Claimed Mafia Bride by Mae Doyle
Jane
It’s the smell of the whiskey for me.
I know that I shouldn’t like it, that it should turn my stomach, but as soon as I walk into the bar, I actually feel myself relax. That’s stupid, and I know it. Nothing good ever happens in a bar.
You don’t meet someone to date long-term in a bar.
You certainly don’t meet the love of your life here.
You aren’t going to suddenly become the world’s best danger as soon as you step on that bar. Believe, me I know. I’ve shaken it to Pour Some Sugar on Me enough times that by now I should have been offered a job as a Rockette, but that hasn’t happened. I’m still just Jane, still working long hours as a paralegal trying to make ends meet, and no matter how many shots of whiskey I take, that’s never going to change.
Still, I walk up to the bar, ignoring the men already sitting there, and wave at the bartender. Chrissy, my neighbor, throws me a wink and pours a double of house whiskey before setting it down in front of me with a thud.
“You want a tab tonight?” Her voice is gravelly thanks to all of the cigarettes that she smokes, and she already looks exhausted even though I think that her shift only started an hour or two ago. She always looks exhausted, like even walking up the stairs with her groceries is almost enough to put her in an early grave.
“No tab,” I say, shaking my head. My credit card bill this month was almost enough to give me a heart attack and I have no desire to relive that panic again anytime soon. “Just the one, and I have cash.” Pulling two fives out from my pocket, I slip them across the bar to her. I’m overpaying, but I know that Chrissy has to pick up all-organic soy formula for her little one since her daughter can’t drink the regular stuff any longer.
So, yeah, I could use that change, but she could use it more.
“You’re a gem,” she tells me in thanks, slipping the bills into her pocket. “Feel free to hang out as long as you want. I’m about to put out some fresh pretzels, so if you wait a bit longer you’ll have dinner.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, but she’s already turned around to help someone else. Spinning around, I take a sip of my drink and survey the bar. It’s the same clientele that’s in here every other night. Bankers looking to relax after long hours of screwing people out of their money, men about to get married who are on the verge of regretting it, and even some college kids who look like they’re not old enough to drink.
Nobody worth talking to. I have no idea why I even come here Friday evenings except that I know my dad used to love this place. When he died it felt like coming here to Frank’s Pub was the closest that I could get to him. Never mind that I know I stick out like a sore thumb.
Never mind that one of the bastards who killed him might be in here right now enjoying a beer and watching me.
The thought makes my skin crawl and I spin back around, slamming the rest of my whiskey before putting the glass down on the bar. Pretzels sounded really good when Chrissy mentioned them but right now I just want to get back to my apartment. It’s stupid to think that coming here would make me feel more connected to my dad.
I’m about to hop off my stool and make a run for the door when someone sits down next to me without once looking at me. That in itself is strange enough, since most people here tend to avoid me like the plague, and the ones who do talk to me always ask if they can sit down first.
Glancing at him, I feel something warm coil in my stomach. His jaw is as sharp as a knife’s edge, his eyes are dark, and his full lips are actually curled up into a bit of a smile. For a moment, I’m sure that he’s a mirage and I glance around me to see if anyone else has noticed this God sitting on a sticky vinyl stool in the middle of nowhere.
Chrissy noticed. I can tell from the way she stares at him before flicking her eyes back to my face like she’s trying to tell me that he’s there.
No worries, I see him.
Even if I didn’t see him, I’d swear that I could feel him. There’s something radiating off of him. His body heat, sure, but it’s more than that. He feels dangerous, like a caged animal that I shouldn’t be anywhere near, but that doesn’t exactly inspire me to jump from my stool and make a run for it.
Finally, he turns, his eyes skimming over my body. I can’t help but shiver as he glances from my face down to my chest, then sweeps his gaze across the rest of my body. Without even realizing what I’m doing, I clench my thighs together, doing everything that I can to stop the throbbing building there.
“Trevor,” he finally says, giving me a nod. “And you are?”
“Jane.” I squeak out my name, sounding for all the world like I’ve never spoken to a man before. It’s stupid. Sure, he’s gorgeous, and definitely way out of my league. He probably is also ten years older than me. At least.
There’s a bit of gray right around his temples, but it doesn’t look bad. If anything, it makes him look even sexier and I feel my core heat up even more.
“Jane.” Even the way he says my name sends a thrill through my body. I’ve never really liked my name, thinking that it was too boring, too nondescript, too much designed for me to become a wallflower, but when he says it, my name sounds different. It sounds mysterious, which is stupid, but also sexy, desirable, and delicious.
I watch as he raises his hand and holds up two fingers. In a flash, like it was a cue that she’s been waiting for, Chrissy brings over two whiskeys and sets them down in front of us. Trevor picks one up and hands it to me. Our fingers brush as I take the glass from him and a soft groan escapes my lips.
Pull it together, Jane. He’s a man. Just a man.
Even as I think that, though, I know that I’m wrong. Trevor is not just a man. He’s gorgeous, strong and dark, looking like he was carved out of obsidian. Everything about him oozes danger, from the little bit of stubble on his chin that I suddenly want to touch to the gun tucked right into the waistband of his pants.
Wait. What?
“You have a gun,” I point out with about as much tact as a three-year-old. My glass brushes up against my lips but I don’t take a sip as I stare at him, waiting for him to respond.
For a moment, he doesn’t speak, then he lets out a soft chuckle that travels through my body, making me feel like jelly. I couldn’t get up and walk away from him right now if I tried. He’s dark and dangerous, exactly the opposite of everything else in my life, and I can’t help the fact that I want to get to know him.
There’s a little voice in the back of my head telling me that I’m making a huge mistake even entertaining the idea of getting to know this man, but I tell it to kindly shut the fuck up and turn my attention back to him. He takes a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine.
They’re dangerous, his eyes, but I don’t look away. I can’t. I want him like I’ve never wanted anyone before in my life, even though I know that it’s stupid.
“I always carry my gun. You never know when you might need it.”
“To protect yourself or hurt someone else?” My mouth feels uncomfortably dry from those words and I take a sip while I wait for him to answer.
“Both.”
“Who do you need protection from?” This is stupid. Asking these types of questions will get you killed. It doesn’t happen often, but everyone’s read the articles in the paper about someone asking the wrong questions and ending up in a ditch. Even though I don’t know who Trevor is or who he’s involved with, I know that I should shut the hell up.
My question makes him grin and he drains his glass, putting it down on the bar before reaching out and taking my free hand. There’s a shock that passes through the two of us when we he touches me but if he feels it, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he links our fingers together and pulls me from my stool, leading me away from the bar.
I keep my other fingers tightly gripping my glass, afraid that if I don’t concentrate on holding onto it that I’ll drop it. I don’t have to ask him where we’re going. It’s obvious from the way he’s angling me away from the bar but not to the front doors. There’s a side door guarded with a velvet rope and a man large enough to crush a watermelon between his pecs.
Never in my life have I ever though that I’d get through this door, especially not when being led by someone like Trevor. He pauses in front of the bodyguard, who moves the velvet rope and lets us through. I feel his eyes land on me but they skate off of me like I’m not really here.
The private room is empty except for some furniture, a smaller bar, and a bartender behind it. This man looks old, like a grandfather, and he stands up when we enter, his eyes locked on Trevor. Above the bar are three hanging lights, the only sources of light in the room. They cast a soft glow over the furniture and the rest of the space, and I pause for a moment, trying to let my eyes adjust.
“Mr. Bonanno, sir,” the bartender says, already bending down to pull something out from under the bar. “The usual tonight?”
Trevor—Mr. Bonanno—turns back and looks at me, his gaze appraising, and shakes his head. “Just some alone time, Freddie. Jane and I don’t want to be bothered.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but then I realize that he’s right. It’s stupid and reckless. Dangerous. Unlike me. I have no idea what’s running through my mind, but all I know is that I don’t want to be disturbed. I want to be in this private room with Trevor, as terrible an idea as that may be.
There’s a darkness in his gaze that I don’t think that I’ve ever seen before and my stomach muscles clench in response to the way he looks at me. I’m making a terrible mistake but that doesn’t mean that I can stop myself. Even though there’s a voice in my head screaming at me to run from this room, to beg Freddie to take me with him, I keep my mouth shut as Trevor looks at me.
My life has been in shambles for a long damn time and I thought that I hit rock bottom a while ago, but I was obviously wrong. This is it. This—whatever this may be—in the private back room of my dad’s favorite bar is the lowest that I can go and I should run from it but instead I’m going to embrace it and then move on.
