The Mafia Bodyguard's Possession - Paperback

I spent twelve years plotting his murder. Marrying him wasn't part of the plan.
Torin Murphy pulled me from the flames that consumed my family when I was only ten years old. The Irish assassin with midnight blue eyes stole everything I loved. So I've built my entire life around one goal: making him pay.

But now there's a hit on my head, and the only way to survive is a blood marriage to the man I've sworn to destroy.

He thinks he's my savior. But I know what I saw...death and destruction in his wake, my parents' blood on his hands.

Now I'm trapped in his world, bound by mafia law to a man who makes my body burn with unwanted desire. The ruthless head of a powerful crime family who kills without mercy, but touches me like I'm precious.

He sees through my hatred. He knows exactly how to break down my defenses with his dark games. The way he looks at me, like he wants to equally cherish and dominate me, makes me forget I'm supposed to hate him.

But the deeper I fall into his dangerous world, the more the truth about that night threatens to surface. And when ghosts from his past come looking for me, I'll have to choose between the revenge that's defined me and the man who might be my salvation.

I wasn't supposed to end up in his bed. I wasn't supposed to fall for my enemy.
And I definitely wasn't supposed to discover that everything I believed was a lie.

A standalone dark mafia romance featuring an Irish alpha hero, forced marriage, enemies-to-lovers tension, and an HEA worth fighting for.

Chapter One
Declan
In the quiet truck graveyard in Queens, where I’m surrounded by the rusted bones of vehicles scattered among peeling tires, the glint of a gun captures my attention.
The full moon hits the muzzle of that flashy fucking gun like a spotlight.
My heart thumps as adrenaline spikes.
The gun glints again as its owner sweeps it across the grounds. A victim-seeking missile.
I take a slow, silent breath.
Whoever it is, they’re between me and where I need to get to.
The building with the drugs.
I press against the side of an old shipping container, eyes locked on the old office across the yard, next to a truck that’s either been resurrected or doesn’t belong. My gaze never strays far from that fucking gun.
Security?
This place shouldn’t have any. No one who values their life comes here unannounced. This is prime mafia and cartel territory…neutral ground for deals, bodies, and secrets.
It’s not Murphy land.
If I’m caught—
Shite. I only have two hours to fix the biggest fuck-up of my life.
I secretly sold a million dollars in coke that my brothers and I stole, then got paid in counterfeit bills. Stood there like a fucking eejit while the bastard walked off with our product and I pocketed fake money. Didn’t even check it properly until it was too late.
If Callahan finds out I lost that shipment to a con artist, I’m done. Not demoted. Not transferred to Dublin. Buried in a shallow grave kind of done.
But O’Shay’s contact tracked the scammer down and intercepted the shipment before it was sold to the Cinco Cartel. 
O’Shay said the drugs would be in the warehouse until a midnight pickup. It’s ten now. Two hours to grab the coke and disappear before anyone realizes I fucked up.
Should be simple. Get in, grab the drugs, get out.
Across from me is a truck with faded and peeling letters that make my gut clench: 
Marc + Ella Imports
The Marcello mafia. Do they use this place, or was the truck dumped after it outlived its usefulness? Either way, I file it away for later. The Marcello family’s one group Callahan wants to meet.
If they use this yard and I’m caught here, I could torpedo Callahan’s negotiations before they even start.
I’m just fuck-up central.
Through the debris, I plot a course to the warehouse. I was going to beeline it, but now I need to zigzag, dancing on a razor’s edge because who the fuck knows when that gun will reappear? I can make it to that rusting truck ahead and to my right, then—
Gravel crunches under a boot.
I freeze.
Heart pounding, I cock my head, listening for more. Another crunch and another.
But the steps aren’t getting closer. They’re moving away from me. There’s gravel all around the building, so I take my chances and make a run for it.
I move silently, as fast as possible through the debris, sidestepping oil slicks and rusted truck parts. 
Almost there…
Another heavy footstep comes from behind me. This one’s got a different gait. I drop behind a haphazard tire stack, the scent of rust and blood and oil in the air.
My nose crinkles. Old blood. But not as old as it should be.
To my left comes another sound. Another pair of feet, lighter, moving fast. 
I catch a glimpse of a puffer jacket in a bright shade of purple and a white cap pulled low.
There’s something familiar that pulls at my memory, something about the way the person moves, but I dismiss it.
No one I know is the type of fucking moron who wears purple and white to this no-man’s-land of mafia and cartel. Unless they’re just that fucking naïve.
Is there another meeting? My gaze snaps back to the Marcello truck. Shit.
And who the fuck is moving with those slow, deliberate, menacing steps behind me? What about a gravel-cruncher with his flashy gun?
Ice drips down my spine. This sure has the makings of a shootout.
And I’m right in the fucking middle.
I grip my gun and take half a step forward. Puffer Jacket scurries across my line of sight.
Behind me, the heavy stepper shoots.
The bullet whizzes past, a tiny burning missile, close enough to the side of my head to feel the heat.
Puffer screams and eats dirt. I stay still.
I’m trapped behind the fucking tires, in a place no Murphy should be, not if they don’t want to start a fucking war.
My heart pounds hard. Puffer Jacket is an idiot. I watch the person jump up with alarming grace. Too much grace for an amateur. Then Puffer scurries into the shadows of a shipping container.
Someone who moves like a dancer. Someone who has no idea what they’ve walked into.
Above, the moonlight streams down, lighting a path, one that’s going to make me visible to Puffer Jacket and anyone else out here if I go for the drugs.
Because I’m pretty sure I’ve stumbled into something I shouldn’t have.
It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and I need to get those drugs back.
I take one step.
Then freeze.
The steps behind me get louder. The grunts and slapping footsteps get closer, and I grip my gun, dropping and rolling under the rusted underbelly of the Marcello truck.
They’re looking around; I’m guessing, for Puffer.
I shouldn’t be here.
But I am.
It’s my fault.
Focus, Dec, fucking focus, you cunt.
I shift, the footsteps passing me. I count to ten and start to roll out. If—
A bullet hits the steel wheel rim near me, ricocheting off, sparks bursting to life before dying.
Fuck.
The feet run past. The bullet wasn’t meant for me.
I roll free, stay low to the ground, and dart over peeling tires and rusted truck parts. I edge around a tipped-over old trucking container.
“I see you,” a voice shouts. It’s gruff, angry. American. “I’ll take your head off and fuck it sideways if you don’t come out.”
I hold my breath as head-fucker rumbles by.
He’s not after me.
Gunfire rains through the air, sharp rips of sound tearing through the night. Then… silence.
Puffer suddenly appears, looking around like a spooked deer.
Our eyes meet. My adrenaline spikes high. Shit.
Puffer’s a girl.
One. I. Know.
Marlowe fucking Briggs.
Royal pain in the ass.
Realization knocks the wind out of me like a punch to the solar plexus.
What the hell’s she doing here?
Does she know what I am?
Marlowe’s holding a gun. At her feet is a body with a fucking badge.
But she’s staring up at me, lush mouth open, eyes wide and full of shock. Slowly, fury takes over the shock. “You.”
“Me.” I lunge, because I can’t let her get away, and if I don’t get to her, she just might get herself killed. Or me.
She tries to dodge. “Don’t touch me.”
“Shit.” A bullet narrowly misses her, and I turn and shoot.
A body hits the ground hard. I grab her. The contact jolts through me like a live wire.
More bullets fly.
Not from us.
We’re now in the light, completely exposed. I haul her to me, snatching her gun and dragging her across the path to a decaying truck corpse as she struggles against me. I shove the gun into the waistband of my jeans and, as a bullet hits the truck from the other side, I tackle her to the ground and roll us underneath the belly.
This is probably the worst time to remember how soft and warm she feels when she’s under me, despite her dancer muscles.
I nose along her throat, her skin like hot silk, her pulse thudding wild as I find her ear. “What the fuck, Marlowe?”
The world narrows to me and her and the fact that she’s under me. Dammit, she’s even prettier than I remember. And it’s the wrong time for me to realize that.
Her warm breath fans my lips. Close enough to taste.
A bullet slams into the truck body above us, and we both freeze.
“Let me go, Declan. I have—I can’t…please.”
She struggles, her pulse slamming against my fingers where I grip her wrist. Delicate bones. Shit, she’s delicate everywhere—except for that toxic personality I can’t forget.
“Are you fucking mad, Molly?” I whisper, using the nickname that always made her prickle. “There’s a gunfight. Why are you here?”
“I’m not telling you. Let me go.” She struggles, each wriggle grinding against me. Making me harder. “Get off me, dick.”
Her voice rises from above a whisper.
“Keep still.” I release her wrist and slam a hand over her mouth while my other hand grips the gun.
On the other side of the truck, boots appear. I don’t need to speak Spanish to understand the rapid question-and-answer session.
They’re looking for someone, something, and I’m not entirely sure it’s not us. The head-fucker, maybe?
Marlowe chooses that moment to sink her teeth into my palm. The sharp pain shoots straight to my cock. 
I remove my hand from her mouth with a curse. “Fucking hell—” 
She doesn’t answer, just yanks me down by my belt loop and grinds up against me, hard and hungry. 
Electric. Hot. Wildly inappropriate. 
But she’s the one pulling me closer, wrapping her leg around my hip as bullets ping off metal somewhere in the distance. 
“You’re insane,” I breathe against her throat. Her response is a sound, half moan, half growl, as her hand slides between us and grips me through my jeans. The way she strokes me— desperate and needy— leaves no doubt this isn’t strategy. 
This is want. 
And, fuck, I want too.
My hand slides up her side to the waistband of her sweats. She arches into my touch, breath hitching. 
“Este camino,” one of the men says. 
“Necesitamos encontrarla.”
Then they run off. 
What the fuck am I doing? I push down into her, panting, locking her hand between our bodies. I nudge her ear. “Move your hand, Molly.”
Her breath shudders hot and damp, and she tugs her hand away, her gaze full of sharp daggers.
I wait a beat, listening, but no one shouts. No bullet tears into me or the truck.
The gunfire pops and burns the night, but the shots are at a distance. They’re not shooting near here again. Not yet.
And my Spanish is weak. This way I got. And something about finding him, or was it her?
“This is what we’re going to do, Marlowe.” Her eyes spark with fury when I use her given name. “The gunfight moved away from us for now. The yard is big, but that means shit. They’ll be back.”
I don’t know why they’re here, but a million worth of coke is going to be lost, and it’ll be my fault. I screwed up the deal once. And now I’m screwing up a second time.
Taking a sharp breath, I shut that thought down. I need to get this idiotic girl out of here. And I need to hide the bodies.
A dead cop will make me look like a snitch if I’m caught near him. A Murphy and a dead cop here? It’s a declaration of war.
I release Marlowe, crawl out and look around. Maybe I can make—
She moves fast the moment she’s out from under the belly of the truck, trying to get up and run, but I grab her and haul her back against me.
Her hat’s gone, and her red hair’s a beacon in the moonlight.
“Let go,” she hisses.
“Marlowe, if you run, you’ll die.”
Hate spits from her copper eyes as she glares up. “Are you bullying me?”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t mean I’d kill you. But if you’re spotted by whoever’s out there, you’re done. I’m going to get you out—“
“And then what?”
I pull her down farther.
“Look, I’ve got things to do. If you don’t behave and listen to me, I’ll send you into that building—“
She frowns. “You don’t scare me. Besides, no one’s in there. It’s empty.”
I don’t ask how she knows that. We’re wasting time. And even if she’s lying, I can’t trust her, not with that rebellious gleam in her eyes. I look around.
A stray bullet slams into the truck.
The gunfire increases in intensity, and it’s heading this way again.
I don’t think. I grab Marlowe’s hand and drag her, running, to the next pile of truck parts. We hit the ground as bullets fly overhead. I cover her body with mine.
She smells like peonies and roses, and I only know what they smell like because Harry, my sister-in-law, owns a flower shop.
Jesus, I want Molly’s mouth.
I’m out of my damn mind.
“We need to get out of here. My car’s a few streets down. We’re staying low and running until I say stop. Got it?”
I don’t give her a chance to respond. I just get up and drag her with me. I guess I’m leaving the bodies.
She’s fit enough to keep up as I tear through the debris. Her gun presses into the small of my back where I tucked it into my jeans—and why the fuck does she even have a gun?—but I keep mine holstered. 
Whatever battle’s waging has nothing to do with me.
She might be a different story.
The next spot…slats of an old wooden crate leaning against a new one…is the final cover before the chain-link fence I climbed through. It’s ten yards away, maybe.
“Run and don’t look back,” I mutter.
Her mutinous expression wars with fear, but Marlowe Briggs, ballet star and spoiled princess, just nods.
I grab her hand and start running. Marlowe trips, but I don’t stop. I just haul her up as someone starts shooting at us. I fling her through the fence and dive through it after her, rolling her on the ground.
Someone’s running. “You! Get back here!”
I force her up and push her forward, my body shielding hers, shooting behind me as we run.
The streets are long and deserted, way too industrial. I turn the corner and race up the next street.
The dark green car I boosted sits at the curb. I open the door, throw her into the passenger seat, slam it shut, and race around to the driver’s side. The moment I’m inside, she reaches for the handle.
“I fucking wouldn’t.” I touch the wires together, sparking the ignition, then floor it. The engine roars as we peel out.
Once I’m sure we’re not being followed and we’re nearer to civilization, I pull up around a corner on a quiet street.
Silence crashes down around us.
The car’s suddenly, impossibly, too small. The air crackles and fizzes.
I turn in my seat and catch her as she tries to get free.
“For fuck’s sake.” I slam Marlowe against the seat and lean into her as I hit the child lock button.
She’s the daughter of a moneyed family—one that owns Briggs Energy. Moneyed on paper, in liquid form, in influence and ties. But I really don’t care about that right now.
I don’t even care about the rumors of them being tangled in organized crime.
But... Marlowe? What the hell is her story?
This brat moves in the upper circles of society. She even dances for some prestigious ballet company. And while I know she likes to slum it at illegal dance parties and clubs, she’s what’s known as a good girl. One I’ve had under me. One who had me in—
“I knew you belonged in prison. I should have had Daddy make those charges stick.” The hiss of her voice is a knife to my gut.
Not because they hurt. But because they turn me the fuck on.
I should tangle my fingers in her hair, unzip my jeans, and push her face down into my junk.
“And I know you deserve a spanking,” I snap, ignoring the flare in her copper eyes.
Everything about her turns me on and pushes the resentment for what she did to me back up into hot and flaming hate.
I’m too fucking pretty for jail.
“Are you following me?” she asks.
“In your dreams. We fooled around, what, one time maybe?” It’s a lie. I remember every moment, every time. My balls actually ache with the memories.
Three years. Three years since I met her at that underground club in Brooklyn, since I tasted her smart mouth and felt her come apart under my hands in a dark corner. Three years since I ghosted her the next day because getting tangled up with a society princess was a complication I didn’t need.
Two-and-a-half years since she got her daddy to have me arrested on bullshit assault and robbery charges. Charges that evaporated the second my family’s lawyer made a phone call, but not before I spent the night in a cell.
She wanted to hurt me like I had hurt her. Fair enough.
Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten the taste of her, or the way she said my name when she was begging for more.
She makes a sound. “What were you doing there?”
“Let me flip that for you.” I pin her down, lean in closer, breathe in her sweet floral scent. “What the fuck were you doing in the middle of cartel and mafia-disputed turf?”
“Maybe I wanted to put a hit on you.”
I snort. “I left that much of an impression. I’m touched.”
She glares at me. “Fuck you.”
“Strutting your ass around with your fucking red hair and white cap. What were you thinking?”
“That you weren’t going to be stalking me.”
“Molly girl, it’s been years since we almost fucked. If I haven’t stalked you before now, I’m not about to start.”
My blood’s hot in my veins, pulse pounding with a different sort of adrenaline.
“Let me go, Declan.”
“Talk.”
She clamps her mouth shut.
I trap both her wrists in one hand and lean in close, my mouth at her ear. “Last chance, Molly. Tell me why you were there, or I’ll find out myself. And trust me, you won’t like my methods.”
She turns her head, and our lips brush. The contact sends lightning down my spine.
“Go ahead and try, Declan.” Her voice is all velvet and venom. “But I’ll die before I help you.”
I grin against her mouth. “Who said anything about you helping, lass? I’ll just have to persuade you.”
Her breath hitches, and I know I’ve got her.
The question is—what the fuck am I going to do with her now?