Chapter 1
Brianna
It’s Sunday night, and three black Range Rovers drive up my street. Their arrival means that the king has come to collect his taxes.
I wonder who the poor soul is this time. The O’Malley’s in seventeen, the Sullivan’s in apartment twenty-two, or will it be someone from the building opposite us?
The streets are awfully quiet on collection night. Everyone’s on the run or trying to hide; if I was smarter, I’d do the same. But if I did, I’d miss my opportunity of seeing him again.
Mickey Byrne, the Butcher of Belfast.
I first set eyes on the Irish bruiser six months ago, before his titles and attitude preceded him. He entered my world like a hurricane, shook it around, and rattled me. He made me want to be a woman. His woman. Half a year on, and nothing has changed. My life has gone from one tailspin to another, but somehow Mickey finds a way to bring me some twisted joy.
I’ve pictured the big brute bashing in the door and taking me away more than once. He claims me as his own, throws me over his shoulder like a caveman, and carries me from this life into the next. I’d let him. He could do whatever the hell he wanted to me, and I wouldn’t say no . . . couldn’t say no. Sometimes I lie awake at night, staring up at the ceiling and picturing Mickey’s rough hands wandering my body and doing as he pleases.
He’s a man who knows what he wants and how to get it. God knows I’m here for the taking.
My vivid imagination gets the best of me and leaves the center of my legs dampened. The worst of it is I haven’t even seen Mickey yet. His men are out of their cars, wandering and scanning the sidewalk, but he isn’t there.
Don’t tell me he didn’t come tonight. That he’s left his cronies to collect his dues while he sits high and mighty in whatever penthouse he’s living in. My heart sinks into my guts, and tears sting the wells of my eyelids. Sunday nights are my only escape from this place. It’s the one day of the week I get to be happy in this broken tower.
Then it happens. The backseat of the middle Range Rover swings open, and the giant emerges. He surveys the street, motionless. He’s the king of this street and the master of everyone on it.
“You two, with me,” Mickey’s commanding voice breaks the silence. I can barely hear him from my window, but those words are like music to my ears. “The rest of you, take this building.”
I’ve got to be some kind of fucked up. Mickey’s here to collect on handouts he gave in bad faith. These people would never be able to pay back what they owe, and he keeps slapping on interest that will keep them paying for years. Yet, I don’t care.
The two groups separate. Six men go into the apartments opposite Mickey, and the two he ordered walk across the street. I get a good look at his face in a flash of lamplight. He’s wearing the mean expression of a man who’ll do whatever it takes to get what he wants. Let it be me, just this one time.
I lose him when he steps onto the sidewalk and enters the building, but I don’t dare move. Mickey will be back. No matter how long it takes, I want to be here for it. I’ll see him once more before another long wait until next Sunday.
Time moves slowly when you’re waiting in anticipation. A minute feels like an hour, staring sheepishly into the black night. My mind wanders to all those dark, depraved places while I wait for the Butcher to return. My thoughts run so wild I can practically feel him on me. His firm body against mine, coarse fingers caressing my virgin body, musky scent wafting through the air as he claims my innocence. How he coos and moans my name as he fucks me senseless.
My fingers dance across the naked flesh of my belly where the tank top doesn’t cover. I may be stuck with my imagination, but it doesn’t mean I can’t find pleasure in the mental images.
What am I doing?
I throw my hands into the air and back away from the windowsill. I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about Mickey. He’s a monster, he’s dangerous, he’s forty years old, he’s. . . he’s. . .
He’s perfect in every way. Who am I kidding? I’m smitten. There’s no place for logic and reason when it comes to this savage, and I don’t want there to be. I’d rather throw myself headfirst into this chaos and see where it leads than wonder what could have been. But he probably doesn’t even know I exist. I’m the daughter of one of his many debtors. In his world, they come by a dime a dozen.
Three heavy bangs suddenly erupt through the quiet apartment.
“Oh jeez, oh no,” my dad squeals from the living room. “Ah fuck.”
“Dad?” I step into the hallway.
Dad’s wringing his hands together, continually stammering and muttering the same few words. Another onslaught of loud bangs rattles our front door. Dad jumps this time before a hand shoots to his chest as if he’s about to have a heart attack.
“Go back to your room, Bree,” Dad says, “I’ve got this under control.”
Under control? He’s about to piss himself.
“Who is it?” I feign naivety.
One man would be bold enough to cause a scene on a Sunday night. My man.
“Go back to your room,” fear laces his attempted authoritative tone.