Chapter One
Joanna
The first time I saw him he was chained against a frame, his lip split and his eye black and blue. He stared at me through the swollen eyes and the broken nose, blood trickling down his brow. It was like he was looking right through me. Because he was.
He was still devastatingly handsome, but what I didn't know was that he was going to be my undoing. And I just stood there while they beat him with the buckle of his belt.
The mob sent one of their best enforcers to do it.
I didn't dare say a word, not to him, not to the other man down there. I was just eye candy. My job was to serve the drinks and keep my head down. The daughter of a man who owed more than my life was worth.
"Scotch, on the rocks. Now." The deep rumble of Janson Mactavish got me moving.
I nodded and turned to the bar, dumping ice in and trying not to jump each time the metal of the belt connected with the skin of the man chained. He sucked in breath after breath, but he never screamed. Barely grunted.
"Nothing, you son of a bitch? Not even an apology?" Mactavish hit him again, reaching out for his Scotch with one hand and throwing the belt with the other. Janson was controlled the entire time; no anger rose in his voice as he did it, no bile. It was like he was conducting a routine.
I wondered what kind of violence that man was used to doling out.
It was probably best if I didn’t know.
I turned back towards them to find the victim staring me right in the eyes. His eyes never left mine.
"Can't apologize if I’m not sorry." The strung man spit onto the ground and then grinned.
It was the grin that got me. Those pearly whites were covered in blood, and he still looked completely dashing. It was sick.
"You’re lucky your dad ordered you beaten and not killed. Anyone else..." Janson struck him again. "Would you like a drink?"
He was actually asking the subject of his torture for a drink! I blinked, frozen in place.
"Gin Rickey, extra lime." He ordered an old classic, just the right amount of sweet and sour, one of my favorites. And he did it like he was perfectly calm and collected. So I tried to mimic him.
I nodded and turned back to the bar. Only the mob would have a full wet bar in their torture dungeon. I grabbed a lime, cut it in half, juiced it, and added the gin and club soda to the mix, shaking it. I tried not to let the sound of his groans throw me off balance.
“I think we’re done here, Greyson.” Janson unhooked him from the rack, and he stepped off it like nothing ever happened, his stance tall and his shoulders back. Greyson Fitzgerald. The son of the arguably most important mob man in all of Baltimore, James Fitzgerald. The prince to an Irish-American empire.
He didn’t even acknowledge the blood that trickled down his face. He was strong. Tough. And it scared me senseless.
“Thank you,” he reached for the drink and then smirked. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”
“Sir?” I blinked and kept my face blank.
“What I did.”
“What did you do, sir?” My lip quivered as I said it and his handsome smile appeared. He was the kind of sexy playboy I went out of my way to avoid.
But I couldn’t melt over a man like that. Not him. Not here.
“You know Michael Mactavish?” I nodded. He was one of the most important men in the mob, Janson’s father. And he was a second in command, under James Fitzgerald.
“I do.” I swallowed hard as I looked at him.
“I fucked his daughter.” I could tell by the way he said it that he was proud of his actions, even when her brother stood in the room, a belt still in his hand. Janson was right. He was a son of a bitch.
Which is why I saw the punch coming before it even swung through the air and connected with Greyson’s jaw. Liquid from the glass flew everywhere.
“You are a son of a bitch. You know that?” Janson asked.
“I do. You keep saying it after all.” He spit blood onto the ground and then looked up at me. “They say I’ll fuck anything that moves. Probably right.”
I swallowed hard as I watched him take a sip of his gin, what little was left in his glass. “You make a good drink, hon. What is your name?”
I gulped as I looked into his eyes. He was positively handsome.
“Jo.”
“Just Jo?” His eyes were on me, his stare overwhelming me as he looked through me.
“Joanna O’Brien.” I crossed my arms; he was going to find out one way or another. If I told him now, at least he would forget about it before he asked.
“You aren’t afraid of a punch, and you sure as hell don’t back down when you see violence. You’re hard, Jo. And I like that.” He must not have noticed the surname.