THE CALLAHANS (A Mafia Romance): The Complete 5 Books Series

by Glenna Sinclair

  I thought about Kyle’s milk chocolate skin and those caramel eyes, and I found myself both thinking about how great it would be to jump into that sweet dish of ice cream and feeling the cold fingers of dread as I realized everything I would have to give up to convince him to do what I needed him to do.

  It wasn’t as if I knew what I was doing. I’d never tried to manipulate anyone before. Hell, I’d never even flirted with anyone, really. I mean, a little innocent joking here and there, but not the kind of flirting women on television were capable of. Or the other waitresses. Most of them got better tips than I did because they could flirt much better than I ever could. What if I couldn’t do it? What if I couldn’t convince him to…?

  There was no room for “what ifs” now. I had to do this, or everything I’d ever known would be gone.

  This had to work.

  Chapter 2

  Kyle

  I woke with a start from this dream…it was one of those dreams that make you wonder what the hell you were thinking when you went to sleep. Mom—Abigail—was there and so was my real mother, the woman who totally destroyed us both with her stupidity. Everyone told me I’d forget, but the memories my biological mother left me with would never really fade. How could they? They were my reality for so long, this life I’d had with the Callahans was like a dream. I was lucky—and I knew that. This behavior, the gambling, was an insult. I knew I shouldn’t do it, especially here at Pops’ casino, especially not with everything that’d been going on with the family—we found a new sister Pops didn’t even know about, Stacy’s fiancé died and then she married Killian and had a kid, Pops got arrested on RICO charges (after marrying some woman he’d had an affair with years ago), and Sean disappeared with his new girlfriend, Delaney. I should be at home with the family, doing whatever it was I did with my time—sometimes even I didn’t know what that was—but, instead, I was here.

  But, again, it was my birthday last night. If I couldn’t make stupid mistakes on my birthday, what could I do?

  I rolled over and realized there was a young woman in bed beside me. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that I didn’t remember inviting her into my bed. In fact, now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember going to bed last night.

  I sat up and nudged her a little, causing her to moan and roll onto her side. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.

  The last thing I remembered was coming up to my room after a particularly bad losing streak at the blackjack tables. I was usually pretty good at blackjack, but I was distracted by the things going on back home. And then there was this waitress…tall, dark, but with the most amazing blue eyes…

  That’s who this was.

  She looked different, sleeping like this. Relaxed in a way she hadn’t been on the casino floor last night. Her beautiful features were a little hard last night, the lack of a smile probably a big part of the problem. But her face was so relaxed now that I could see how gentle the curves of her jaw were and how high the arch of her cheeks was. And the widow’s peak at the center of her forehead was less severe with her hair down like this.

  Beautiful. But what the hell was she doing in my bed?

  I got up and searched around for my pants. There was a delicate black dress tossed over the back of a chair, one of those cocktail dresses that women wore to just about any formal occasion these days. This one was a couple of years out of fashion, but well taken care of. Must have bought it at one of those discount stores Abigail used to drag Stacy to—even though Pops told her over and over again that we could afford to buy those things from the boutiques on Rodeo Drive if she wanted to shop there.

  “You can take the girl out of Dorchester, but you can never take Dorchester from the girl.”

  That’s what Abigail always said. Maybe that’s why Stacy still shopped those little mini-malls—even though Killian and Stacy’s combined trust funds probably topped three or four billion dollars.

  Pops was a generous man. We all had trust funds that began in the high hundred millions and had increased significantly—thanks in part to good management and lucky investments. I don’t think any of my siblings used their trust funds, except maybe to pay for their educations. I was the only one, and that was just to cover my gambling debts so that I wouldn’t embarrass Pops. Everything thing else I’d earned through my work for Jack and the Irish mob.

  Jack—my father’s business partner at MCorp—required a hired man to protect him when he traveled, a man who could do anything that was necessary on the spur of the moment. He needed a man to make sure the Italians didn’t take him out in a moment of vulnerability. That was me. Pops knew about the role I played in the mob now. I don’t think he was aware that—before becoming Jack’s personal bodyguard—I worked as an enforcer for him, beating up poor, out of luck guys who owed Jack money for one reason or another.

  Ironic, really. The gambler enforcing gambling debts among his own peers. That’s why I did most of my gambling here in Vegas. Not only was it an embarrassment to the family who took me in when I needed them most, but because it took something away from my reputation when my marks knew I was in the same position as them just the week before.

  I found my jeans folded and sitting on the top of the dresser. Now I knew I hadn’t undressed myself because I’d never folded a pair of jeans if I could help it. I glanced back at the bed and noticed the simple gold band on the woman’s finger for the first time. What was her name? I couldn’t remember, though I did know that I’d asked Mickey at one point or another.

  Mickey was a family friend, who helped me hide my gambling debts. He ran the casino for Callahan Industries, the little side company Pops had that owned this place. Ian was Managing Director of Callahan Industries, the one responsible for all the properties they owned. He’d put Mickey in charge with the thought that Mickey once ran numbers alongside Pops and Jack for the former head of the Irish mob, so he must be trustworthy. He wasn’t very competent, but he was a nice guy. Ian somehow managed to keep his mistakes hidden, and Mickey kept my mistakes hidden. It was all a win-win situation in my opinion.

  But this girl…what did Mickey say her name was? Amy? Amethyst? Am…Amelia. That’s what it was. Amelia something.

  It fit her, that name. Classy, but not unapproachable.

  I tugged my jeans on, hoping Amelia’s husband wasn’t on the way up here to kill me. And then I realized that there was a matching ring on my finger.

  What the fuck?

  I pulled the ring off my left hand and stared at it. It was simple, unadorned. No carvings, no engravings. Just a simple gold band.

  Why was I wearing it?

  I didn’t get Pops and my brothers’ sudden need to tie themselves down to one woman. I mean…Pops had been married for twenty-five years to the perfect woman. Why would he want to saddle himself down to a new woman after only five years of bachelorhood? Surely he’d enjoyed the freedom of doing what he wanted and going where he wanted whenever he wanted, sleeping with every beautiful woman who came his way. I knew for a fact that he had a pretty, hot, young woman coming and going from his bed just weeks before he married Cassidy. I didn’t get it.

  And Killian marrying our sister? I mean, they weren’t really related. Stacy wasn’t his blood sister, and she’d never officially been adopted by Abigail and Pops. But…still…why? There are so many beautiful women out there! Yet, he not only saddled himself with his sister as his bride—a woman who knew even the darkest secrets of his childhood—but he had a kid with her.

  Then there was Sean. He’d suddenly moved in with this woman he knew for a month, then disappeared with her, supposedly running off to hike through Europe before he had to settle down to a new job at a local law firm. Why? He was doing pretty well working in the legal department at MCorp and running protection for Jack’s people. Why saddle himself down to some girl, even if she was Jack’s illegitimate daughter?

  Even Kevin was getting into it. He was getting cozy with Brianna, Pops’ secret daugh
ter with his new wife, Cassidy. She was beautiful, even I had to admit that, with her red hair and pretty green eyes. But she was not worth giving up his freedom for.

  I’d never seen the point of marriage. Why marry a girl when you could get all the good parts of marriage without actually making any promises? Without the bad stuff weighing you down?

  I really didn’t get it. I was perfectly happy sharing my bed with whatever girl happened to come along, moving on to the next pretty girl when that one became too clingy. There was a lot to be said about freedom. And a lack of commitment.

  Commitment wasn’t my thing. The only thing I was willing to commit myself to for any length of time was the family who rescued me from a pretty dark childhood. Anything beyond that simply wasn’t my thing.

  So why the hell did I have a wedding band on my damn finger?

  I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but I was about to find out.

  “Hey,” I said, after pulling on my shirt, pushing at her shoulder. “Wake up!”

  She rolled over and groaned, reaching up to touch her forehead as she tried to focus on me. Then she remembered that she was naked, and she reached down to tug the sheet up around her chest, but not before I got a good look at the goods she wanted to hide. Damn, she was beautiful! I felt my cock start to stretch its legs as I looked down at her. Her skin was like the heavy cream Abigail used to whip up with a little bit of cinnamon in it. And her breasts were full, her nipples dark and long, just begging to be sucked. I bit my lip, wishing she’d drop the sheet and let me get a longer look.

  “Hey,” she said softly, as she sat up against the headboard and reached up with her free hand to brush the hair out of her face.

  “Who are you?”

  She looked up, a little hurt crossing her beautiful, pale eyes. “Amelia,” she said, her full bottom lip sticking out a little bit. “You don’t remember?”

  “Should I?”

  She shrugged. “It was a crazy night, but I didn’t think you were that drunk.”

  “Drunk? I don’t even remember taking the first sip.”

  “Oh.” She blushed a little, the color only enhancing the beauty of her lovely features. “I thought…I…I didn’t,” she stammered, as she gathered the sheet around her and got off the bed, quickly covering her ass as she strutted toward the chair where her dress was draped. “I should go.”

  “Not before you explain these.” I held up my hand so she could clearly see the wedding band I’d shoved back onto my finger for reasons I couldn’t even explain to myself. “The last thing I remember is coming up here after playing at the tables. Then I wake up and there’s a damn wedding band on my finger.”

  “We got married.”

  “I can see that. When? Where? Why?”

  I wasn’t sure why I asked anything other than that last question. Why? Why did I get married? Why to her? Was someone playing a trick on us, or something?

  “At the chapel down the street. You said you…” She blushed again, as she snatched up her dress and headed toward the bathroom.

  “What did I say?”

  She shrugged. “You said all the right things. You convinced me that we were meant to be together.”

  “But I don’t even remember you.”

  “Clearly.”

  She slammed the door as she disappeared into the bathroom. I stood there for a moment, staring at the wrong side of that damn door. The last time I’d been in this position was with a girl in college who thought she was my girlfriend just because we shared a bed a couple of times. She got me worked up and then locked herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out until my roommate finally went and got the dorm’s resident adviser to talk her out. Needless to say, I never saw that girl again—and I was quite grateful for that.

  But I got the feeling I wasn’t going to get out of this one quite so easily.

  I slipped out of the bedroom and headed out to the balcony for some fresh air. On my way, I found the room service tray (from which we apparently ate our dinner) and a couple of bottles of wine (that we apparently drank) strewn across the floor. And there were pictures stacked on an end table…along with the wedding license.

  We were legally married. It was quite clear in this document that bore my signature—even though I don’t remember actually signing it. And the pictures…I was wearing a tux that there was no sign of in the bedroom, and she was wearing a tacky wedding dress that looked like something that had traveled here through a time warp from the seventies.

  What the fuck?

  How could all of this happened and I had no memory of it?

  She came out of the bedroom practically on my heels.

  “I’ll call my lawyer,” I told her departing back. “He’ll arrange a quiet divorce.”

  She stopped, but she didn’t turn to look at me. She simply stood very still for a long minute.

  “I…I can’t do that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She shook her head, her body still facing away from me. “I can’t get a divorce.”

  “Why not?”

  “My family’s Catholic. Very conservative.”

  “So? This is 2016. No one gives a shit about Catholics using birth control or getting divorced.” Even as I said it, panic began to build in my chest. “You do use birth control, right?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest as she turned to face me, tears forming in her big, bright eyes. “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re a cocktail waitress in a Las Vegas casino. You obviously know how the world works, right?”

  “I never thought I’d be getting married to some asshole who was just going to send me packing the next day!”

  “Then why did you agree to do all this?” I asked, picking up the pictures and waving them in the air. “Surely you understood that I wasn’t in my right mind last night.”

  “I don’t know anything about you! For all I knew, you always acted like that!”

  “Like what? Drunk off my ass?”

  “You had all of three glasses of wine!”

  “But I don’t remember anything about last night. Surely I had more than that.”

  She shook her head. “Not after I got here.”

  She was crying, but she was looking at me with such defiance in her eyes that I couldn’t help but believe her. I turned away, trying to get all of this straight in my head. I was married but couldn’t remember the actual ceremony—or the bride—and now she didn’t want a divorce because she was Catholic. How archaic was that?

  “Why don’t you stay for a little while? We’ll order some breakfast and figure this out.”

  She was reluctant, I could see it when I turned to gage her reaction. She looked almost longingly at the door, but then inclined her head.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m Kyle Callahan, by the way,” I said, approaching her as one would a wild animal: with caution, curiosity, and with every muscle ready to turn and flee.

  “I know,” she said softly, accepting my proffered hand. “Mickey told me who you were last night when he explained that you wanted to buy me dinner. And then you told me a few things about yourself before we got married.”

  “Did I?”

  I remembered asking Mickey about her. I didn’t remember telling her anything about me. I didn’t remember her arriving at my suite. My last clear memory was of walking in here and finding Mickey setting up…that’s about where my memory grew foggy. I couldn’t remember why Mickey was in this room.

  “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  Concern crossed her face, but there was something about it that didn’t feel genuine. Did she know something she wasn’t telling me? Did she have an idea why I had no memory of last night?

  I wasn’t an angel. I’d had blackouts before. I liked my booze; I liked to have a good time. I’d been known to go to a club and not sober up until several days later. Pops had to bail me out a few times in high school and college after I got a little too crazy at one party or another. And
I’d served time in juvie and jail for one thing or another. We all had—except maybe Sean and Kevin. Even Ian had spent two years in federal lock up for some sort of computer crime that I would never even begin to understand.

  Poor Abigail. She was a true saint, yet all her children were fuckups who followed too closely in Pops’ footsteps.

  But this didn’t feel like a blackout. This felt different.

  I gestured for her to follow me across the room to the table that sat in front of the impressive wall of windows at the back of the suite. I opened the doors that led out onto the balcony to let a little of the hot, humid Vegas air into the room then settled in a chair across from hers.

  “You work here?”

  She nodded. “I’ve worked here a little over six months.”

  I remembered her; I remembered seeing her in the casino on more than one visit. She was distinctive not only in her looks—and she was beautiful, even in the ridiculous costumes Mickey found so alluring—but in the way she held herself. She seemed slightly above her station, as though she was a princess walking among the peasants. That look intrigued me.

  “You served me drinks last night.”

  She inclined her head. “Vodka cranberry.”

  “Yeah.” I sat back a little. “Why here? Why Vegas?”

  She looked away, a war of emotions dancing on her face that she clearly didn’t want me to see. “It’s as good a place as any.”

  “Yeah? Where are you from?”

  “Oregon.”

  “What part of Oregon?”

  “Ashland.”