The Mafia’s Daughter (The Women of the Mafia #2)

Prologue

HAYES

Ienter the bar on the harbor right after midnight. The street is deserted, but the door keeps swinging, men in stained shirts and slicked-back hair spilling through the squeaky hinges.

This isn’t a place for a kid, but it’s exactly where I need to be.

The Wharf is a tavern on the edges of polite society. It’s dark, and seedy, with a rusted metal roof that leaks in the rain. And right now, it’s a lighthouse in black waters, a beacon of hope for me.

Entering, I inhale the smoke-laced air, dripping with booze and sweat.

A young woman works the counter, wiping down the top with a practiced ease.

She doesn’t look up—most of the men here don’t—which doesn’t bother me.

Everyone hunkers over their beers, some leaning back in their chairs murmuring to each other, and I keep my head lowered to avoid attention.

It’s relatively quiet for a bar, but that’s the point. Because this isn’t just a bar. It’s a holding place for the O’Brien Clan. A mob outfit, this place houses their men and product, and it’s meant to only be accessed by those in it. Something I want to now be a part of.

This is my only chance of escape.

I turn, bumping into a hard belly. Two large hands land on my shoulders, and I look up at the only person I wanted to see.

Ferguson O’Brien. The clan Captain in the flesh. He’s a mountain of a man, wide and tall with dark hair and a piercing gaze that immediately makes my shoulders hike. It’s the gaze of a hungry lion, and I’m the gazelle.

“Watch it,” he snaps, his accent harsh. He’s been in America for decades, but the Irish flavor still coats his words. A cigar hangs out of his mouth, and the acidic smoke hits me in the face like a harsh slap. “Kids aren’t allowed in here.”

He shoves me aside, but I right myself, as I dig in my heels, halting his path.

“Wait. I’m not just a kid.” I turned seventeen, and although I look young, I’m verging into adulthood. “I’m here for work.”

“Ain’t got none.” He waves me off, stepping around. “This bar doesn’t serve minors. Out.”

“You use kids,” I argue, stepping back into his path. Twin red spots darken his ruddy cheeks and I course-correct. “You use them for runs. I’m just looking for a job. Be a runner for the clan.”

“You?” He stops, critically eying me. He takes in my scuffed shoes, the worn but well-made jeans and shirt. It speaks of money, not some street kid who needs a roof over their head. “You don’t look like you need a job.”

“I do,” I insist.

He snorts as a small girl comes up to his side.

She’s a few years my junior and a slight thing. Her dark hair hangs around her shoulders, the leather jacket a bit too big on her, but she clings to it like a security blanket.

Yet, it’s the bags under her eyes and the gaunt cheeks that I notice. She looks familiar, like a face I’ve seen reflected in the mirror.

“We need a new runner,” she chimes in, shoving her hands into her pockets. Her jeans are ripped in the knees. I don’t think they’re supposed to be. “The last two didn’t make it back.”

Ferguson chews on the butt of his cigar, never taking his eyes off of me. I shift my weight, my hands clasping at air. I don’t know if I should stand straight or wither in submission.

“Killian,” he calls, just as a young man glides around his opposite side. He’s my age, tall, but it’s the gaze that makes me pause. Black, soulless eyes, they pierce me to the core and hold me there. “Thoughts?”

Killian tilts his head, his old band shirt wrinkled under his bomber jacket. Circling me, he looks for a weakness. I flinch when he gets too close, smelling of mint and blood and he smiles, pleased.

What kind of kid feels like the cold touch of death?

The girl steps closer, blocking Killian from me. They stare each other down and the boy smiles wider.

“He’s big,” he says, taking a step back. The girl continues to shield me. “He could come in handy on the runs. If he survives.”

“I’ll teach him,” the girl offers. “I need someone to watch my back. No one ever lasts.”

“No one has the stomach with you,” Killian quips.

Ferguson chews thoughtfully, searching something in her eyes. Something I don’t comprehend.

“He’s on you, Ace.” His eyes flicker over me briefly, before returning to her. This is Ace? The one my father was always cursing out? “One screw-up, one mistake, and it’s both of you. Hear me?”

She nods, but doesn’t respond. What else is there to say?

Ferguson pushes past us, conversation finished.

Men move out of his way as he exits, the respect they have for him only overpowered by the fear of his brutality.

I’ve heard the rumors—I know what kind of man Ferguson is.

That’s why I knew he’d take me in. He only employs kids to run his drugs and guns—they’re easy to train, and if they get caught, oh well.

There are always more to take their place.

Kids are eager. Kids are easy to replace. Kids don’t matter to the mobster.

Killian steps closer, inhaling deeply. “You smell like a little rich boy. Wearing nice clothes, expensive shoes. Such a pretty boy in a not so pretty place. Why is that?”

The girl steps between us again, shoving the boy aside with strong arms. He moves a step, a slight unhinged edge to his smirk as she plants her feet.

“Back off, Linwood.”

“Aren’t you curious about him, Maeve?” He scans her before looking back at me. That smile drips with poison. “Why would the rich kid want to be a part of the dirty clan? How could this be better than the comforts of his home?”

“No.” She stands taller, daring the older boy to say more. “He’ll earn his place just like everyone else.”

Killian moves, a snake slithering in the grass but Maeve doesn’t blink. Her face is devoid of emotions but it’s the strength behind those eyes that catches me. She’s not afraid of him, and won't be swayed by him. She’s a boulder to his storm and she remains resolute.

“Don’t you at least want to know who he is, Princess?”

Maeve narrows her eyes as I gulp loudly. Killian is a fearsome kid but what makes him dangerous is he knows who I am. I can see it as clearly as the grimy layer of dust on the bar shelves behind us.

He knows who I am—what I am. I’m toast.

“What’s your name?”

I hesitate briefly. “Hayes.”

Her lips twitch as Killian glares murderously. “See? Now, I know his name.” She gestures for me to follow her to the exit. “Come with me. I’ll get you settled at the house behind us. All the kids get room and board for as long as they run for us.”

I take a step before Killian’s hand flies out, connecting with my chest, stopping me from leaving his side. This close, my body shudders at the violent twisting of his eyes. They look dead far away, but up close? They’re a maelstrom of emotions.

He’s a live wire, ready to go off with very little reason.

“I know who you are, Prince,” he growls, watching Maeve’s retreating figure.

“I know who your father is.” Black eyes look at me and I freeze.

“If you’re a rat—I’ll find out. If you do anything to harm this clan—I’ll be the one to end you.

But if you do anything to jeopardize her?

I will leave you on your father’s porch, a bloody mess with a note nailed into your chest, and let him finish the fucking job. ”

Licking my bottom lip, I nod once, hiding my fear. “I’m not a rat.”

He glares. “We’ll see about that.”