The O’Rourke Brotherhood
Mob Boss
BOOK ONE SNEAK PEEK
Dillan
I hate meetings like this. I don’t need to wear pants from some shitty off-the-rack suit that are too tight to try to make my dick look bigger. I’m secure in my cock size, and I don’t need to show how big my balls are for people to know I run this part of the city. I loathe strip clubs too. I’m past the point where naked women make my jimmy do jumping jacks. I can appreciate a hot bod and gymnast level strength, but it does nothing for me. These douchebags? They’re practically ready to come in those cheap arse pants. Why am I here? I keep asking myself that.
Seamus and Shane are doing just fine with these negotiations. I’m just here to look good. I’m the muscle today. Or rather my name and my position. Who the fuck thought— way, way back in the day —that giving the mob hierarchy nautical names was a good idea? Fucking Skipper. This isn’t motherfucking Gilligan’s Island. None of these numb nuts are the Professor, even if they think they’re fucking Mr. Howell.
But who is that? If this is Gilligan’s Island, then she’s Mary Ann.
I glance at Seamus, but he’s focused on the Albanian he’s trying not to lose his shite at. Shane smirks at me when I dart my gaze to him. I cock an eyebrow as the waitress walks over. She’s definitely not a dancer. She has too many clothes on. But you can barely call the pieces of thread she’s wearing clothes. She’s got on a bikini top that’s barely more than pasties, and the skirt she’s wearing would make my Catholic grandmother do somersaults in her grave.
It’s the standard uniform for this place, but somehow it doesn’t look right on her. Not because she doesn’t have a banging body because she does. Not because she’s a butter face— but-her-face —as in great bod, not so great face. She’s beautiful in a super understated way. That’s part of what makes her look out of place. She has next to no makeup on. I think those are even her real eyelashes. The natural beauty is drawing way too much attention.
“’Scuse me.”
She tries to step around Zef Hoxha, the kyre of the Albanian mafia here in New York. When he reaches out to grab her wrist, I’m out of my seat with my hand around his. He never gets a chance to touch her because my hold is so tight he can’t bend his fingers. I keep squeezing until it must feel like I’ll snap the bones.
“No touching.”
Zef drops his arm as much as my hold allows. I let go and stare at him before I tilt my head toward the waitress. I narrow my eyes, and he knows what I expect.
“I apologize, miss.”
“That’s all right, sir. Here’s your drink.”
She’s polite as she hands him his glass. Unfortunately, to put down the rest, she has to bend forward, giving everyone a view of her glorious cleavage. Tits and arse are what sell here, and she has them in spades. I’m certain it’s why my cousin hired her. If I sit down, everyone will know I’m just as guilty as these fuck nuts because she’s made my dick do something that hasn’t happened in a strip club since I was like twenty-three. I’m now thirty-three.
Mob Boss
Mob Star
Mob Princess
Mob Saint
Mob Bride
Mob Knight
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