The O'Reagan Family Tree
The O'Reagan Family Tree
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He’s next in line to RULE the Irish Mafia. She’s off limits, an outsider. But, when trouble lands her at his feet, he takes the opportunity to have what he truly wants—her.
I’m the son of Liam O’Reagan, next in line to wear the crown.
And when I prove myself worthy, I will RULE over the Irish Mafia.
I don’t have time for distractions—much less time for a woman who has always been the bane of my existence.
When Maeve comes back into my life, I fight like hell to resist the pull she has on me.
An attraction that has only grown stronger with time.
But, when trouble lands her at my feet, I take the opportunity to have what I truly want.
I offer her a deal.
I’ll help her, but the cost will be one night in my bed.
One night of submission.
One night to have her completely at my mercy.
If only I had known my battle with Maeve would start a war.
Jack is the only one who can help me.
Too bad, he hates me.
But I have no choice but to go to him.
It turns out, hate is a powerful motivator, and I just handed him a way to punish me.
He offers me his help—for a price.
Everything in his world has a price.
One night in his bed.
He’s everything a woman would want, so this should be easy.
Only, I’m a virgin, and he terrifies me.
I should run, but I won’t.
I just pray this one night doesn’t destroy us both.
“Mafia Prince” is the first book in the Young Irish Rebel Series. It is a Dark Mafia Enemies to Lovers Romance, complete with HEA and no cliffhangers.
Get The Mafia Prince Bundle Today if you love Dark Irish Mafia Romance!
Intro into Chapter One
Intro into Chapter One
The keys rattle in the door, and I press my foot to the base of the wood that normally gets jammed. Years of forcing the door open this way have damaged the base further; any day it could cave in. Pushing the door open, I hold my breath. I know the drill by now. Being away in college all week leaves my mother and brother alone, and they can barely keep themselves alive.
“Mom,” I call as I force the door closed behind me. It takes three attempts before the lock slides into place, sealing me into the house. I step around the pile of cardboard that’s being stacked against the skirting board. The yellow floor tiles are neglected and grubby.
The moment I step into the kitchen, I drop my bag on the floor. The table is flooded with plates with food caked onto them - the type that will take an hour of steeping to remove. I lift a pile of unopened mail and drop it back down as I scan all the empty vodka and wine bottles. Walking around the table, I force the window open and let some air filter in to try and get rid of the smell.
“Mom.” I call louder as I open the back door and place a chair behind it to hold it open. My heart leaps as Sandy pounces off the counter and races out the back door. I don’t even look at the counters to see what the cat’s been doing. Takeaway bags and opened food are stacked high. It always looks like this when I get back from college. My weekend will be cleaning, working at the local grocery store, and trying to get some homework done.
Sandy’s silver bowls are empty on the floor. I don’t want to stay in the kitchen any longer, but I’m not cruel either. Opening the cupboard, I take out a moldy loaf of bread and place it on the counter. Pushing aside red sauce and some jam, I stare into emptiness. I close the cupboard and move onto the next, which holds a bag of sugar and some salt.
Sandy has re-entered the kitchen and cries up at me as she circles around my ankles.
“Yeah, I’m working on it.” Kneeling down, I open the bottom cupboard and grin at the bag of cat food. Sandy leaps up on my knee, and I swipe her off.
“Here we go.” I barely get the food into the bowl before Sandy’s eating them. Filling up her water dish, I call my mother again before leaving the kitchen.
“Mom.” She must be passed out somewhere. The sitting room door is closed, and I push it open. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but once they do, I wish I could step out of the room—the air freezes in my lungs and the ground under me shifts. A man stands over my bleeding brother. My brother’s gray t-shirt—that’s nearly threadbare—is coated in flecks of his blood. His jeans hang off his thin frame. My gaze bounces around the scarcely furnished sitting room before landing on my mother. The air re-enters my system, and I try to control my racing heart. My mother is in a heap in the corner. Her wild eyes won’t settle on anything. Mascara runs down her worn-out face. I’m tempted to step closer to her, but a shove to my back sends a shiver up my spine. The gun is nudged into my back again until I’m standing in the center of the room.
“What have we got here?”