Cinderella and the Society Dame
Chapter one
WRAITH
Kenneth Shaughnessy's house in Queens isn't anything like Brogan Shaughnessy's Long Island mansion, but it's in a neighborhood reserved for rich people.
Red brick with a well maintained, if small front yard, there's parking for two cars in the driveway. One spot is taken with a Mercedes.
I take the other, backing in because I don't leave things like ease of exit to chance.
A quick assessment of the property doesn't reveal any security personnel. So, not that rich. Or maybe just too arrogant to think he needs on-site security for his home.
Yeah, I'm going with that one. Kenneth Shaughnessy is an arrogant son of a bitch with a fully developed sense of entitlement.
Climbing the stone steps to the porch, I ring the doorbell. And wait. I'm about to ring it again when it swings open, revealing a breathless woman dressed in a conservative maid's uniform that hides most of her skin, but not her curves.
"Can I…" She pauses, sucks in a steadying breath and pretty bow lips twist in a grimace before she continues. "May I help you?"
Someone is a stickler for proper grammar and I doubt it's the pretty little thing in front of me.
My ma used to correct me about asking may I instead of can I. When I asked her why it mattered if she knew what I meant, she said it was the way rich people did it and if I ever wanted to be one of them, I had to learn how to talk like they did.
I didn't want to be rich if it meant being mean like her employers and said so.
She shook her head at me and said, "The people with the money have the power. If you want to be free, you have to be rich."
She was wrong about the freedom thing. I got that when I left my stepfather's house and entered the Army.
She was also wrong about the rich people thing.
Her husband was a very rich man when he died and he'd never once spoken like a rich person.
Lleshi was one-hundred percent Albanian gangster with a dose of post-prison swagger and cruelty.
I was wrong about the rich people thing too though. My boss is a fucking billionaire and he can be a mean son of a bitch, but he doesn't play petty power games to prove his superiority.
That grimace shows this woman is used to being corrected by someone who does.
Her golden brown hair is pulled back in some kind of braid that starts flat at the top of her head, which I can see because she's so damn short. I'm above average height at 6'3", but she's at least ten inches – if not a foot – shorter than me.
Blue eyes with a thin circle of brown around the pupils show polite inquiry until she takes me in and then they flare with something else. Sexual appreciation.
I've only known one other person with heterochromatic blue eyes and the only thing they ever reflected was the stone-cold apathy of a killer.
Hers are way more expressive as sexual appreciation turns to confusion and then to fear.
The confusion makes sense. She doesn't know who I am, or why I'm here. I'm used to the flash of fear, but I liked the sexual appreciation more.
And damned if it isn't mutual.
I may not be able to see any cleavage, but her tits are big enough, even her boxy shirt can't disguise them. Her waist dips in before flaring out to ample hips my fingers want to dig into while I'm deep inside her pussy.
Fuck! What the hell am I thinking?
She's got kids. That means she's married. Only she's not wearing a ring. She's not wearing any other jewelry either, which could mean her employer requires her to leave her ring off while working.
Rich people can have some weird-assed ideas. I should know. I am one. Now.
"Are you Mrs. Gallagher?" I ask.
The fear intensifies before she can mask it. "Yes."
"I am Kieran Lleshi. I work for Mick Fitzgerald. You need to come with me." It's more words than I usually say, but she's not a soldier, so she needs an explanation.
That fear? Blossoms into outright terror, her pupils dilating, nearly swallowing up the thin brown circle in the center of the blue. "What? Why?"
I'm used to people being nervous around me. I'm a big man, shoulders broad enough that sometimes I have to shift sideways to get through a narrow door. And I don't smile because I prefer intimidation over charm to gain cooperation.
I don't want to scare the sweet little thing in front of me though.
"Your daughter is waiting for you." That should calm her down.
It doesn't. Her eyes flare wide in horror. "My daughter? The underboss has my daughter?"
She knows Mick is the underboss? That means she's aware her employer is mobbed up. Is her husband? Is that why she knows about Mick's true role?
Most people think he's Brogan Shaughnessy's right hand man in a legitimate business empire. He even has a title: chief operations officer.
"There was an issue at school—" I start to say when strident tones from inside the house interrupt me.
"áine! Don't stand there with the door open! You're letting all the cold air out."
áine. I like that name because it reminds me of the Irish grandmother who died when I was eleven, almost twelve. She pronounced her name as awn-ya too.
Mick Shaughnessy guessed I had Irish blood from the very beginning. He was right. I'm a quarter Irish, a quarter Albanian and half Italian. Because my sperm donor was not the man my mother married. He was the Italian piece of shit who took advantage of a vulnerable woman working in his home.
The boss attributes my superior fighting skills and strength of will to my Irish roots though.
Their real origin is a lot more practical. If I hadn't learned to fight, and stubbornly stood my ground, I wouldn't have survived my childhood. The Army took my street fighting techniques and honed them, molding me into the perfect weapon when I became a Ranger.
"Is she alright? What does Mr. Fitzgerald have to do with it?" áine asks in panicked tones as if her employer hadn't spoken. "Why didn't the school call me if one of my children is ill? Why—"
"áine!" This time the woman's voice cracks like a whip.
Jumping, áine shoots a worried look over her shoulder and steps back. "Come in."
I do, feeling the immediate drop in temperature from outside. The central air is working just fine in this place and set to winter level chill.
áine quickly edges around me to close the door. "I'll tell Mrs. Shaughnessy what's going on and get my bag."
Relieved she's finally going to cooperate, I incline my head in acknowledgement of her words. I should have led with the news her daughter needed her, but I'm used to people following my boss's orders without a need for explanation.
Whether they are in the mob, or not, people want to keep Mick Fitzgerald happy.
áine hurries into a room off the entryway. "Mrs. Shaughnessy, I have to go. One of the girls needs me."
She has more than one daughter?
Mysterious anger lights a fire in my gut at the knowledge she has carried not one daughter, but multiple children of another man.
She's married. She's not mine.
But the primitive warrior inside me that I got to know so well in the Army and accept as my core nature now rejects that truth with deadly intent.
A man worthy of calling himself her husband wouldn't leave her working for an asshole like Kenneth Shaughnessy.
"Nonsense. If one of the children isn't feeling well and must be picked up from school, your mother can retrieve her and take her home. You still have far too much to do to prepare for my dinner party tonight to take the time to leave and come back."
"I'm sorry, but I have to go." áine's tone is respectful, but determined.
"No. It's impossible, but you may take a minute to call your mother to fetch her," Allison Shaugnessy (Because who else would it be?) concedes grudgingly. "Why the school didn't simply call her to begin with, I cannot guess. You have instructed them to do so during your working hours, haven't you?"
"Yes, but this—"
"You will have to remind them. However, that must wait. You need to get back to work."
Done with this useless back-and-forth, I enter the living room. "Mrs. Shaughnessy, I have orders to bring áine to the estate."
I don't call áine Mrs. Gallagher this time. For some reason the last name sticks in my craw.
"What estate? Who are you?" Allison asks imperiously.
"The Shaughnessy Estate," I reply to the first question and then add my answer to the second. "Kieran Lleshi."
I've seen Allison Shaughnessy several times over the six years since I joined the mob, but I'm not surprised she hasn't noticed me. She's one of those society dames who does not deign to notice anyone she believes to be below her on the social strata.
And a mere foot soldier definitely falls in that category for her. I may be one of Brice's captains now with my own crew and have more than enough money to buy a house just like this one and staff it with damn security, but I don't move in Allison Shaughnessy's circles.
By my choice.
"You told me you had to pick your daughter up from school! Why on earth would Brogan want you brought to the estate?" Allison demands of áine.
"My daughter is there and I told you she needed me."
"What? Which daughter?" Allison asks shrilly.
"Sadie," I supply.
Both Allison and áine look at me with varying degrees of shock and worry.
"Does this have something to do with the contretemps at Kenny Jr.'s school? Are you saying Sadie had something to do with Fitzgerald attacking my son? That little psychopath sent my son to the hospital, did you know that?"
It was urgent care, not the hospital, but the better question is: if she is so concerned, why is the boy's mother here instead of being with her son?
I don't ask. Neither do I answer her questions.
"Get your purse áine."
áine nods and rushes from the room.
"What? No! If you leave, I will dock your wages!" Allison threatens.
Is this what my mother had to endure when she worked as a maid for the capo who raped her and his snobbish family? The thought sickens me.