The Mafia Bodyguard’s Possession (Mafia Obsession #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

declan

In the quiet truck graveyard in Queens, where I’m surrounded by the rusted bones of vehicles scattered among peeling tires, the glint of a gun captures my attention.

The full moon hits the muzzle of that flashy fucking gun like a spotlight.

My heart thumps as adrenaline spikes.

The gun glints again as its owner sweeps it across the grounds. A victim-seeking missile.

I take a slow, silent breath.

Whoever it is, they’re between me and where I need to get to.

The building with the drugs.

I press against the side of an old shipping container, eyes locked on the old office across the yard, next to a truck that’s either been resurrected or doesn’t belong. My gaze never strays far from that fucking gun.

Security?

This place shouldn’t have any. No one who values their life comes here unannounced. This is prime mafia and cartel territory…neutral ground for deals, bodies, and secrets.

It’s not Murphy land.

If I’m caught—

Shite. I only have two hours to fix the biggest fuck-up of my life.

I secretly sold a million dollars in coke that my brothers and I stole, then got paid in counterfeit bills. Stood there like a fucking eejit while the bastard walked off with our product and I pocketed fake money. Didn’t even check it properly until it was too late.

If Callahan finds out I lost that shipment to a con artist, I’m done. Not demoted. Not transferred to Dublin. Buried in a shallow grave kind of done.

But O’Shay’s contact tracked the scammer down and intercepted the shipment before it was sold to the Cinco Cartel.

O’Shay said the drugs would be in the warehouse until a midnight pickup. It’s ten now. Two hours to grab the coke and disappear before anyone realizes I fucked up.

Should be simple. Get in, grab the drugs, get out.

Across from me is a truck with faded and peeling letters that make my gut clench:

Marc + Ella Imports

The Marcello mafia. Do they use this place, or was the truck dumped after it outlived its usefulness? Either way, I file it away for later. The Marcello family’s one group Callahan wants to meet.

If they use this yard and I’m caught here, I could torpedo Callahan’s negotiations before they even start.

I’m just fuck-up central.

Through the debris, I plot a course to the warehouse. I was going to beeline it, but now I need to zigzag, dancing on a razor’s edge because who the fuck knows when that gun will reappear? I can make it to that rusting truck ahead and to my right, then—

Gravel crunches under a boot.

I freeze.

Heart pounding, I cock my head, listening for more. Another crunch and another.

But the steps aren’t getting closer. They’re moving away from me. There’s gravel all around the building, so I take my chances and make a run for it.

I move silently, as fast as possible through the debris, sidestepping oil slicks and rusted truck parts.

Almost there…

Another heavy footstep comes from behind me. This one’s got a different gait. I drop behind a haphazard tire stack, the scent of rust and blood and oil in the air.

My nose crinkles. Old blood. But not as old as it should be.

To my left comes another sound. Another pair of feet, lighter, moving fast.

I catch a glimpse of a puffer jacket in a bright shade of purple and a white cap pulled low.

There’s something familiar that pulls at my memory, something about the way the person moves, but I dismiss it.

No one I know is the type of fucking moron who wears purple and white to this no-man’s-land of mafia and cartel. Unless they’re just that fucking na?ve.

Is there another meeting? My gaze snaps back to the Marcello truck. Shit.

And who the fuck is moving with those slow, deliberate, menacing steps behind me? What about a gravel-cruncher with his flashy gun?

Ice drips down my spine. This sure has the makings of a shootout.

And I’m right in the fucking middle.

I grip my gun and take half a step forward. Puffer Jacket scurries across my line of sight.

Behind me, the heavy stepper shoots.

The bullet whizzes past, a tiny burning missile, close enough to the side of my head to feel the heat.

Puffer screams and eats dirt. I stay still.

I’m trapped behind the fucking tires, in a place no Murphy should be, not if they don’t want to start a fucking war.

My heart pounds hard. Puffer Jacket is an idiot. I watch the person jump up with alarming grace. Too much grace for an amateur. Then Puffer scurries into the shadows of a shipping container.

Someone who moves like a dancer. Someone who has no idea what they’ve walked into.

Above, the moonlight streams down, lighting a path, one that’s going to make me visible to Puffer Jacket and anyone else out here if I go for the drugs.

Because I’m pretty sure I’ve stumbled into something I shouldn’t have.

It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and I need to get those drugs back.

I take one step.

Then freeze.

The steps behind me get louder. The grunts and slapping footsteps get closer, and I grip my gun, dropping and rolling under the rusted underbelly of the Marcello truck.

They’re looking around; I’m guessing, for Puffer.

I shouldn’t be here.

But I am.

It’s my fault.

Focus, Dec, fucking focus, you cunt.

I shift, the footsteps passing me. I count to ten and start to roll out. If—

A bullet hits the steel wheel rim near me, ricocheting off, sparks bursting to life before dying.

Fuck.

The feet run past. The bullet wasn’t meant for me.

I roll free, stay low to the ground, and dart over peeling tires and rusted truck parts. I edge around a tipped-over old trucking container.

“I see you,” a voice shouts. It’s gruff, angry. American. “I’ll take your head off and fuck it sideways if you don’t come out.”

I hold my breath as head-fucker rumbles by.

He’s not after me.

Gunfire rains through the air, sharp rips of sound tearing through the night. Then… silence.

Puffer suddenly appears, looking around like a spooked deer.

Our eyes meet. My adrenaline spikes high. Shit.

Puffer’s a girl.

One. I. Know.

Marlowe fucking Briggs.

Royal pain in the ass.

Realization knocks the wind out of me like a punch to the solar plexus.

What the hell’s she doing here?

Does she know what I am?

Marlowe’s holding a gun. At her feet is a body with a fucking badge.

But she’s staring up at me, lush mouth open, eyes wide and full of shock. Slowly, fury takes over the shock. “You.”

“Me.” I lunge, because I can’t let her get away, and if I don’t get to her, she just might get herself killed. Or me.

She tries to dodge. “Don’t touch me.”

“Shit.” A bullet narrowly misses her, and I turn and shoot.

A body hits the ground hard. I grab her. The contact jolts through me like a live wire.

More bullets fly.

Not from us.

We’re now in the light, completely exposed.

I haul her to me, snatching her gun and dragging her across the path to a decaying truck corpse as she struggles against me.

I shove the gun into the waistband of my jeans and, as a bullet hits the truck from the other side, I tackle her to the ground and roll us underneath the belly.

This is probably the worst time to remember how soft and warm she feels when she’s under me, despite her dancer muscles.

I nose along her throat, her skin like hot silk, her pulse thudding wild as I find her ear. “What the fuck, Marlowe?”

The world narrows to me and her and the fact that she’s under me. Dammit, she’s even prettier than I remember. And it’s the wrong time for me to realize that.

Her warm breath fans my lips. Close enough to taste.

A bullet slams into the truck body above us, and we both freeze.

“Let me go, Declan. I have—I can’t…please.”

She struggles, her pulse slamming against my fingers where I grip her wrist. Delicate bones. Shit, she’s delicate everywhere—except for that toxic personality I can’t forget.

“Are you fucking mad, Molly?” I whisper, using the nickname that always made her prickle. “There’s a gunfight. Why are you here?”

“I’m not telling you. Let me go.” She struggles, each wriggle grinding against me. Making me harder. “Get off me, dick.”

Her voice rises from above a whisper.

“Keep still.” I release her wrist and slam a hand over her mouth while my other hand grips the gun.

On the other side of the truck, boots appear. I don’t need to speak Spanish to understand the rapid question-and-answer session.

They’re looking for someone, something, and I’m not entirely sure it’s not us. The head-fucker, maybe?

Marlowe chooses that moment to sink her teeth into my palm. The sharp pain shoots straight to my cock.

I remove my hand from her mouth with a curse. “Fucking hell—”

She doesn’t answer, just yanks me down by my belt loop and grinds up against me, hard and hungry.

Electric. Hot. Wildly inappropriate.

But she’s the one pulling me closer, wrapping her leg around my hip as bullets ping off metal somewhere in the distance.

“You’re insane,” I breathe against her throat. Her response is a sound, half moan, half growl, as her hand slides between us and grips me through my jeans. The way she strokes me— desperate and needy— leaves no doubt this isn’t strategy.

This is want.

And, fuck, I want too.

My hand slides up her side to the waistband of her sweats. She arches into my touch, breath hitching.

“Este camino,” one of the men says.

“Necesitamos encontrarla.”

Then they run off.

What the fuck am I doing? I push down into her, panting, locking her hand between our bodies. I nudge her ear. “Move your hand, Molly.”

Her breath shudders hot and damp, and she tugs her hand away, her gaze full of sharp daggers.

I wait a beat, listening, but no one shouts. No bullet tears into me or the truck.

The gunfire pops and burns the night, but the shots are at a distance. They’re not shooting near here again. Not yet.

And my Spanish is weak. This way I got. And something about finding him, or was it her?

“This is what we’re going to do, Marlowe.” Her eyes spark with fury when I use her given name. “The gunfight moved away from us for now. The yard is big, but that means shit. They’ll be back.”