Bachelor of the Irish Mafia

1. Killian

KILLIAN

I stab the blade repeatedly into the chest of my enemy, then sigh as I step backwards.

Nope, that didn’t do the trick.

After cleaning off my favourite knife, the movements over the steel so familiar, and usually soothing, I pick up a gun and load it.

The man before me is already dead from the dozens of stab wounds, and blood drips onto the plastic with a steady beat.

I know you’re not supposed to take out your life-frustrations at work, but this is exceptional circumstances.

And nothing is calming the headache developing behind my eyes or the crackling anger and despondency in my chest.

I shoot him in the head, and watch as splatter coats the floor, spilling off the edge of the plastic sheeting.

I wait to feel better.

Damn.

Not today.

And now, not only is there a mess on the carpet, but my chief of enforcement will get that hurt puppy look because I disposed of this prick alone rather than letting him do his job. Plus, the entire building has heard my bad mood.

There’s a knock on my office door.

“The answer is no,” I snap. I have one more hour, and I don’t intend to share it.

“Ah, in that case, the question is, are you sure you want this to happen?” It’s the Irish accent of Brandon, my second-in-command.

Feck. He wouldn’t be interrupting me without good reason. Not another problem with the Essex Cartel. Surely god wouldn’t give me that today, as well as my mother and her farce of a plan?

“Enter.”

Brandon’s expression as he opens the door is apologetic. “Your dad—”

He’s cut off by the obnoxious ringtone I’ve designated for my mother. It’s shrill. Ear-splitting.

She hates it.

Slamming the weapon onto my desk, I pick up my phone and lower myself into the big leather chair.

“Mam,” I answer and wave to Brandon to make himself comfortable. He glances at the dead body in one of the two seats, then wipes the blood from the other chair before sitting.

“Your father has gone, Killian.” Her voice is tense, and her American accent is even stronger than usual. She’s stressed. “We have to find him, and quickly.”

My heart sinks. I don’t say what we’re both thinking. His mind is wandering, and a kingpin who can’t remember he’s retired is a liability. Especially given we have guests.

Sensitive guests.

Female guests.

“I don’t want him meeting any of the brides before the welcome ceremony.”

“I can’t marry them all,” I snipe back. “And I should think they know what they’ll be getting into.”

“One winner only, but they mustn’t get the wrong idea if your father—”

“I’ll sort it, Mam. He’ll be there for the start of your horse race.”

“They are not horses, they’re potential wives. And I heard a gunshot—”

“I wasn’t killing him.” I hang up with a flick of my thumb, then shove my phone into my jacket pocket. Rubbing the side of my face with my palm, I contemplate my life grimly. How did I end up in this fecking shitshow?

Oh yeah. Born into it.

“Where is he?” I ask Brandon, but I already know.

“In the basement.”

“Ah feck. Not again.”

“Liam let him in. I think he likes the company, and the sense of the good ol’ days.” Brandon rolls his eyes.

“Liam is lucky he’s excellent at his job, or I’d be reminding him of who now leads this mafia by putting something sharp through his skull,” I grumble.

But that’s not totally out of the question if I can’t get my dad away from his favourite “hobby”.

I get to my feet and gesture for Brandon to follow me, letting the door slam behind us.

Locked. I’ve long since had to ensure my dad doesn’t get involved with computers. That’s even more messy.

Though less blood than I’ve shed today.

“Your dad does have lucid moments, to be sure,” Brandon says as we reach the basement.

“Everyone thought he’d die in a shoot-out.” I shake my head. “The Grim Reaper has a sense of humour.”

Brandon gives a mirthless laugh.

I walk into the interrogation room, and a sight affronts me that makes my throat close up for how familiar and yet wrong it is.

I’ve grown up in this mafia. I was a kid when my dad did unspeakable things to keep our family safe and at the top of our game. I learned everything I knew from him until I took over seven years ago and dragged us into the modern era.

I earned my reputation as the Devil of Archway partly in this room, using the same knives that are on the table in the corner. My father stands over a man who’s dripping blood from his nose. His friend is upstairs in my office.

Most people dislike the sight of blood. It’s just red liquid to me.

“Tell me everything you know about Camden!” My dad’s Irish accent, similar to mine but seventy-five to my forty, is getting stronger as his mind is deteriorating.

“He wouldn’t listen to me that Camden was muzzled years ago.” Liam appears at my side, voice low and apologetic. He’s a man nearing retirement who worked for my father well before he worked for me.

I nod grimly. “I know. You did your best.”

My father’s periods of memory loss are getting worse. He’s interrogating this man about the Camden mafia as though that conflict wasn’t twenty years ago, when Camden were at their bloody height, and tortured practically everyone in the city who got in their way.

“I don’t know anything about Camden!” the man spits out, panic mixing with derision.

“Dad.” I step forward. “This piece of shit isn’t from Camden.”

My dad looks over at me and frowns. “What are you doin’ down here? You’re too young to be involved with this, so.”

I repress a sigh. Parent’s going to parent, I guess. Protectors have to protect.

“He’s a child molester we’re getting information from for an ally,” I say calmly.

“Who? What ally?” he demands.

If I say Blackfen, he’ll lose it. “His name is Kirill. He’s a friend of mine.” That’s stretching the truth plenty.

“Russian?” he asks suspiciously.

I wince. Right. He doesn’t like the bratva either. Doesn’t know that they’re mostly our allies now, part of the London Mafia Syndicate. “Mam needs you upstairs. This eejit will wait for tomorrow.”

My dad looks back at the restrained and bleeding man, then nods. “It’ll do him some good to have time to think.”

I smile, because that’s my dad as he was in his prime.

Brandon and I get him out with a minimum of hassle, but as we near the ballroom, I hear my mother’s voice, harassed and squeaky.

I might have a reputation of being a devil, for being evil incarnate, but even I have my limits on the hell I can withstand.

Reaching into my pocket for my phone, I pretend to see that it’s ringing. Conveniently, there’s a missed call from Westminster, so I’ll check what he wants. “I need to take this.”

I just need a minute to myself before I go through with this duty. A fecking wife. I guess I should be grateful this didn’t happen when I was twenty, or some arranged marriage nonsense, because although I love my family, there are limits.

Or so I thought.

“I’ll be there,” I assure Brandon, who gives me a wild-eyed look, not happy about dealing with my parents without me. Taking the first exit I see, I stride into a room off the main foyer.

And stop dead.

There’s a girl standing with her back to me, to the side of the massive conference table.

“You can do it!” A soft, whisper-sing, off-tune warble strikes me.

She’s dancing. And singing.

I let the door shut silently and take in the young woman before me. Wavy brown hair gathered neatly at her nape. She’s wearing a loose-fitting suit with trousers and a jacket in a sober grey, with a blue top. Professional.

She has her arms stretched above her head, eyes closed, hips swaying.

Then she brings her arms down in a motion that reminds me of a move that when I bothered knowing anything about pop culture, was called the funky chicken.

I have no idea what the song is, partly because I don’t think this girl could carry a tune in a bucket. And her dancing is atrocious.

But despite that, as I watch her, I’m grinning, my shitty day forgotten. She’s singing, and dancing, in a meeting room off the foyer in the headquarters of one of the most powerful mafias in London. Her hair is damp from the rain, and she’s got a bag she’s placed on the floor.

Whatever she’s doing, she’s got bravery to go with it.

She’s pretty, too. That doesn’t hurt. I let myself run my gaze over her body. I want to, which is an unusual feeling for me.

I think I desire her.

That’s even rarer.

She must be here for the wife competition. This brave, gorgeous girl is here to audition to be my wife.

“I’m gonna do it,” she sings, off key. “I can do this. This won’t defeat me. I can get this one.”

“Yes…” I drawl.

She spins on her heel, and her eyes are open wide, revealing dark-brown irises. So pretty. She’d be a perfect wife for me.

“I think you can.”