“Killing Magda will solve one of my situations.” Frustration was clear in his brother’s voice.
“You’ll take care of things like you always do. Talk to you later.” Kieran tapped the screen and dropped the cell in the attaché pocket. He ignored the ding that alerted him of new e-mails. It was going to be a long night.
A burst of warm air blew in his face, momentarily making it hard to breathe as he stepped over the threshold. The door closed whisper soft, cutting off the chilled air that flowed across the tops of his ears. Ambient noise and folks chattering replaced the howls of the wind. Kieran scanned the crowd. Patrons turned away from his gaze. He exhaled, tamping down the agitation threatening to choke him. Rica wasn’t behind the bar; his annoyance quadrupled.
As a councilman for Boston, he’d tried to keep his hands a little clean. He’d split the majority of his business dealings between his brothers--
Conall
,
Fionn
and Shannon. Under the watchful eyes of his community and other councilmen, he at least had to maintain the image of civility. Some shit it seemed was just unavoidable, especially when the call for help came from
Derrica
Ward. No way on God’s green earth would he send a member of his crew or one of his brothers to her
aid.
She was all his. She’d reached out to him directly, so the situation demanded his personal attention. Honestly, he’d expected her to pull some stunt sooner.
He stalked through the throng of folks blocking the bar. A few of the female customers offered him inviting smiles as he passed them. A smirk formed on his lips, lifting one corner of his mouth. He was well aware of what he looked like and never had a problem garnering the attention of the opposite sex--hell, a few men had the balls to approach him once until he put the kibosh to that bullshit.
Yeah, that beat down wasn’t pretty, and he could fully admit he might be a tad homophobic. It wasn’t that he was opposed to other lifestyles. He shook his head. His political agenda was scrolling through his mind. The only reason he’d run for Boston City Council was to make his and his brothers’ working lives easier.
Manipulation was simple when the people he was buying off had offices on the same floor. Technically, as well as being a councilman, he was a lawyer with a thriving law firm, O’Shea and Partners. Unofficially, he and his brothers ran crews that made the Irish Mafia look like choirboys. At the age of six he was taken from his mother and Paddy O’Shea’s crew became his cousins, uncles…family, and Lowell, MA became home.
Thanks to a hellish upbringing from their old man, he and his brothers rewrote the definition for badass. Their pictures would probably be next to the word motherfucker if the word could actually be found in the dictionary. His sleeves slid up his arms as he rested
them on
the smooth wooden surface of the bar top and leaned across it, turning his head back and forth to locate one of the bartenders. Rica wouldn’t leave a room full of unattended patrons. A low rumble escaped through his lips. Annoyed, he slammed his palm down on the shiny finish and pushed away from the counter, following it to the back wall.
Beyond the main room, through a swinging door and past the hallway where the bathrooms were located, were stairs. They led to the second- and third-floor, employees-only area. That was actually a misnomer. He, his brothers and Rica were the only ones who were allowed upstairs. Rica usually conducted bar business in a small converted corner in the storage room next to the bathrooms, where she had a desk set up. The rooms off the stairwell landing above him were strictly maintained for other activities--at least his was. Kieran lifted his head and stared at the four doors that circled the landing on the second floor. The door to his studio was thrust open, and one of the waitresses Rica had hired slammed it behind her. She sprinted down the spiral staircase, the soles of her flats click-clacking on the metal steps. He gripped her biceps as she shoved past him, snatching her back.
The girl wrapped her fingers around his and squirmed. “Let go.” She lifted her head and stopped moving. Her lips formed a firm line and she swallowed.
“Where’s your boss?” He enunciated every word.
“Big guy upstairs…has p-p-pictures. Wants money. Rica sent me to the cash register for more funds.” She squirmed in his hold.
“Serve the customers. If you leave the bar again I will toss your ass out of here myself.” Kieran released her and spun on his heel. This was his place and some asshole thought to shake him down? Bastard must have lost his damn mind. Every-fucking-body knew Irish was owned by an O’Shea.
The bar served two purposes. It gave his bothers a safe place for them to connect if they ever needed it, and the business was profitable enough to hide the funds from his other, not entirely legal entities. He considered it a plus that Rica was adept enough to run it. When she took it over, his money doubled in three months. Something he hadn’t expected when he met her.
***
She sat at the defendants’ table, her dark brown tresses held up off the long column of her neck in some kind of pin-up hairstyle. The tense atmosphere was reflected in the pinched faces of the prosecutor and judge. Over the course of the week he’d been checking the progress of her case off and on. It had been a few days since her defense attorney had shown up. He checked his watch--he had to leave soon, and he was on the docket in another courtroom.
The prosecutor stood. “Your honor, if the defendant wants to dismiss her defense attorney, the state has no objections.”
That statement made him sit up and take notice. Only an idiot would try to defend themselves. Kieran shook his head and studied the pretty young woman. Her skin was the color of rich caramel. There was a pink hue to her cheeks, and her lips formed a firm line, but she didn’t move and faced the judge with her chin slightly upturned.
The judge directed his attention to her. “Ms. Ward, you have the right to represent yourself; however, is it possible to find another defense attorney?”
She placed fisted hands on the table. “It seems I scared the last few public defenders.” Her soft tone was matter of fact.
What compelled him to stand up like he was on some kind of soap opera, he couldn’t tell a soul. The urge to protect her came out of left field and hit him like a kick to the nuts. He hadn’t realized he’d opened his mouth until everyone turned to face him. A quick glance at the defendant’s face--the only indication she was caught off guard was the way her mouth was slightly agape. He didn’t call the words back; instead he grabbed his briefcase and strolled up the aisle as if he hadn’t a care in the world, winked at her and asked for a continuance.
***
He’d represented her in an assault with deadly intent case. If he had any doubts she was the woman for him, they were quelled during the trial when she snatched the fountain pen from his hand and jumped the table to stab the prosecutor. The scathing remarks were just theatrics on the prosecution’s side that he’d advised her to ignore. She didn’t listen, which was particularly entertaining, especially when she would mumble retorts, and she always had something to say. More than once he’d had to swallow his mirth. But the wide-eyed look of fear that etched the man’s face as she ran at him was priceless.
Derrica
Ward had a temper to match his own.
Good thing he had quick reflexes and caught her before she buried the instrument in the attorney’s throat. It would have been a bitch cleaning the blood from his favorite pen. Shit went downhill after that, and additional charges were filed. She was handcuffed to her chair and threatened by the judge to be bound in a straitjacket. She’d made everything that much harder for herself and gave absolutely no fucks about it.
Lucky girl--the case ended with her sentenced to probation and house arrest. Of course the attaché filled with unmarked fifty-dollar bills he had delivered to the judge probably helped her out. She was only allowed to leave her home for work, appointments and necessities. Before she was released, a little black GPS box was strapped to her ankle. He was waiting when she walked down the shadowed passageway and away from the building.
His Rica had nowhere to go. Contrary to what she believed in the beginning he wasn’t waiting for her because he felt sorry for her. It was a simple case of lust. Once he saw the opportunity to claim her he took it--a little fun never killed anyone. She made life interesting, and when he got tired he would pay her off and send her on her way. Kieran snorted. Boredom was not a word that could be associated with Rica.
He’d brought her to the bar, and she’d been living in the third-floor apartment he maintained ever since. Next to his brothers, Rica became the only other person he trusted with his life. She was well aware of the dual aspects of his life and helped him maintain the thin veneer of civility.
She was being threatened, and there would be hell to pay. The wrought iron bannister was cool against his palm. He took the steps two at a time. Muffled voices floated along the corridor. There was one distinct, husky tone he wasn’t familiar with.
Shadows moved across the frosted glass insert. He twisted the old brass doorknob and shoved the door open. Rica stood behind his desk with her palms planted on the blotter. Two stacks of cash sat between her hands. “You want more money--I want all the fucking files.”
“Bitch, I’ll take your money and still use the photos to back up the article set to run. ‘The secrets of Councilman Kieran O’Shea.’ That headline has a nice ring to it.” The guy clutched a camera in one meaty hand. He waved it in front of her before letting it drop. It bounced against the paunch that formed his belly. The fucker leaned toward her and lifted his hand to touch a single braid that fell over her shoulder.
Kieran had every intention of solving the situation through an exchange of words. But seeing those plump fingers stroking her hair--yeah, it was going be a one-sided conversation.
Derrica
didn’t flinch. “You’re going to regret being a greedy asshole. Won’t he, baby?” She turned her head to peer at Kieran.
He held her stare for a moment. It was partially her fault that the idiot was in his damn space. Why the hell was he just now hearing about a damn article? “Who the hell is he?” Kieran paused. “Better question is why the fuck is he alone with you?”
“Leave and shut the door behind you.” The big man spared him a glance before returning his gaze to Rica. “If you can’t come up with the funds tell your employees to give us a couple of hours. I’m open to other forms of payment.”
“I just threw up a little in my mouth.” Kieran’s lover shook her head.
“You called me here for this bullshit. Are you losing your touch, Pretty Girl?” Kieran stepped into the room. Like a dog he’d come running. It was ridiculous the power one woman who didn’t come to his shoulder held over him. “You know what’s coming when I take care of this fat fuck--right?”
“Damn, you know how to make my clit throb.” A sly smile spread across her lips and she pressed them together to form a straight line. She collected the money from the desk and straightened, stepping back. “Of course I called you. I’m horny and I haven’t lost a damn thing. This—
ahhh
--journalist is a piss-poor excuse to get your attention, but he is better than no excuse at all.” She softened her voice and lowered her head, mumbling, “I’m just saying.”
“What don’t you understand about giving us some time alone?” The big guy turned toward Kieran. His jowls quivering as words tumbled from between his lips. His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. Recognition clear in his eyes. Sweat glistened on his forehead under the pale glow of the overhead lights. The camera swung like a pendulum across his chest as he shuffled back,
“I was in a meeting, an important one with the Harbor Master.” Kieran cocked his head, and reached for the bat resting on the doorjamb. He rolled his wrist, and the bat cut through the air in a series of circular rotations. The weight of the slugger felt good in his hand.
Fat man lifted his hands, palms showing. Kieran reached for the knot in his tie and loosened it. It had been a few months since he got his hands bloody. He’d cut his teeth on extortion and money laundering thanks to his father, Paddy O’Shea. Brutal lessons he was willing to share.
“You’re going to get dirty,” Rica whispered loudly, mirth clear in her tone.
“It’s called dry cleaning.” Kieran exhaled and swung the bat, clipping the man across the thigh.
His target squealed like the pig he resembled and dropped to his knees. “Let’s talk about this.” Gone was the acidic tone, replaced with a pleading one.
From the corner of his eye he caught Rica stabbing the screen of her cell. She raised the phone to her ear and spoke quietly. He marched forward, raised the bat and brought it down again, slamming the wood into the journalist’s shoulder. The fella curled into himself and cowered against the side of the desk. Kieran struck him again then again. Grunts fell from the guy’s lips with each blow. The seams of Kieran’s coat tightened as his muscles flexed.