Mine (The Kincaid Syndicate #1)

Chapter 1

DOMINIC

Blood pools around my feet, the metallic stench seeping into my nostrils and staining my lungs.

The body strapped to the chair in front of me slumps forward—–limp and lifeless.

I step back, surveying the mess we made—of him—and the cellar below Dom’s—one of a chain of businesses we use as a front for our other… businesses.

I don’t enjoy torture—contrary to popular belief—but it’s part and parcel of running The Syndicate. I do whatever it takes to ensure we call the shots in this city—shots which strictly forbid trafficking women—which is what this fucking beast in front of us was caught doing.

‘Only the brave survive,’ I say dryly. It’s a motto I live by. Carved an entire empire upon.

‘Which is why he,’ my brother, Ciaran, points to the chair, ‘didn’t manage ten minutes down here.’ His dark eyes flick to meet mine. ‘Do you think he told us everything?’

‘It’s a little late to ask questions now.’ I arch a wry eyebrow.

Ciaran gets a little trigger-happy sometimes, especially when it comes to dealing with scum who steal young girls, hook them by getting them stuck on smack, then sell them off to the highest bidder. Which is why our friend here is missing eight of his fingers—cut with bolt cutters, one by one.

‘I can’t believe he was working with Kavanagh.’ He shrugs, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.

Rory Kavanagh wants what we have.

The docks.

The supply lines.

The weapons.

The city.

The only reason he’s still breathing is that fifteen years ago his father brokered an accord with my uncle when we took the city. A non-aggression pact. No encroachment. No blood between families. No touching what belongs to the other.

It’s the only thing standing between him and extinction.

I’ve been silently begging him to break it for years. Because the moment he so much as lays a finger on a Kincaid—the accord dies.

And so does he.

The same courtesy isn’t extended to his henchmen, which is why this bastard in front of us drew his last breath two minutes ago.

I wipe the sweat beading on my brow with my forearm and blow out a breath. ‘Kavanagh is a cunt. Always has been. Always will be.’

I’m no saint.

Far from it, in fact.

But women, children, and civilians are not part of our world.

They shouldn’t be dragged into it by beasts like him.

‘Someone thinks he’s alright.’ Ciaran shrugs. ‘Heard he’s getting married today. At the Shelbourne, no less. Flash fucker. He won’t be so flash when he realises we released the women he was planning on selling to pay for it.’

‘If he can find someone to love him, there’s hope for us yet.’ I push my thick-rimmed black glasses up onto my nose.

‘There’s hope for you, you handsome fucker.’ My brother punches my bicep playfully. ‘Marriage and babies aren’t on my agenda. Never have been, never will be.’

‘You just haven’t met the right woman yet.’ Neither have I, but I know she’s out there somewhere. I’ve always known it. A fact that earned me an interesting nickname—the romantic psycho. I believe in true love. I believe in soul mates. But I also believe in The Syndicate.

My brothers are convinced we can’t have both.

I can’t wait to prove them wrong.

Because I will do—one day.

The front door slams loudly from above us.

I freeze, frowning at Ciaran.

Who the fuck is that?

No one in their right mind would willingly walk through Dom’s doors in broad daylight.

The locals know it’s a front for things they don’t want to be associated with.

And the tourists don’t usually stray this far out of the city.

The northside isn’t exactly picturesque.

It’s steeped in history, but most of it is pretty gruesome.

‘Deal with him.’ My gaze drifts to our friend in the chair.

‘And I’ll go deal with whoever that is.’ I reach for the pistol in my pocket as I creep silently up the concrete staircase and into the bar’s main lounge.

Dim light spills from lantern shaped wall lamps, illuminating scuffed leather booth seating and scratched mahogany tables.

It’s eerily quiet. Hard to believe that in another eight hours, this place will be packed with men—my men—drinking and discussing business.

I inch further inside, scanning the room. My jaw drops at the sight in front of me.

A woman charges through my bar, barefoot, holding up a huge white wedding dress a foot from the floor.

Her golden hair cascades across her shoulders in huge bouncing curls.

She’s staring back over her shoulder like she’s being chased by Chuckie.

Ragged pants spill from her lips as she struggles to catch her breath.

Her chest rises and falls with the exertion—and what a chest it is.

Generous, voluptuous breasts threaten to burst out over the top of the silk at any second.

I stop in my tracks, take my hand from the weapon in my pocket, and pick my jaw up from the floor. If she doesn’t face forward in the next four seconds, she’s going to run smack bang into me.

Three.

Two.

One.

Bang.

Those big, beautiful tits collide against my torso, and I can honestly say, given the lifeless bleeding body in the cellar, and the news that Kavanagh is clearly trying to antagonise me into starting a war, this is the best thing that’s happened to me all day.

She startles at the impact.

Her head snaps up, and our eyes lock.

Fuck. Me.

She’s a fucking knockout.

Huge oceanic eyes swim with a confusion that quickly morphs into full-blown fear. Those full, pouty lips pop open. A gasp whooshes from her crimson painted lips as she bounces off my torso.

I automatically reach out and grab her wrist to steady her, feeling her blood racing through her veins in an erratic rhythm.

Instinctively, I sweep a thumb over her pulse point in an attempt to soothe her hammering heart rate.

The contact is innocent enough, yet a strange awareness crackles over my skin like electricity.

An awareness that I haven’t felt for a very long time—outside the sex club I frequent, that is.

‘Well, well, what do we have here?’ I keep my voice playful so as not to terrify her. She’s already running scared.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips; my eyes track the movement.

‘I’m in the wrong place.’ She attempts to wriggle her wrist free. It’s futile, I might add. I’m an expert at restraining women. I’ve had plenty of practice, but always for pleasure, never for pain.

‘I didn’t know this was your bar.’ Fear radiates from her every pore.

Aha. So she knows who I am.

What I’m capable of.

‘I’m meant to be somewhere…’ she continues, her wide eyes bouncing around the room wildly searching for something—or someone.

A way to escape maybe?

Tut tut.

Where are her manners?

We’ve only just met.

‘What if you’re exactly where you’re meant to be?

’ I counter, loosening my grip on her wrist. I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m nowhere near ready to release her yet either.

An innate instinct is screaming at me that fate has thrown this stunning young woman in front of me.

And if I let her run out of here now, I’ll never know why.

Her eyes widen further as she processes my words.

I clear my throat. ‘You’re clearly in trouble. Maybe I can help you.’

She regards me warily, shaking her head. ‘I doubt it.’

I glance down at her bare feet. Her open wounds are bleeding all over the floor. I don’t give a shit about the mess, but I don’t feel like taking her for a tetanus shot either. I need to get her cleaned up. ‘Let me at least try.’

She glances at the door, then back to me, like she’s weighing up the lesser of two evils.

Oh, sweetheart, there’s one clear winner.

Whoever she’s running from, I’m definitely worse.

The difference is, I don’t hurt women. Tease them, spank them, suck them and fuck them—but I never cause pain.

‘Take a seat.’ I point to row upon row of spirits behind the woodchipped bar. ‘I’ll pour you a whiskey, and you can tell me all about it.’

‘I don’t drink spirits,’ she blurts. ‘I’ll take some water, please.’

‘Maybe today’s the day you should start.’ I lead her towards a leather covered bar stool and help her into it. Her body visibly trembles under my touch. ‘You’re okay,’ I murmur. ‘You’re safe. No one will hurt you here.’

She glances at the door warily again, but this time, she seems more concerned about someone racing through it, than racing out of it.

‘I’ll lock it.’ I offer. ‘That way, I’ll have time to tuck you behind this bar,’ I pat the mahogany counter, ‘before I put a bullet in whoever’s chasing you.’

Those big baby blues snap to mine, and she stares at me for a long beat, like she’s trying to decide if I’m joking.

I’m not.

I pat the pistol that’s permanently stashed in my suit pocket to prove it.

Finally, a small, humourless chuckle slips from her lips.

It’s low at first, but by the time I cross the room, it transforms into full-blown hysteria.

I shove the door closed and bolt the lock across.

By the time I reach her again, her laughter has subsided.

A single fat tear rolls from her kohl-lined eyes, then trickles across her cheek.

Instinctively, I raise my thumb to her face and swipe it away. She startles at the contact. Wide, wild pupils fall to my mouth, then my chest, then to the floor.

I prowl around the bar counter and fetch her the water. She accepts it gratefully, drains it in one go, then places the glass on the counter. ‘Thank you.’

I reach for a bottle of Becketts Gold, the best whiskey in the country. ‘Trust me, it’ll help with the shock.’

‘Today has been pretty shocking,’ she admits, with a sigh, then rests her elbows on the bar. Those glossy blonde, bouncing curls fall forward, covering her high set cheekbones as she cradles her head in her hands. ‘Mostly, I shocked myself.’

I pour two generous measures and push one her way. ‘What did you do?’

Her wary gaze returns to mine as she sweeps a hand over the white dress, drawing my attention to her breasts again in the process.

I’m only human.

She’s nothing like my usual type, but she exudes a rare, ethereal type of beauty that I just can’t put my finger on. Even in her current dishevelled state, she’s the most striking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

‘I ran out on a bad man.’ She lifts the glass to her nose, sniffs, then winces. ‘He’d have probably killed me in the end anyway.’ She pauses, staring at me for a long beat, like she’s still not entirely convinced I won’t do the same. ‘I figured I’d at least make him chase me for the privilege.’

She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. ‘Your fiancé chased you through the streets?’

‘No,’ she scoffs. ‘He wouldn’t break a sweat searching for me. He’ll have instructed his men to raid the city until they find me.’

‘His men?’ Curiosity rises in my chest like a riptide. ‘Who exactly is your fiancé?’

It hits me then like a sledgehammer.

Rory fucking Kavanagh.

And it would appear his fiancée abandoned him at the altar, then ran straight into my bar, and straight into my arms.

It’s poetic, really.

I was right—it’s fate. It has to be.

Trafficking women was one of his many attempts to provoke me into breaking our families’ treaty. He—and the rest of Dublin—know The Syndicate won’t tolerate trading women like cattle. He’s been attempting to rile me into war for years.

And every single one of my instincts screams at me that I’m looking at the leverage I need to make him strike first.