Page 1 of Brutal Obsession

Prologue

Harper

I shoulder into King’s Crossing and head straight for the bar. The place bustles with people who came directly from work in their suits and business wear, soeven though I’m clad head-to-toe in designer clothing, my jeans, sneakers, cropped black blouse, and magenta crossbody bag don’t quite fit in. No one seems to notice though as I slip onto a stool and the bartender slides a menu in front of me.

I order without looking, trying not to sound desperate enough to yank him down by his bow tie. “White wine. Any kind. Filled to the rim.”

By the time I’ve sucked down half a giant glass of pinot grigio, the tight squeeze of my panic has lowered a few levels, allowing me to breathe a little easier. I throw nervous glances at the building’s street-facing windows and pray I don’t appear as suspicious as I feel. ThemillisecondBex’s blue Subaru shows up at the curb, I’m gone.

So far, tonight is playing out smoothly. Too smoothly.

I’d chalk my nerves up to my big walk down the aisle if I had any intention of going through with the wedding.

The escape plan is simple enough. Step one: let Bex—the pastry chef who works where I live—help me sneak off the estatethrough the kitchen and drive me off the grounds in the back of a food delivery truck. Step two: give Bex time to ditch the truck and return to the bar to take me to the airport.

Step three: get far, far away from the Irish Kings, one of the most powerful mafia families in New York City.

Among other business ventures, the Kings manage three high-end clubs that cater to parties thrown by the Manhattan elite with drugs, women, debauchery, and more. To the ignorant masses, that may sound glamorous, but to me it’s just crime, sex, and money with strobe lights in the background and glitter sprinkled on top.

The upper echelons of the Kings—Shane Gallagher, who’s the top dog, along with his closest men and their families—reside on the Gallagher estate, a sprawling mansion enclosed by walls and hedges twenty feet high. My father, Thomas Brennan, is a high-ranking official of the organization and a member of Shane’s inner circle.

That makes me, his daughter, a mafia princess.

A very, very anxious one who’s determined to be an ex-princess soon.

For the first time in my life, I’m defying my father. I’m ditching my arranged fiancé, Finn Gallagher, heir to the Kings and one of the deadliest enforcers in the city, and running away to start a new life on my own terms.

This betrayal is big enough to land me in deep shit, but I’d rather take my chances than end up like my mom—helpless, trapped, and tethered to a life she never chose.

I want the chance to find out who I really am, away from all the violence and insanity of the criminal underworld. I want what everyday people have.

A normal life. A real one.

And this is likely my only chance to achieve that.

As I try to snag the bartender’s attention for a refill, a familiar tingle on the back of my neck makes me shiver.

That tingle has served as an alert for my entire life.

Someone’s watching me.

This same prickling awareness strikes whenever I’m in a club and my father’s business partners show up, or when my security detail enters the room, their eyes trained on me.

The sensation that a hunter just prowled in and painted a target on my back.

Slowly, I shift my head one way, then the other. I don’t notice any of the telltale signs. A certain kind of suit, specific rings or tattoos, a prominent scar on someone’s face. The hard, flat eyes of a person who kills for a living. Nothing.

All the while, that targeted feeling intensifies, churning my already queasy stomach.

Shit. They’ve found me. My father caught on to my attempted escape. Bex could already be dead. And?—

“All alone? This has to be thesaddestbachelorette party I’ve ever seen.”

My head snaps up at the sound of that smug, sultry voice. Dread explodes inside me like a shaken-up soda can as I slowly shift on my barstool to face the speaker.

Cian Freaking Mahoney.

Glittering green eyes meet mine. They’re set into an angel’s face, framed by dark, luscious curls which provide the crowning touch on a body that belongs half naked selling men’s cologne on billboards. A pretty-boy player extraordinaire.

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