The Mobster’s Secret (Lords of New York #2)

Prologue

Roarke

Shots, screams, smoke…

A voice whimpering from under the rubble…

Help me, please!

I jolt awake, a pained growl trapped in my throat. My body convulses, and every muscle screams in protest as I struggle to sit up. My heart beats frantically against my ribs, terrifying drums that echo the horror still clinging to the edges of my mind. I’m cold and clammy, and…I can’t breathe.

Jesus Christ, I can’t fucking breathe!

The smoke…I can still smell it. Even now, it clogs my throat, suffocating me as it did that night two years ago. Still, I can still hear the screams and the gunshots ringing in my ears. The heart-wrenching sobs as the world came crashing down, smoke and dust billowing all around us.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I claw at my chest with my clammy hands, grabbing onto my T-shirt and yanking at the neck, but it does nothing to help with the noose around my throat. The world blurs at the edges as I struggle to drag in enough air, each breath a desperate shallow gasp.

The gunshots…the cries.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force the terror back and regain some semblance of control. My hands tremble, and I can feel the cold sweat running down my face. I reach out, fumbling for the edge of the couch and seeking something solid to touch—anything that’ll ground me.

It works. Slowly, air slips through the cracks of my clogged windpipe and into my starved lungs. The pounding in my head eases to a dull throb, and the world stops spinning around me. I give myself a moment, eyes shut as I try not to replay my dream and its horrors.

I’m not in the desert anymore, and no gunmen are ambushing us from all corners.

No, I’m at home. In New York City. Miles away from the dust and smoke of the failed mission that wiped out half of my unit, but is it any wonder that I brought the ghosts home with me?

“Fuck!” I hiss, running a hand through my wet hair and finally opening my eyes, blinking against the soft glow of the natural light filtering through my panoramic window.

I’d take the constant chaos of the city to the quiet of the desert any day.

There, I never knew when the quiet would devolve into chaos and destroy my life.

A quick glance at my watch tells me that I’ve been down for less than three hours, which has to be some kind of a record. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately, so I try to catch it when I can.

Well, I might as well get back to work.

I push up from the couch, stretching my arms to relieve the stiffness in my body.

I make my way to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water before heading to my office.

I’ve barely settled in when the shrill ring of the phone cuts into the quiet.

A part of me considers ignoring the call and letting it go to voicemail.

I’m not steady yet. That fucking nightmare left me shaky, and I still haven’t completely found my footing.

The smoke and the gunshots…

“Stop it!” I snap, grabbing the phone from the desk and slapping it to my ear. “Roarke.”

If the sound comes out harsh, then it must register with the caller because silence follows for a few seconds before a soft, feminine voice breaks through.

“Mr. Roarke O’Shea?” the voice says shakily before quickly steeling.

“This is Matteo Rossi’s personal assistant.

Would you mind holding while I connect you to him? ”

Matteo Rossi?

Now there’s a name I never thought I would hear.

It’s no secret that the Rossis are involved in illegal activities—the kind that gets people killed if they look too deeply or ask one too many questions.

Matteo Rossi has been groomed his entire life to run the family business.

Still, I can’t help but wonder what a man like that would want with me.

We don’t travel in the same circles. I don’t deal with mob families for a reason.

Still, it piques my curiosity.

“Sure, I’ll hold,” I say.

The lady thanks me before her voice is replaced by some snappy little tune that threatens to claw at my already frayed nerves. They don’t keep me waiting for long, and a minute later, the music cuts off and is replaced by a deep male voice.

“Roarke O’Shea,” Matteo says. “I’m not going to keep you long. I imagine we’re both busy men. I’ll get straight to the point.”

“Alright then,” I say, leaning back to hear the man out.

“I need to hire protection.”

Not what I was expecting to hear, but then again, I never thought I would be talking to a Rossi. “I figured you’d have your own protection.” All mob bosses do.

“Not for myself,” he clarifies. “I recently got married, and I want to ensure my sisters-in-law are well protected from misguided business associates. I’m sure you understand.

” A long silence stretches between us before he carries on.

“My research told me that your security firm is one of the best in the country, the best in New York City. And I want the best for my family.”

I should say no.

Getting tangled up with the Mafia is never a good idea.

I’ve worked in the security industry long enough to understand the dangers that come with working with people who have no sense of integrity or respect for human life.

Still, something holds me back from outright turning down the man and ending the call.

“Why would you want to hire an outside company when you have plenty of men who work for you and could provide security?”

“My wife was against the idea,” he says with a sigh. “It was her request not to have any of my men as the girls’ bodyguards. She doesn’t want her sisters involved in my world any more than necessary.”

Even more reasons for me to turn down this job. Politicians and A-list celebrities are more our client base and not people involved with organized crime, however distantly.

“I will, of course, pay premium rates for your services,” he continues when I don’t immediately respond. “And I will consider it a personal favor to me if you take this contract.”

That should be incentive enough to take the job.

The Rossi name carries a lot of weight in New York City, not just underground but in a lot of spaces where our company operates.

Still, I hesitate. Mob bosses are not known as the best people to work with.

They will not hesitate to trample over the weak to get what they want.

“Send me their dossiers, then I’ll get back to you,” I find myself saying.

I try to reason that I’m doing this out of curiosity and that I’ll only take a look at who needs protection.

Then I’ll call him back and reject the offer.

There are hundreds of other security firms in the city—none like ours, of course—but it wouldn’t be difficult for a man like him to find bodyguards elsewhere.

I turn to my computer when an email pops up. When I click on the file attached, the first thing I see is…her.

It takes me by surprise—the picture that loads and occupies my entire screen. A picture of a girl with the most beautiful seafoam eyes I have ever seen and the face of an angel. Long silky brown hair curtaining a heart-shaped pale face and cherry red lips curved in a slight smile.

Her eyes, Jesus Christ, they’re a startling mix of blue and green, something akin to the summer sky reflecting in a lagoon.

I trace the lines of her face on the screen and find myself staring at the picture for what feels like an eternity.

I know I should scroll down and read about her or check out the other sisters, but… I can’t look away.

The answer is obvious.

I’m taking the job.