Page 4 of A Dark Mafia Christmas

“Help!” That’s what I try to scream. I don’t want to die on Christmas, and I sure as shit don’t want to die by being thrown off a roof. But my lips stick to the hand covering my mouth, scraping away from my gums, the cry for help swallowed by someone else’s sweaty palm.

“Shut up,” my captor hisses in my ear. “Keep still.”

But I’m not sticking around to prove to a thug wearing a black suit that I can’t fly. I swallow. Stretch my lips into what is probably not my most attractive smile and bite his hand.

He yelps.

Now’s my chance to escape and alert every fucker in the building that there’s a bunch of psychos loose on the roof.

I try to scream a second time, but he’s in front of me and his mouth is smothering mine. I squirm as his tongue fills my mouth. My upper arms are being squeezed in a vice-like grip, and the back of my skull bounces off the wall as I try to get away from him.

His tongue stops wriggling around inside my mouth like a fat slug long enough for him to whisper, “Kiss me.”

“Like fucking fuck.” It comes out as “Ngg, nung, ngg,” because it’s impossible to talk when someone’s tongue is attacking yours.

I finally remember to open my eyes and see what I’m dealing with, and recognize the gelled back coppery hair, the cool blue eyes, and ultra-expensive cologne of the boss of O’Hara Developers. Emmett O’Hara. The man himself.

I feel myself going slack. It’s instinct kicking in. Avoid the boss at all costs because no one ever fired a nobody.

I’ve never been this close to him before. I mean, it would be pretty unbelievable to kiss the boss at a crime scene on the roof of the building he owns. Twice. I’ve seen him in the lobby, and the elevator, and from a distance climbing out of his chauffeur-driven Bentley, but I make a habit of walking in the opposite direction and keeping my head down. It suits me just fine being known as the girl from IT.

“Everything okay here, Mr. O’Hara?”

Fuck! It’s the beef cake in the black suit. All the fight drains out of me and melts into a puddle on the floor. He’s going to throw us both off the roof. I’m going to die in the arms of one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, and everyone will say, “Mary who?”

Emmett O’Hara’s eyes widen. A warning. He wants me to remain silent, and much as I hate being told what to do by someone who stuck his tongue down my throat without my permission, I recognize a lifeline when I see one. They seem to know each other. Maybe I only thought I saw him toss a guy off the roof like he was an empty panini wrapper.

“Everything was fine ‘till you interrupted.” Emmett pulls his lips away from mine, leaning over me protectively with one hand against the wall for support. He hangs his head, glances at me from beneath lowered brows like he’s building up to a rant.

I don’t move. I still have no idea what’s going on here.

The thug’s been confused into silence too.

“You spoilt the moment.” Emmett only half straightens, swaying precariously towards me like he’s had a few too many glasses of Moet. He produces something gold and shiny from his pocket and holds it up to catch the light from the tiny twinkling bulbs decorating the potted palm tree. “You see this?”

I don’t think he requires a response, but the wide-necked thug nods anyway.

“I was about to pop the question. She won’t accept now, ye fecker, will she?”

He gestures towards me with his head. He doesn’t even make eye contact, and I stop myself from blurting out that the least he could’ve done was propose when he was sober. But he just cussed at psycho dude, and Emmett O’Hara’s balls have probably just sealed our fate. Why couldn’t he have hidden me inside the plant pot or, I don’t know, told me to lie down and thrown a blanket over me or something?

The suit eyes me up, and I can see it in his eyes. He’s thinking:seriously? This is who you’re proposing to?

Yeah, I don’t believe it either. In any other circumstances, I’d have yelled at him to keep his sexist fucking eye-rolls to himself. But if it means I get to walk out of this building with my limbs still attached to my body, I can rein my temper in. Temporarily anyway.

“Apologies, Mr. O’Hara.” He’s apologizing for ruining our special moment when he just killed a man. Could this evening get any more bizarre if it tried? “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Aye, you do that.” Emmett takes the words right out of my mouth.

And the guy walks away.

Just like that.

He walks back to the edge of the roof, lights a cigarette, and peers out over the city like he’s just enjoying some quiet time alone with his murderous fucking thoughts.

I’m so busy watching the smoke from the guy’s cigarette curling up and away and merging with the snowy clouds overhead, that I don’t even realize that Emmett has gone down on one knee, until he says, “Will you marry me?”

He’s holding the ring with both hands like he’s scared he’ll drop it and ruin our special moment a second time, peering up at me with those cool blue eyes. Jesus, I never noticed those eyes before.

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