. “What should we do with the milk run?”

He freezes like I jammed a cattle prod up his ass. “It’s mine.” He sounds like a stubborn two-year-old.

“It is,” I agree. “So you can do whatever you want with it.”

“That’s right,” he says.

“Can you imagine how surprised Braiden would be if you gave it back? He’d shit his pants.”

Madden plants a hand on my shoulder, pushing off of me hard enough to hurt. “Whose side are you on?”

“I don’t choose sides.”

“Then what the f?—”

“Braiden’s your captain. The money?—”

Belongs to him. I was going to say the money belongs to him .

But Madden’s fist lands in my belly, forcing all the air from my lungs and making me forget how to use my words .

I haven’t been struck like this in years.

Madden scrambles off the couch, jamming his limp dick into his briefs and tugging his jeans over his hips. By the time he’s yanked up his zipper, I’m finally able to push myself into a sitting position.

Don’t fuck over the captain. I learned that rule sitting at my father’s table, before I was old enough to tie my shoes. I’ve seen it play out over and over as Da keeps Boston in line, as he watches over the entire Grand Irish Union. It’s the simple truth of life in the Irish mob, and part of me can’t believe Madden Kelly doesn’t know it.

I fight for a breath, for another, and then I say, “Braiden?—”

Will come after you. After us. He’ll make sure no one ever dreams of stealing from him ever again.

But Madden doesn’t give me a chance to say another word. Because the instant his brother’s name crosses my lips, Madden closes his hand around my throat. He drags me to my feet, ignoring my shrieked protest.

I’ll do anything with a man. Dress however he wants. Play whatever role he needs. But no one—absolutely no one—gets to choke me.

Crimson fury mixes with blind panic as I try to force out the warning Madden needs to hear. “Your brother?—”

But Madden Kelly has been replaced by a swearing, snarling demon. This time, when he punches me, he goes for my face. My lips splits over my teeth, and blood sprays onto the coffee table, darker than Louboutin red.

I raise my hands to defend myself, but I’m slow to move and everything hurts so much. He lands half a dozen blows—short, sharp jabs to my face, to my chest, to my stomach.

“Please,” I gasp, and I hate myself, because I haven’t begged a man since I was sixteen. “Stop,” I plead, sharp and desperate, exactly the way I sounded eight years ago.

He waits until my knees buckle, until my spine melts, and I collapse to the floor beside the couch. I can barely track his movements as he storms into the kitchen.

“You fucking bitch,” he hollers, shoving a stack of envelopes in my face “ This is what I’m doing with the milk run. I’m taking every goddamn dollar. And you’re the one who made me do it! You goddamn fucking bitch.” He lands a kick beneath my ribs before he stalks to the door.

Maybe I pass out. Maybe I just lie there, feeling a million tiny knives carving me apart from the inside. Maybe I’m pretending I’m dead, praying Madden won’t come back to finish the job.

But eventually I have to find out how badly I’m hurt.

It takes all my concentration to stretch a hand toward the coffee table. I fumble blindly until I find my phone. My left eye isn’t working right, but I manage to squint, to locate the little square icon for my camera.

My lip is split. My nose is bleeding, and I’m pretty sure it’s broken. There’s blood on my teeth, and a crimson line of drool paints my chin. My left eye is swelling shut, and a nasty bruise make me wonder if my cheekbone is broken too.

I snap a photo. My finger hovers over the tiny image. If I send it to my father, he might have Madden killed. Da’s chief enforcer, Keenan Rivers, could do the job. He would make sure it takes a long, long time for Madden Kelly to die.

But Da has let me down before. He might ignore what Madden’s done. Say it’s my own fault, for staying with a bogger.

Or worse—Da could call me home. He’ll say he never should have let me stay in Philly on my own. And as soon as my bruises fade, he’ll make sure some man’s ring is on my finger.

I won’t do it. I’m worth more than my family name and a fucking marriage license. I know I am.

But there’s someone else who can get revenge against Madden.

Holding my breath as I tap the screen, I call Braiden Kelly.

Earlier this spring, I lived in his house, spying at my father’s command. When I wasn’t flirting, I sponged up everything I could about how Braiden Kelly runs Philadelphia, how he keeps his Fishtown Boys loyal.

And I watched him tame his wife. I saw him exercise the power of a true alpha, a man who would never hurt a woman in any way she didn’t crave.

He lets his phone ring three times before he answers. When he does pick up, his voice carries less emotion than the timer that tells me when my morning coffee has brewed. “Fiona.”

“Your brother’s a fucking bastard.” I sound like I’m drunk, fighting to fit my swollen lips around the words.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“He took it all,” I say.

“Took what?”

“The milk run.”

“The money you two stole from me?”

I wince, and lightning explodes up every nerve in my face. “He beat me up.” I actually mean to say I’m sorry, but the other words break out of me like a hiccup.

Braiden’s voice is cold. “I’m not your knight in shining armor.”

Braiden’s no knight. And he’s never been mine, no matter how I tried to tempt him with my stiletto heels and leather. But I remind him: “If you don’t kick his ass, my father will. And you’ll end up caught in the middle. Is your piece-of-shit brother worth burning every bridge to the Union?”

He doesn’t say a word.

“Braiden…” I say, suddenly terrified he’ll hang up on me.

I have to do something. I have to make him understand. I pull my phone away from my face and send him the fucking photo.

“Christ, Fiona,” he finally says.

“Make him pay.” I’m horrified to realize I’m crying. I never cry. “Please… Come get me, Braiden.”

He keeps me waiting for long enough that I’m not surprised by his answer. “I can’t leave Thornfield.” But then he offers: “But I’ll send my Warlord, Patrick Moran.”

I’ve barely seen Patrick, hanging around with the Fishtown Boys. I don’t want a stranger to see me like this. “Please…” I say. And I don’t even care that I’m begging for the second time in an hour. “Come get me yourself.”

“Text me your address. Patrick’s on his way.”

I’ve heard that tone often enough over the past two months, since I started playing with fire here in Philly. Braiden Kelly won’t change his mind. So I force myself to whisper, “Tell him to hurry.”

Braiden ends the call before I do.

I should make my way down the hall to the bathroom. Pee and wipe away the mess Madden left between my legs. Wash my face. Brush my hair. Pull on a pair of panties, so my corset and skirt feel like armor, instead of a prison uniform.

But the instant I try to stand, the room begins to spin. I realize I’m only wearing one stiletto, and for some reason that strikes me as hilarious—until my cracked and broken laugh dissolves into more tears. I settle for kicking off the other shoe and bracing my back against the couch. I’ll get to my feet…soon.

I must fall asleep, or maybe I pass out again. Because the next thing I know, someone has his hands jammed into my armpits. He’s lifting me like I’m a splay-legged Barbie doll, or maybe a newborn foal. I try to protest, try to fight, but he only eases me back until I feel the edge of the couch behind my knees.

“Sit,” he orders, which really isn’t necessary, because I’ve already fallen onto the overstuffed cushions.

It hurts to look up at him. “Moran?” I ask.

He scowls. “Lucky for you,” he says.

Patrick Moran is a wolf of a man. His hair looks like he battled a tornado getting here; shots of silver tangle with black. As he glares down at me, his eyes look black as well. His long- sleeve T makes it clear he never misses arm day at the gym. I don’t know what color the shirt was when he bought it, but it’s a weathered gray now, faded from countless washings. His jeans look even older.

He cuts off my gaping when he snarls, “Anyone could’ve walked in that open door.”

I groan as I look over my shoulder. The door’s closed now. “I didn’t…” But it takes too much energy to explain that Madden left the door open. Madden took the milk run. Madden needs his ass kicked. Madden could be anywhere right now.

I’m shivering, my entire body shaking like I’m trapped beneath an iceberg. Each hammer-tap of my chattering teeth echoes through my head, and when I try to take a stifling breath, my side throbs so sharply I can’t fill my lungs.

It was a mistake, calling Braiden. I need my own family after all. I need my da.

I point to my phone on the floor, an impossible continent away. “G— gimme…” My lips are too swollen to bend around the words.

But Moran must understand, because he picks up my cell. It looks like a toy beneath his scarred knuckles. “Who do you think you’re calling?”

I force myself to look him in the eye. I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram, Crown Princess of the Boston clan. I swallow hard, so I don’t stammer. “My da.”

His sigh is like a wind blown all the way from the North Pole. “No, you’re not.”

I grit my teeth so hard, I see stars. Forcing myself to stand, I plant my hands on my hips. “I’m calling Kieran Ingram.”

“Then you’ll need a better phone.” He tosses mine onto the couch, beyond my reach.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

His eyes spark bright with an animal fury. “It means your da is dead.”