Page 9 of The Mafia Heir's Obsession

“Joy.” I push the word out.

Still without a smile, he tilts his head, studying me before reaching out to touch my cheek—the contact light, almost tentative, as if testing boundaries. His touch sends sparks racing through me—an odd mix of gentleness, power, and a hard, savage undercurrent that both terrifies and excites me.

I’m the daughter of a mafia Don, so I know too well the touch of violence cloaked in softness. And his touch… it scares me, turns me on, terrifies me down to my very bones.

Then he says, “Nice to meet you again,Joy.I'm Frank. Guess you didn’t recognize me with the mask and new clothes, huh?”

THREE

callahan

Joy throwsher drink in my face and runs.

Gritting my teeth, I reach over the bar and grab some napkins, mopping up the spill. It had to be a fucking Jack and Coke.

Jesus.

Normally, I’d break bones or even kill for an act of disrespect like that, but damn… the girl’s got a solid pair on her. And suddenly, a flicker of something ignites inside me—a feeling I haven’t experienced in years.

I follow her, the crowd parting as I move with intent and purpose. She bumps into others, spinning away in a desperate attempt to escape me. I can’t lie—watching her run is an aphrodisiac. Joy lives up to her fake name—a spark of delight in her fierce fire. Sure, there’s fear, but that’s true of most people. The fact that she kicked me and threw a drink in my face? I fucking love it.

Tonight, after killing Mitchum, I’d planned to scout businesses to invest in with my brothers—the kind that demand late-night visits. Clubs, bars, dives, and yes, to Dec’s endlessdelight, titty bars. But circumstances, like Joy and the shootout at the club, delayed my plans.

There’s money and solid laundering opportunities in sex clubs and strip bars. And even though these types of ventures have their seedy, unpredictable moments, the key is covering our asses with a good forensic accountant, and we’ll be golden.

But money isn’t just money. I want the kind of cash that comes dusted with power.

I don’t rush after Joy—I move with deliberate calm. The limo my brothers had is long gone, replaced with the SUV I originally wanted.

My brother and second-in-command, Torin, sits behind the wheel while Seamus and Declan ride in the back, eyes peeled for her and waiting on my word. Tor already has his team scouring every source, online and off, for any hint of what tonight might bring—a description that could fit me or any of us, and his team is primed to shut anything down before it starts. You know, the usual bullshit to keep things tidy and clean. Especially since I’ve made a mess.

Unusual for me.

I’ve always loved chaos and danger—the thrill of a job done off the cuff, back when I ran the streets in Ireland, transforming from a ruthless kid into a cold-blooded crime lord known for leaving a trail of blood if anyone crossed me or mine. It’s why my brother almost pulled a gun to shoot my masked girl in that short-ass coat.

I stopped him because… shit, I’m not really sure. Maybe I saved her life by dancing close to disaster, and it would’ve been a shame to let my own blood shoot her dead. Then again… maybe I’m just bored.

Maybe that’s why I’m following her now. Or maybe I simply want to make sure this pretty little thing doesn’t go tothe cops. So far, Joy hasn’t, and I trailed her here the moment I switched out of my surveillance-and-murder clothes. Declan said she’d met some smokin’ hot bombshell and gone inside. I scored the black mask from some poor schmuck we knocked down.

I take the stairs two at a time and head for the exit, catching sight of her rushing out ahead of me. She recognized what I am—plain as day—and I’m curious as to why.

Fuck, maybe she’s law enforcement—but I dismiss that idea almost as soon as it hits. I don’t think she’s a cop. For one, she’s still wearing the blood of the dead. And second, she didn’t run home, didn’t pull a gun, didn’t try engaging me like that.

Joy had no clue I was set to take out fucking Mitchum for the de Rosa Don. Besides, she doesn’t even smell like a cop. Or law. No, she smells… intriguing. And my sixth sense tells me she’s either trouble or on the run from it.

I hit the pavement outside the thumping club and pull out a soft pack of Camel cigarettes. I light one and call Seamus. “Which way?”

“If you’d let us tap that with deadly intent, you wouldn’t be doing this right now,” Seamus says.

“I’m banning television for you guys. I have no fucking idea what you just said.”

“Sure you do.”

“It was embarrassing,” I say. “You sound like Dec.”

He gasps. “Take that back. And I meant tap—code for murder, snuffing out, icing… like a metaphorical pair of concrete shoes for her one-way ticket to the bottom of the Hudson.”

“Jesus Christ, I’ll fucking take tap.” I catch a sidelong glance and dead-eye stare from a woman passing by until shehurries off. I guess the mask makes me look even more like a walking nightmare. “Which way?”

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