Page 1 of Mob Star

Chapter One

Finn

I fecking hate office parties. Well, not mine because my colleagues are my brothers and cousin. When we gather for work, it’s never for fun. Since I work with my family, I suppose it’s all relative. But these feckers…

My head shoots up from the cocktail I’m mixing. I look to my left to see who made the racist comment about a woman. My hands curl into fists. I will not tolerate bigots in McGinty’s.

“Jenny, take these to table five.”

I don’t even look at the waitress who’s waiting for the six drinks I just made. I walk to the douche who spoke. That joke isn’t the only one he has, but I don’t let him get past the first two words.

“You’re done.” I interrupt. I’m not having it.

“What?”

Fuck face looks up as though he just realizes he’s in public and not jacking off to some shite homemade porn.

“You’re cut off, and you’re leaving.”

“Why?”

“Because I heard what you said. It’s my bar, my rules. Out before I throw you out. I’ll even give you your drinks on the house.”

“What the fuck, bro? Why’re you even listening in on my private conversation?”

I have ears like a dog, so most people wouldn’t have heard him. But my keen sense of hearing is why I haven’t looked like a piece of Swiss cheese many times in my life.

“It’s not private when you have it where anyone— I —can hear it.”

“What’s so bad about what I said?”

I look at him as though he’s lost his mind. But my attention shifts when one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen walks over. She’s average build, but that’s the only thing average about her. She has pale— almost translucent —green eyes, thick dark hair, and skin that’s smoother than— feck, I don’t even know what. She carries herself with confidence, and her gaze tells me she’s nobody’s fool. That’s why what she does next surprises me.

She’s wrapping her arm around this fucker’s waist.

“What’s wrong?” Definitely not a New York accent, but it’s super subtle. Somewhere on the East Coast.

“This asshole’s trying to throw me out.”

“I’m not trying. I am throwing you out.” I signal to Cormac and Seamus, tilting my head toward the door.

Neither of my cousins says a word before they crowd the fucker and the arsehole’s coworker, the femme fatale— she’s shooting daggers at me with her sea green orbs —that’s the best I can describe them.

“Miss, please move. He’s done for tonight. I won’t tolerate his comments in my bar.”

I don’t think his second racist comment about some woman would have been as bad, but the first one is what got my hackles up. He sneers at me as he stands. He has something more to say, and it’s going to piss me the fuck off. I can feel it. He keeps his voice low, but he doesn’t even get the second word out.

I reach across the bar and grab a fistful of his shirt, yanking him forward.

“You’ve pissed off the wrong person. I not only own a fuck ton of bars spread throughout the five boroughs, but I own ones in Jersey and Connecticut. Look at the security camera behind me and smile. You can even say cheese. Not only are you banned from any establishment I own, I’ll make sure you’re banned from every bar, nightclub, and strip joint worth visiting.”

Because either my cousins own them, or members of the other syndicate families do. We don’t get along, and we almost never agree. But none of us allow people who mistreat women in our places of business. I don’t give a shite that the woman now standing with her arm around this fucker clearly has shite taste in men, since she’s obviously way too well-acquainted with him. If he’d made any equally disgusting comment about a man, I’d still toss him on his arse. My bar, my rules.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what he said that was so bad.” My mystery goddess isn’t going to budge, and my cousins won’t force her.

“He can tell you outside.”

“It was nothing bad, babe. I swear. I just called you a?—”

---