Dirty Liar: An Irish Mafia Romance

by KB Winters

  I was so fucked.

  He tipped my chin up, forcing my gaze to lock with his. “Ask me, Ava. If I can answer ya, I will. But if I can’t, you need to respect that.”

  I nodded and considered his proposition. Although I’d been investigating Flynn all this time, trying to build a federal case against him, I genuinely had no interest in anything further than finding out why his father killed my father. It was selfish of me, to use my position with the bureau to further my advances in solving the case of my father’s death. But even decades later, the unanswered questions haunted me. I knew Flynn might not even know his father had killed my father, or why for that matter. I figured that he’d been around my age when it all happened, and he may not be privy to his father’s business dealings. Would he even know my father’s name? Would his father have ever uttered it, even in passing? I doubted it. Somehow, I doubted my father mattered enough to either one of them that they’d even recognize his name.

  Yet, I knew it was a question I’d have to ask one day.

  Maybe I’d even get a chance to ask my question right to his father’s face, even as he lay dying.

  A girl could dream, right?

  “Maybe later,” I said, suddenly anxious. I climbed out of Flynn’s lap and back into the passenger seat. He nodded and dropped the gearshift in drive and then pulled out onto the highway.

  Before I got into all of that with Flynn, I knew I had too many questions to ask myself, first. Questions I needed to figure out the answers to before I let myself sink any deeper than I already was. And right now, I was sinking in fuckin’ quicksand.

  ***

  We finally stopped for the night at a hotel outside Hannibal, Missouri. It wasn’t the Ritz Carleton, Four Seasons, or anything fancy like that—the kind of place I associated with Flynn. But being a historical part of the state, the place had plenty of charm to it. Besides, we were trying to lay low and avoid drawing any attention to ourselves. I highly doubted that anybody who knew him would suspect Flynn O’Brien would be staying in a small, rural town outside Hannibal.

  “It’s cute,” I said, admiring the historic charm of the place.

  It was built like a big log cabin, and it had an old-fashioned wood burning fireplace and everything. The bed was large and looked oh so comfy and inviting—even with the gaudy grandma-inspired flower print quilt covering it. My eyes were growing heavy, and my body just felt worn out. It had been a long, emotionally exhausting day that had been compounded by a long day of driving on top of it.

  I sat down on the bed and Flynn joined me. We were quiet for a few moments, just staring at the room. He looked so out of place there with all of the down-home kitsch, I had to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, smiling, the tension from earlier completely fading away.

  “You. This place. It’s just an odd juxtaposition, that’s all,” she said. “You seem to blend in better with the finer things in life.”

  “Last place anyone would look for us, though,” he said with a shrug.

  I nodded. “I’d say so.”

  “Good. That was the point,” he said. “The first place they’d look would be the upscale hotels, simply because—like you said—I do enjoy the finer things in life.”

  The smile on my face widened. It was just that he was so gorgeous and stylish, that set against the backdrop of the place—which could only be described as country bumpkin-chic, was odd. Really, really odd. There he was in a well-tailored designer suit as he sat on a gingham quilt that looked like it had been taken straight from the set of Little House on the Prairie.

  “You tired?” he asked me.

  Since we arrived, he’d been keeping his distance from me. It was almost as if he was afraid to be close to me for fear that I might turn him away. Not that I blamed him, really. After everything I’d been through, I very well may have turned him away. But it felt odd. Not so much as a stroke of my cheek or a peck on the lips. It was unusual for us since we were very comfortable with the physical expressions of affection.

  And I had to admit, I missed it.

  “Yeah, a bit,” I said, staring into his eyes. I took his hand in mine, without even realizing it, and gave it a squeeze. “You?”

  “Hell yes,” he said. “But I doubt I can sleep. As tired as I am, I’m still more than a bit wired.”

  “Yeah, I totally get that.”

  My mind was swirling with way too many thoughts to sleep. From the looks of it, Flynn was dealing with the same thing as well.

  “Is there anything you want to talk about, Ava?” he asked. “Anything you want to ask me? Because I feel like I owe it to you to be honest and upfront about what I can, which in reality isn’t much. But I need to prove to you that you can trust me, so I’m willing to push the envelope a smidge to gain that trust.”

  He reached out to stroke my cheek, and I found myself leaning into his touch, closing my eyes as I rested my cheek against his hand.

  The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

  “Tell me about your father, Flynn.”

  He looked startled, staring at me as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “My father? What about him?”

  I didn’t want to tell him my story or why I cared, so instead I covered myself and said, “Because he’s dying, and I know how much he means to you. Especially after you’d lost your mum at such a young age. I thought it might be good for you to open up about him a bit.”

  Flynn stood up, his body stiff and his jaw clenched as he paced the room. He was hesitating, a little agitated. Maybe he’d lied when he promised to be open about everything. Was I about to hear even more lies? Was he trying to figure out how to parse the truth? Considering what I did for a living, I thought I’d be able to see right through the bullshit if he did decide to start throwing some at me.

  “My father is—well, he’s an interesting man. To say the least,” Flynn said, scratching his chin. “I wouldn’t say we are close, but of course, I’m sad that he’s dying. I’ll miss the old man, but I hate the fuckin’ man he turned me into. All the power he’s left to fall upon my shoulders. I didn’t ask for this fuckin’ life, Ava. But it’s my life regardless.”

  I cocked my head and looked at him. “What do you mean?” I asked, hoping he’d elaborate.

  Flynn shrugged. “I don’t know if you’d understand—”

  “Try me. You might be surprised by what I understand.”

  I sat there on the edge of the bed, hands in my lap, prepared to listen. This entire conversation wasn’t what I’d expected, nor was it going as I’d intended. And it seemed to contradict everything I thought I knew about this family.

  “You saw what happened back there—the people I was dealing with, right?” Flynn asked, shaking his head. “I did it all for him. And look where it almost got me. For one thing, it almost got the woman I love killed—just like it got my mum killed. And I hate it. I hate that I love this life so much because I know it’s going to cause me nothing but pain in the long run. I can’t have a wife and kids and be the leader of the syndicate—my father tried to find that balance and look where it got him. Look where it got me.”

  “How did your mum die, Flynn?” I asked, for some reason, trying to speak as softly as possible. “If you don’t mind me asking. Since you mentioned it, I was curious. How was the syndicate responsible for her death?”

  “They weren’t, not directly,” he said. “It’s this life, Ava. This very life gets everyone killed in the end.”

  I knew that Flynn’s mother had died in a shootout with police. She’d been home alone with little Flynn and his brother when they came looking for his dad. There was yet another innocent life lost or otherwise completely shattered because of that man—his father.

  And yet, there he was in a hospital bed somewhere, dying of cancer at a ripe old age. And my dad and Flynn’s mum were both long dead, leaving behind two kids who grew up, becoming a couple of fucked up adults.

  My thoughts surprised me, though. Was I fe
eling sympathy for Flynn? As I stared into his eyes, the answer to my question was obvious.

  Yes. Yes, I was. Because this wasn’t the man who killed my father. The man sitting before me had lost as much as I had—at a young age like me. We were more alike than I ever imagined possible. We had just taken two different paths to get to where we were.

  “What is it?” he asked me.

  He walked over to where I sat on the bed, putting two fingers under my chin so he could turn my head, making me look up at him.

  “You have a weird expression on your face,” he said.

  “It’s nothing,” I muttered, feeling tears stinging my eyes.

  “No, it’s something,” he said. “Talk to me, Ava.”

  “It’s just—I never knew we had so much in common before,” I said, my voice thick with genuine emotion. “My dad, your mother—I just don’t know what to think.”

  “How did your father die, Ava?” he asked me, wiping away the tears that were rolling down my cheek with his finger.

  I swallowed, unable to say the words. How could I tell him that it was his father who’d killed my dad? How could I look this man in the eye and tell him without giving myself away? Because what would the chances be that we—FBI agent and mob kingpin—would randomly run into each other at a bar. Small chance of that.

  “He was murdered,” I said, “and I walked in as he was dying.”

  Flynn’s eyes grew wide, and I saw pain in them. The pain wasn’t for himself and all that he’d lost—the pain in his eyes was for me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  I wiped my nose and remained quiet as Flynn kissed the tip of my nose, then moved to my lips, gently kissing me before I kissed him back and kissed him harder. Pushing me back against the bed, he laid me down, spreading my legs with his hands as he laid down on top of me, covering me with kisses.

  I felt his erection pressing against my body, and I couldn’t care less who he was. I just wanted him inside of me. I needed to feel that sense of connection with somebody. I needed to feel alive.

  Reaching down, I undid his pants and slipped my hand inside his boxers, taking him in my hand. He was hard and growing harder by the second in my hand. I bit my lip as I looked him in the eye and stroked him just once. His eyes squeezed shut, and he let out a soft moan of pleasure as I played with the tip of him, circling my fingers around it.

  “Oh God, Ava,” he groaned. “Fuck, I need you so badly. I know you’ve been through a lot—”

  I shut him up with a kiss. Yes, I’d been through one hell of a day, but I wasn’t ready to call it a night just yet.

  “All I want is for you to fuck me right now, Flynn,” I said.

  Flynn didn’t waste any time undressing me. He slipped my pants off in a matter of seconds, throwing them to the floor where they landed in a pile with a soft thud. My shirt was slipped off over my head, exposing my bra. Using only one hand, Flynn unlatched it like a pro. While so many men struggled with the task, he didn’t. Once my breasts were free, he took one in his hands and leaned down, sucking the nipple.

  My body shuddered as a wave of intense pleasure rode through my body. I groaned, a deep and breathy sound, as I cried out for him.

  “I need you inside of me,” I said, feeling like I could hardly breathe. “Now.”

  I didn’t want any foreplay, I didn’t need any of that. Didn’t want any of that. I was in the throes of an animalistic rush of lust. My body ached for him, and I needed to feel his cock inside of me. And judging by the looks of it, that’s all he wanted, too.

  Holding himself over me, he stared into my eyes as he pressed his cock against my opening, spreading me open and filling me up as we both shuddered with absolute bliss.

  “I love you, Ava,” he said, pulling himself out only to bury himself inside me again. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you too, Flynn.” It felt weird. Not only to say his name but to admit that yes, I loved him. I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. But I did.

  “Even after all we’ve been through?” he asked, looking down at me in disbelief.

  “Yes, even after all we’ve been through,” I said, biting my lip and groaning as he continued fucking me, slow and gentle.

  His hair fell across his eyes, obscuring them from my view, so I reached up and pushed his now sweaty hair back. His eyes were so beautiful, so true. It was hard to believe I was looking into the eyes of a killer. He seemed so loving and gentle. I could see how much he cared just in the way he looked at me.

  Which made it hard to reconcile all the facts I knew about him. I knew he was a dangerous man. A deadly man. But I saw a different side of him. I saw the warm and loving way he looked at me—often filling my insides with butterflies. Because I knew that look was specifically for me, that he was seeing nobody but me. Caring for nobody but me. And as our bodies continued to move together in our own perfect rhythm, I felt such a deep connection with him. It was surreal, nothing like I’d experienced with a man before.

  He kissed my neck as his pace sped up. My legs were wrapped tightly around his body, holding him close as I felt my climax building up low in my pussy. I was now spasming around his cock uncontrollably, and everything just felt so fucking good. This was different than fucking, I realized. This was making love. It was more intense—more connected. And I couldn’t get enough of him.

  I thought this is what sex was supposed to be like. It was ironic that I experienced it for the first time with a man who was meant to be my mortal enemy, but there we were. Our bodies as one, kissing and touching and connecting.

  He took my hands in his, holding them down on the cheesy quilt, kissing me and burying himself deeper and faster into me. His breath was growing ragged—as was mine, and I knew he would come inside of me at any moment. Just imagining him filling me with his warm sticky come caused my toes to curl and my body to writhe underneath him.

  “Fuck, sweetheart, oh yes—come for me, baby,” he demanded, his voice gravely and desperate. “Come for me. I want you to feel so fucking good.”

  Flynn was a man who surprisingly, put my pleasure above his own. And as hard as it was for him to control himself at times, he managed. He waited until the pleasure tore through my body, causing me to buck wildly beneath him. I called out his name, burying my nails into his skin, telling him to let himself go. His jaw was clenched tight as he buried himself deeper inside of me, a low grunt as he came. And I came with him. My body rode out his pleasure, savoring every sensation, every touch, and the way he looked down at me.

  I loved it. I loved every minute of it and never wanted it to end.

  “I love you, Flynn,” I said. “God, I love you.”

  He collapsed on top of me, both of us now exhausted beyond measure, but he managed to keep his head up long enough to kiss me.

  “And I love you, too, Ava.”

  As soon as the pleasure subsided, I remembered the reality of our situation and felt like crying. But when Flynn pulled me to his chest and held me close, I forgot about it once more. Because in his arms—the arms of my mortal enemy—I felt safer than I’d ever felt in my entire life.

  Twenty-Three

  Ava

  I stared down at the man next to me, sleeping soundly, and I wondered how he could ever be seen as a deadly, dangerous man. But I’d read his file—cover to cover—and I knew what types of business the syndicate took part in. I knew what type of deals he made. I knew about all the things they’d done—the brutality. The mayhem. Even the killing.

  Yet, here with me, it was like he was an entirely different person than the one on paper. They were total strangers. They seemed to share a name but nothing else. Or so it seemed.

  I knew it was a lie, but my brain couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t reconcile the two men I knew him to be. My heart argued that I knew the real him, while my brain and my experience as an FBI agent told me he was a criminal, wanted for a multitude of crimes, and that I needed to turn him in.

  But the syndicate thought
he was a snitch, meaning Flynn faced a lot more than simply jail time. Even behind bars, a snitch would likely end up dead. So by turning him in—before clearing his name—I would be condemning him to death. My heart ached imagining anything hurting the man I loved.

  I knew Flynn wasn’t the snitch, they’d just assumed he was because he was with me. Because the Russians knew who I was, and before long, so would Flynn and his brothers. And this entire relationship—or whatever we had between us—would come crumbling down.

  I had to clear his name, at least with his brothers and the Russians. Which meant only one thing—I needed to find out who the snitch was. And I needed to find out fast. Which was something I could do if I could get into the right databases. But I knew doing that would be illegal. Not only that, it would likely lead to that man’s—the actual snitch—death at the hands of his brothers. Not something I could take lightly.

  I stared down at Flynn when he opened his eyes and saw me watching him.

  “Hey, you,” he said, kissing the tip of my nose. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Not long,” I said. “Just a few minutes actually.”

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “A lot on my mind.”

  He positioned himself to where he was leaning on his arm, sleep still in his eyes. He yawned and gave me a goofy, sleepy grin. This was the violent criminal I’d been trying to hunt down like a rabid beast for so long? A man with bedhead and a smile that curled my toes and warmed my heart, even at stupid o’clock in the morning.

  “Tell me about it,” he said. “What’s clogging up that pretty lil’ head of yours.”

  “I’m just scared, that’s all,” I said. “Have you heard from any of your brothers? Have they said anything about it being safe?”

  He sighed. “I texted Colin last night, but I haven’t checked my phone since you seduced me.”

  Fuck… if he was in contact with the syndicate, he’d soon find out who I was. It worried me, and I could only hope it didn’t come out just yet.