Page 1 of My Irish Mafia King

Prologue

KILLIAN

Being part of the mob is something I’ve never wanted. As a young man, I stepped down from my position among the Family. The Family, aka the Irish mob, has taken everything from me: my dad, a normal life, and even the chance of having love like a normal civilian. It has left me with nothing but darkness.

Just yesterday the Family gathered in a Catholic church to show their respect to my mother, sister, and me over my grandmother’s passing. Yet, my grandmother was more of a Pagan. She represented the old Irish traditions, ingraining our heritage into me and even teaching me Gaelic. Maybe it was the grieving process that had me walking through the traditional Irish café doors.

My heart is heavy as I approach the quaint bakery, The Celtic Crust. If I ever let myself fall for somebody outside the mob world, I’d only bring misery into their life. I could never tell them the truth. I might even put them in danger.

One day, that world might drag me back in.

Walking into the bakery, a small smile touches my lips. That’s how it is with us mob guys. Small smiles. Subtle indications of happiness. Sure, I left the darkness of that world behind, gave up my crown to focus on my passion instead, but it never leaves a man. Even if I want it to.

Green banners crisscross the restaurant, and there are prints of Irish landscapes on the walls. A young woman stands behind the counter, a light smattering of freckles across her cheeks, unruly red hair cascading in waves around her shoulders.

For a moment, I let myself notice how her apron clings to the roundness of her breasts. I let myself notice the beauty of her honey-colored eyes, eyes that spark something I can’t quite place. Her smile lights up her face, making her even more beautiful. I quickly shut all that down.

“How can I help you?” she says brightly.

I glance at the chalk menu above the counter. “I’ll take a virgin Irish coffee,” I tell her. “My grandmother had an Irish coffee every night, her daily indulgence.”

I’m not sure why I tell her this. Yesterday was my grandmother’s funeral, so maybe I’m feeling nostalgic, though I’m not sure that’s it. Oddly, it feels natural to share with her. She looks at me with wide, curious eyes. “Sure, coming right up.”

I glance at her name badge. “Thank you, Lucy.”

“If you want to take a seat, I’ll bring it over.”

I sit at the window bar, but I face inward. We’re the only ones in The Celtic Crust. It’s difficult not to watch her as she busies herself at the coffee machine.

When she reaches for a pendant at her neck, I grow lightheaded. Almost fall out of my chair as the realization hits me like a thunderbolt.

“Lucy,” I say, my voice husky.

She turns, her eyebrows shooting up. “I wasn’t sure you recognized me... or if I was going nuts.”

“You were a lost little girl in the Irish countryside,” I say, remembering over a decade ago.

I was eighteen. She must’ve been around seven or eight. I look closer at her pendant. It’s the ring I gave her at the time to calm her down as she cried, desperately trying to find her mother as a storm battered down.

“I was hiking, couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a lost little kid in the middle of a storm. We took shelter in a cave, and I gave you that Claddagh ring and told you it was for luck. Then the rain stopped, and I calledyoumy lucky charm. You laughed at that.”

Her cheeks redden as she nods. “I started wearing it as a necklace recently, after my mom passed.”

“You don’t have to explain,” I say. “And I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”

“She left me this place... and I’ve got this for luck.” She gestures to her necklace. “What are the chances of this, huh?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “One in a million?”

“We’re in four-leaf clover territory, for sure.” She turns when the milk steamer makes a whining noise.

I watch her, wondering if I’ve hit my head, if I’m hallucinating. I still remember the fear on her face, the sound of her cries. That was my good deed before I tried my hand at mob life, before I let out the demon in me.

“To go?” she asks.

“Yes, please,” I say, approaching the counter.

She pours the coffee into a takeout cup and slides it across the counter. When I take it, our hands touch. Something hot triggers inside me. I let myself imagine, for an impossible moment, asking her out on a date. She’s turned into a beautiful woman.

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