Page 1 of Married into the Mob
ONE
HUNTER
I was the baby of the family and was spoiled rotten. And I’d leveraged that my entire life.
But now it might be coming back to bite me on my derrière.
I’d taken the initiative and been proactive, thinking I’d be taking care of my extended family in the event of a pack war. The plan was to build something that would protect them. I was proud of what I’d achieved, and I was going to do a big reveal when the last lick of paint dried and the final piece of furniture was in place this weekend.
Thatwasthe plan.
Sure, I’d cut a few corners that my older brothers, Flint and Ranger, weren’t aware of. Maybe that was a big oops, but at the time, the zoning officer at City Hall was a friend of the family, a human with a shifter dad. He did favors for us, and we reciprocated.
But that person had been shuffled to another department, a sideways move rather than a promotion, and the new guy was going overboard with dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s.
And I was frustrated, taking out that irritation on my vehicle’s steering wheel by pounding it with my fists as I sat intraffic. The accelerator and brakes were having a hard time too as I alternatively sped up and screeched to a halt, and my wolf’s ears were hurting as music blasted from the speakers.
Ouch! Please turn that down. How can you enjoy that damned racket?
I gritted my teeth, a bad habit. Though shifters didn’t suffer from minor human ailments, I ground my teeth so hard at night, I’d visited a human dentist who warned me I was damaging them.
“Come on.” The car in front was so slow, I jammed my fist on the horn, and the high-pitched squawk had passengers and drivers on either side glaring.
My brothers might have been more patient, or the eldest one would have. Flint was our pack Alpha, having been thrust into the role after Papa was killed. If he’d been in the car, he’d have told me to stop being so damned annoying.
As the middle brother, Ranger was caught between Flint or Mr. Oh So Perfect, as I used to call him, and me, the youngest, the one who could get away with stuff.
My mind zigged and zagged, returning to the zoning officer who was using his influence to force me to take time out of my day and feed his ego by putting my name to a piece of paper. In his presence. The necessary forms had already been completed and submitted, but this new paper shuffler wanted to witness my signature.
In the past, any building permits we’d applied for had been rubber stamped, and I’d never shown my face at City Hall. But that was then and this was the new now!
The paperwork was for new construction at our club—the one that bore our pack name and had been started by our grandfather—La Luna Noir. It was my responsibility after I took over the job from Flint.
But making sure the new zoning officer knew the rules, the ones we orchestrated, was Ranger’s job. He should have seen to that, and as the littlest brother, I would enjoy kicking his ass, something I’d never managed to do.
He’s bigger and stronger than you. My wolf was on point, but I had moves Ranger didn’t.
Besides, I wasn’t going to fight him, just yell, bounce on my feet as boxers did, and raise my fists. He’d shout back and do the same, and we’d circle the room. Our wolves would snarl, and afterward, we’d back off and laugh.Or I would. It was what we used to do as kids when I was much smaller than my older brothers.
A car dashed across the intersection—some jackass running a red light—and I hit the brakes as my hand slammed the horn. The guy gave me the finger, and if I hadn’t been due at City Hall, I'd have followed him.
I wouldn’t have beaten him up. That wasn’t my style. Or maybe it was but only with bad guys. This driver was a fool, endangering lives. My shifter reflexes had saved me, but humans didn’t have that ability.
I hadn’t brought my bodyguards along, telling them they weren’t needed and could take an early lunch. The most trouble I’d encounter in a zoning office would be a guy wanting to prove himself to his new bosses by informing me my signature didn’t match how I’d signed the previous paperwork.
I found a parking space close by the large gray building, encrusted with decades of grime, and charged in. Wandering along the rabbit-warren of corridors, I passed doors labeled with obscure titles and job descriptions, until at the end of a dark passageway, I spied the section I needed.
The door displayed years of neglect with its scratched surface at floor level and around the handle, and it was warped slightly so it wasn’t quite flush with the frame.
I paused, a flicker of nervousness fluttering in my belly. My foolishness might get me in trouble, but nothing I couldn’t gloss over or fix with favors.
When I was ushered into the zoning officer’s private domain, he sat behind a large metal desk, piled high with files. Dust circled in the air and my nose twitched, but I held off the sneeze.
Stefan. The name had been on the letter I’d received, and the office name plate on his desk announced his name and title.
His tortoise-shell rimmed glasses were perched at the end of his nose. He peered over the top, his brown eyes raking over my expensive sports jacket and pants with a sharp crease. His eyes flickered, and along with his clasped hands on top of the desk and the distinctive scent of nervous energy, it suggested he wasn’t comfortable in my presence.
He had a faint whiff of shifter about him. Not surprising, as many humans did, especially ones in big cities.
