The Mafia Boss

Ch. 1: Any last words, princess?

His lips run along the curve of my exposed neck, feather-light to the touch. It's a thrilling sensation that brings goosebumps to my arms and moisture between my legs. Torin O'Brien sure knows how to please a woman, and at just nineteen years of age no less. It's astonishing. His effect on me. As the youngest daughter of Patrick Murphy, it's usually my job to be in control. My responsibility.

Don't drop that smile, Imogen. And for God's sake, never let them know what you're thinking!

I'm a pro. My poker face is practiced to perfection, but Torin is my weakness. All he has to do is look at me and I'll drop my panties for him.

"T, stop!" My protests fall flat. "I can't be late for my own eighteenth birthday party."

"No one will even notice we're missing."

This warrants a laugh. "Of course they'll notice."

He's knows fine well if either one of us are missing for more than twenty minutes, an army of Irish mafia will be out looking for us. But I don't bring it up. In fact, Torin and I do our damned best to forget about our association with the two most powerful families in Northern Ireland. My father—AKA the boss—is exactly that. The boss. I was thirteen when I figured it out and to this day, my suspicions have never been confirmed. We don't talk about it, but I hear rumours. Snippets of information. Torin's father—Liam O'Brien—is his consigliere, and I know this for a fact. Unfortunately, being the offspring of such dedicated men certainly doesn't come without consequence. Torin and I have been brought up to trust no government official. Police are the enemy.

Why?

It doesn't matter. They just are.  

"How about we make an excuse to leave after a few hours?"

We're similar, Torin and I. Antisocial as fuck and about as likely to enjoy a party as my great aunt Mary. She's who I went to when I suspected my father was part of the mob. She answered every question I had without putting herself in any danger and advised me to never so much a breathe the word mafia around my father. Instead, I learned to watch from afar. Study the lifestyle. And that's why I want no part in it. Torin too. Our families scheme. They kill. We're not interested in that. Torin has no intention of becoming a made man and I'd rather avoid a life where all I'm thinking about is if today is finally the day I'm made a widow. Not that we're married. Yet!

"Imogen! Hurry up! You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Shane—my older brother—is a replica of our father, set to follow in his footsteps.

"Just a minute!"

Torin knows better than to alert him of his presence. Should Shane find him in my bedroom, he'd skin him alive. And enjoy doing it too.

"You said that ten minutes ago," he warns.

I quickly glance at my reflection in the mirror, happy with my appearance. For once, my hair is cooperating. Loose curls fan my back in waves of chestnut, effortless in their precision. The necklace my grandmother left me before her passing sits comfortably at the base of my neck, emphasising the deep blue in my eyes. I chose a red silk dress for the occasion, feeling my most confident when wearing this colour.

"You look stunning," offers Torin, daring a step closer.

"My brother could walk in at any moment," I tease.

"You're worth the risk."

Our lips are millimetres away from touching when an earth-shattering scream sounds from the party goers downstairs. Suddenly, the lights cut out and seconds later, shots are fired.