Chapter 1
excerpt - the mafia bodyguard’s possession
CHAPTER ONE
Declan
Outside the quiet, seemingly empty industrial park in Queens where I squat in between rusted bones of trucks with dead, peeling tires, the glint of a gun captures my attention.
Gotta bless the full moon as it hits the muzzle.
My heart thumps as adrenaline spikes.
The gun glints again as its owner slowly moves a hand around the space, like it’s some kind of victim-seeking missile.
I breathe, slow and silent.
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, my gaze locked on the office across the way but never far away from the gun.
Could it be security?
This place shouldn’t have any. No one who values their life comes here unannounced. This is prime mafia and cartel no man’s land, a place to bury shit and hide, a place to kill and cut deals.
It’s also not Murphy land.
If I’m caught—
I grit my teeth.
I’m not going to get caught.
The gun disappears from my view. I wait a little longer.
O’Shay said the drugs would be there until a midnight pickup. It’s ten o’clock. All I need to do is get in there, grab the drugs that belong to my family and get the fuck out. Simple.
Across from me is an old truck with a label peeling off the side. Fuck me.
Marc + Ella Imports.
The Marcello mafia. Do they use this place? Or did the truck get dumped after it outlived its usefulness?
Don’t know or care. But I do file it away. The Marcello family is one group my brother Callahan wants to meet.
And if they use this yard, I’m not about to win points by being caught here.
The moon lights up the ground in front of me and I plot out a new path. I was going to beeline it, but now I need to play zigzag on a dagger’s edge, just I case someone’s watching. I can move fast, hide behind the rusting truck up ahead to my right, and then—
Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Dammit.
I freeze in my crouched position.
Heart pounding, I cock my head, listening. Another crunch and then another.
But the steps aren’t getting closer, they’re moving away. There’s gravel all around the building, so I take a chance.
I move silently, as fast as possible through the debris, sidestepping the black rainbow pools of oil and the rusted bones of old vehicles to the truck in my sights.
Another heavy footstep comes from behind me. Different gait. I drop behind a tire stack, the noxious scent of rust and blood and oil mixing in the air.
Old blood. But not as old as it should be.
To my left, comes another sound. Another pair of feet, lighter, moving fast in stilting steps.
Out of the corner of my eye, 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 tugs a memory chord inside me, 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 kind of place.
Except…is there another fucking meeting about to happen? My gaze flicks back to the rusted truck with the known Marcello mafia logo. Shit.
And who the fuck is moving with slow, deliberate, menacing steps behind me? What about the gravel-cruncher with the blingy gun that can be seen a mile away?
Ice drips down my spine. This sure has the makings of a shootout.
And I’m in the fucking middle.
I need to make a move.
I grip my gun, take half a step as Puffer Jacket scurries across my line of sight. Behind me, the heavy stepper squeezes off a shot.
The bullet whizzes close by, a burning tiny missile zipping through the heavy and tense air, narrowly missing me.
Puffer screams, eats dirt after diving to the ground, and I stay still and quiet.
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 him jump up with a disarming grace before darting into the shadows of a shipping container.
Above, the moonlight streams down, lighting up 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, filling me with impending dread. 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.
Because 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 into 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 spare parts. I edge around a tipped over old trucking container.
“I see you,” a voice shouts, gruff, angry. American. “I’ll fucking 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 tears through the air. Then…silence.
Puffer suddenly appears, looking around, all deer in truck headlights.
Our eyes meet. My adrenaline spikes high. Shite.
Puffer’s a girl.
One. I. Know.
Marlowe fucking Briggs.
Pain in the fucking ass.
An imaginary punch to the solar plexus knocks the wind out of me.
What the hell’s she doing here?
Does she know what I am?
Marlowe’s holding a gun. At her feet is a body wearing a fucking badge.
But she’s staring up at me, lush mouth open, copper eyes huge, wide, pretty as ever and full of shock. Fury slowly takes over the shock. “You—”
“Me.” I lunge, because honestly, I can’t let her get away and she just might get herself killed. Or me.
She tries to dodge. “Don’t—”
“Shit.” A bullet narrowly misses her, and I turn and shoot.
As a body hits the ground in the distance, I grab her, electricity exploding from the touch.
More bullets fly, cracking the silence.
But they’re not ours.
We’re in the light, and I haul her toward me, snatching her gun and dragging her across the path to a truck corpse as she struggles in my grip. Another bullet hits the truck from the opposite side. I tackle her to the ground and roll us underneath the belly.
This is probably the worst time to remember how tight and lush she is.
Because for a dancer, lithe with finely honed muscles, Marlowe Briggs is soft, sweet, and delicious as fuck. I drag my nose along her throat, her skin like hot silk, her pulse thudding wildly as I find her ear. “What the fuck, Marlowe?”
For a moment time seems to stop and the world shrinks to me and her and the fact she’s under me. She’s warm and everything that spikes my desire.
I lift my head, getting a good, long look at her to see if she’s going to lie, to see if she’s as pretty as I remember.
She’s prettier.
Her breath fans my chin, close enough to my mouth that I’m moments from tasting her again.
I remember it well, fresh and sweet with a dark thread of depravity somewhere in her elegant depths.
Marlowe lifts her head as I lower mine, a mere whisper away from a kiss, and she makes a sound, that little inward breath of delighted surprise that undoes things inside a man.
A bullet plows into the truck body above us, killing the moment.
“Let me go, Declan. I have—I can’t…please.”
She struggles, her pulse slamming against my fingers as I grasp her wrist. The bones are delicate as I tighten my hold. Shit, every fucking thing about her is delicate if you don’t count the personality.
“Are you fucking mad, Marley?” I whisper, using the name that makes her prickle. “There’s a gunfight. Why are you here?”
“I’m not telling you. Let me go.” She struggles some more and with every wriggle she’s making it harder, 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, the other still holding 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?
Marlowe chooses that moment to sink her teeth into my palm and it makes my dick fucking sing. I grind into her and her eyes flutter shut. The little brat pushes up to meet me.
Electric. Hot. Wildly inappropriate, and I’m seconds from moving my hand and plundering her mouth, from lowering her pants to see if we can have the world’s most dangerous sex.
Her free hand catches the belt loop on my jeans and pulls me into her as she grinds up.
Her fingers slide between us, and they curl around my jean’s covered erection.
Fuck. Fuck. I can’t breathe.
Slowly, Marlowe starts to stroke me, and I lick and bite her throat. I don’t lift my hand. But the other one with the gun has a mind of its own. I want—need—to touch her bare wet flesh, and yes, I know she’s wet. She’s grinding up against my cock like a dog in heat.
Marlowe’s a witch in Fifth Avenue clothing.
She’s wearing something thick and soft. I trail the gun and hand up her side to the top of her pants. I loop my fingers into the elastic and slide them down—
“Este camino,” one of the men says. “Necesitamos entrontrarla.”
They run off.
What the fuck am I doing? I push down into her, panting, locking her hand between our bodies. It’s a very dangerous position and I nudge her ear. “Move your hand, no funny business, Marley.”
Her breath shudders, hot and damp on my palm, and she tugs her hand out, gaze full of sharp daggers.
I wait a beat, listening, but no one shouts. No bullet tears into me or the truck.
More gunfire pops and burns the night, but the shots are at a distance. They’re not shooting near here again. Not yet.