Page 2 of The Mafia Bachelor

“I wasn’t killing him.” I hang up with a flick of my thumb, then shove my phone into my jacket pocket. Rubbing the side of my face with my palm, I contemplate my life grimly. How did I end up in this fecking shitshow?

Oh yeah. Born into it.

“Where is he?” I ask Brandon, but I already know.

“In the basement.”

“Ah feck. Not again.”

“Liam let him in. I think he likes the company, and the sense of the good ol’ days.” Brandon rolls his eyes.

“Liam is lucky he’s excellent at his job, or I’d be reminding him of who now leads this mafia by putting something sharp through his skull,” I grumble. But that’s not totally out of the question if I can’t get my dad away from his favourite “hobby”. I get to my feet and gesture for Brandon to follow me, letting the door slam behind us. Locked. I’ve long since had to ensure my dad doesn’t get involved with computers. That’s even more messy.

Though less blood than I’ve shed today.

“Your dad does have lucid moments, to be sure,” Brandon says as we reach the basement.

“Everyone thought he’d die in a shoot-out.” I shake my head. “The Grim Reaper has a sense of humour.”

Brandon gives a mirthless laugh.

I walk into the interrogation room, and a sight affronts me that makes my throat close up for how familiar and yet wrong it is.

I’ve grown up in this mafia. I was a kid when my dad did unspeakable things to keep our family safe and at the top of our game. I learned everything I knew from him until I took over seven years ago and dragged us into the modern era.

I earned my reputation as the Devil of Archway partly in this room, using the same knives that are on the table in the corner. My father stands over a man who’s dripping blood from his nose. His friend is upstairs in my office.

Most people dislike the sight of blood. It’s just red liquid to me.

“Tell me everything you know about Camden!” My dad’s Irish accent, similar to mine but seventy-five to my forty, is getting stronger as his mind is deteriorating.

“He wouldn’t listen to me that Camden was muzzled years ago.” Liam appears at my side, voice low and apologetic. He’s a man nearing retirement who worked for my father well before he worked for me.

I nod grimly. “I know. You did your best.”

My father’s periods of memory loss are getting worse. He’s interrogating this man about the Camden mafia as though that conflict wasn’t twenty years ago, when Camden were at their bloody height, and tortured practically everyone in the city who got in their way.

“I don’t know anything about Camden!” the man spits out, panic mixing with derision.

“Dad.” I step forward. “This piece of shit isn’t from Camden.”

My dad looks over at me and frowns. “What are you doin’ down here? You’re too young to be involved with this, so.”

I repress a sigh. Parent’s going to parent, I guess. Protectors have to protect.

“He’s a child molester we’re getting information from for an ally,” I say calmly.

“Who? What ally?” he demands.

If I say Blackfen, he’ll lose it. “His name is Kirill. He’s a friend of mine.” That’s stretching the truth plenty.

“Russian?” he asks suspiciously.

I wince. Right. He doesn’t like the bratva either. Doesn’t know that they’re mostly our allies now, part of the London Mafia Syndicate. “Mam needs you upstairs. This eejit will wait for tomorrow.”

My dad looks back at the restrained and bleeding man, then nods. “It’ll do him some good to have time to think.”

I smile, because that’s my dad as he was in his prime.