Page 101 of Mob Star

“There are things from my past Sandra will never know. That my children will never know. I’ll tell you if I need to. I understand what my daughter is getting into. Motorcycle clubs aren’t all criminal. But the one my family runs is. I’ve known the O’Malleys my entire life. People always assume it must be my mom’s side of the family with ties to the Irish mob since she’s white. They don’t expect it to be my dad’s since he was Black. My dad died of pancreatic cancer when I was fifteen. I looked up to my uncle, and grief nearly destroyed my mom. I did what Uncle Corey told me to because I trusted him. When my mom came out of her grief and realized the crimes Uncle Corey was forcing me to commit, she got me away from him. There was still a price— like an annual tax —for that freedom. He’s still trying to claim it. To men like Corey, family are people to be manipulated and guilted into submission.”

We don’t have time to say more because Sandra and Thea walk in with the food. I lift a platter from Sandra’s hands, and she offers me a warmer smile than I’d received in the foyer. I pull out Thea’s chair, and she sits. But Sandra is still moving things on the table. I don’t sit until she does. Thea’s parents stare at me.

“My parents are strict.”

That gets a smile from Brandon, a nod from Sandra, and confusion from Thea.

“I don’t sit until all the women have. I stand when they do. They always get into the car first. And if I take the first piece of anything, it will be my last piece ever. My parents are old-fashioned.”

“I think it’s chivalry and courteousness.”

If we were alone, I’d kiss her and show her just how courteous I can be when considering her needs. Instead, I grin.

The meal progresses, and I have a great time getting to know her parents. I think they’ve more than accepted me. I think they like me. But the conversation gets hard again when we move into the living room.

“Corey isn’t in Boston like he’s supposed to be. My cousin texted me this afternoon to tell me. I don’t know why he hasn’t left when I’m certain I was clear about my expectations. Has he contacted you in the last two days?”

“Yes.” Brandon’s scowl is so deep the lines might never fade from his forehead.

“What did he demand?” Thea’s leaning against me again while we sit on a loveseat, her hand clutching mine and resting on my lap.

“He wants you back in Boston, and he wants me to ride with him. He said he has a deal going on here, and he needs me to protect his back. I guess he doesn’t have the men he arrived with.”

Brandon stares straight at me, and I stare back. The implication hangs in the air. My silence confirms it, but I will never admit it aloud. Thea and Sandra are watching us. Sandra remains nonplussed by the exchange, but Thea’s getting more anxious. Her hand tightens around mine, she’s pressing harder into my shoulder, and her thigh keeps tensing against mine. She’s getting some large doses of reality today. I think it’s good, though. I’d rather she sees how noncommittal I’ll be about certain topics before we move in together or get married. She needs to accept this, or there’s no future.

“Did he say where you’re supposed to go?”

“Brighton Beach.”

It’s my turn to tense. But I make sure it’s the leg that isn’t touching Thea’s. Rage boils inside me.

“These people know who your uncle is connected to?”

“Yes.”

“And they want to do business with him?”

“Apparently. According to Uncle Corey, they want him to be the middleman for some deal in Boston. He’s the go between to keep them anonymous. Rowan was stupid enough to fall for that sort of thing. But Ewan isn’t. I don’t think they know Ewan well enough.”

“Who?” Thea shifts her focus from her father to me.

“The bratva.”

“The Russians?”

“Yes. If you hear Brighton Beach, nine times out of ten, it’s the Russians. The Kutsenkos run the Ivankov branch. Sometimes Brighton Beach means another Eastern European syndicate, but if it does, the Kutsenkos aren’t far away. They’re either involved, or they know about it.”

Brandon shakes his head. “They’re Albanian.”

It’s my turn to shake mine. “Maybe that’s who you’re meeting, but the Albanians are weak right now. Here and in Boston. The bratva pulls their strings. The Albanians don’t breathe without asking the Kutsenkos’ permission.”

We got sucked into that fucking Albanian shitshow a couple years ago. It was one of the few times my family hasn’t wanted to gut our rivals and was willing to help. However, it all blew back on us thanks to fucking Declan. He started the shite but didn’t live long enough to see it through. No one else completely believes that part. They blame Dillan.

We lost our family home— the house we considered our ancestral one here in NYC —because Misha Andreyev lost his shite and blamed us. The circumstances of what happened to Misha’s sister-in-law and what nearly happened to Maria Mancinelli meant we had no leg to stand on. We had to take it when the bratva struck back. We had trouble with the Albanians again two months ago when Dillan and Mair were only dating.

“When is all of this supposed to happen?” I need to let my family know.

“Next week. Corey said he’d come back down.”

---