Shannon

by Shara Azod

  Shannon

  By

  Shara Azod

  I make the rules now. Gone are the ravaged days of street living and fighting to survive. Now I fight, bare knuckled for the fun of it. Paddy O’Shea, my father thought he’d toughen me up.

  Make me ready to fight his battles, or worse, fight my brothers.

  Wrong —He’s the bastard we all fight against.

  Nothing or no one gets in my way—ever. Until she walked through my door—and blew my fucking world upside down. Now I’m fighting again, only this time it’s not with my fists, but with a heart I want to own and a soul I want to merge with.

  She doesn’t know it yet, but nobody walks away from an O’Shea.

  Yeah, this is one battle I can’t lose.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  © 2016 Shara Azod

  Cover Art: Marteeka Karland

  Editor: Katriena Knights

  eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.

  Contents

  Prologue. 5

  Chapter One. 9

  Chapter Two. 19

  Chapter Three. 25

  Chapter Four. 33

  Chapter Five. 39

  Chapter Six. 45

  Chapter Seven.. 52

  Chapter Eight 60

  Epilogue. 67

  Prologue

  Patrick “Paddy” O’Shea was a bastard. He had no loved ones, no real friends. People feared him, and that’s what kept them loyal, most of the time. His iron-clad rule in the south of Boston was absolute, having built layers of snitches to watch his snitches to watch his crews. Politicians, police, even some members of the FBI were firmly in his back pocket, and he kept them there by bribery, extortion, and good old-fashioned threats of violence.

  Old Man O’Shea, as he was referred to by the locals, showed no mercy. To anyone. He ruled with an iron fist and had no softness within him for anyone, including his own sons. Kieran and Conall were born to him from his wife, Fiona, a raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty he’d met on the Emerald Isle. Rumor had it he beat her, degraded her, and eventually killed her spirit, which then killed her body. Paddy made sure nothing could ever be proven. Fionn and Shannon were his children by his lifelong mistress, Gillian. At least, it was suspected she was his longtime mistress. She hadn’t actually been seen for years.

  His sons had not been raised by their mothers. When each boy turned six, he was taken and raised in the worst slums by the most hardened criminal in the old man’s organization. Not even they knew they belonged to the notorious crime boss until they reached maturity. Paddy wanted his sons strong, tough, and utterly ruthless. He never suspected they would cling to one another and form a bond so strong nothing could break it. Nor had he ever imagined that, instead of loyalty, their upbringing would breed resentment that went beyond anger. That they would join together and combine forces to bring down the very man who thought himself untouchable…

  The Getaway…

  Shivering, Shay clutched her briefcase close to her chest as she left her cozy triple-decker headed towards work. Just like every weekday, same time, same route. Only she wasn’t going to work. She’d probably never be able to return to life as she once knew it. Swallowing back tears that would do her no good, she kept trudging through ice and snow toward her destination.

  Yesterday had been Jesse’s funeral, there was no doubt in her mind the jackals that were responsible for her brother’s death would come for her. If not today, soon. She’d been able to hide her hatred for Jean-Paul, the man who used to be Jesse’s best friend, until Jesse could get a proper burial, but she hadn’t been able to shake Jean-Paul’s watchful eyes long enough to get the stash of money her brother had kept for emergencies. Under the pretense of offering her support, the asshole who had set her brother up stayed close, monitored her movements, had her followed by the goons of her brother’s biggest enemy, Junior Toussaint.

  Shay kept a brisk pace as she strode toward the private school Jesse had given her the money to start. In truth, it was a great money-laundering operation for Jesse, so he fully funded it, expanding a little every year so it looked like he was dumping a shitload more money than he actually was into the project. It was still the best-looking school in Mattapan, and the absolute best. Families here couldn’t afford the kind of education she provided, but her brother wouldn’t allow her to stray far from home. He sent her to college in Boston. He’d built the small school where she was the director and a teacher, paid for the teachers she had brought in, paid for the computers every student got each year, paid for their mobile internet—and sometimes had “talks” with parents who “lost” their kids’ equipment. Her kids got three square meals a day, uniforms that fit, coats in the winter, shorts in the summer and shoes all year round. Jesse’d bought and refurbished a home right here in the neighborhood they grew up in. Up until now she’d had the safest house in the entire area. No one was going to fuck with the only sister of Jesse Reid. Up till now she’d been the safest woman in the area, now she was hunted by a crazy man who though himself to be in love with her.

  But Jesse was gone now, and soon the little empire he had carved out for himself would be taken over by Junior Toussaint and Jesse’s childhood friend, Jean-Paul Henry.

  Tears she could no longer keep at bay burned tracks down Shay’s face as she moved briskly along the icy streets. Despite the bitter cold, her blood boiled with helpless fury. The only family she had was dead because of one man’s lust. Jean-Paul had wanted her for years, since she was far too young to be wanted by anyone. But Jesse wouldn’t let him or anyone else he deemed unworthy near her. That mean damn near everyone from their neighborhood. He’d even come to blows a couple of times with Jean-Paul over it. But no matter what, Jesse would have never betrayed Jean-Paul the way the other man had done. He didn’t know Shay had been sitting right next to her brother when he got the phone call from him for Jesse to go out to meet him. Jesse had been shot twice in the head at point-blank range right after leaving his house. Terrified, Shay had snuck out the back of her brother’s home and made to her house without anyone seeing her. But sooner or later, she wouldn’t be able to hide what she knew, or her hatred for Jean-Paul. Sooner or later, he was going to push up on her, and this time he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  There weren’t a lot of good options. She couldn’t stay in Mattapan, and she didn’t have the cash she needed to disappear. With men watching her everywhere she went, she needed to find somewhere to lay low. Just long enough for her to get the money she needed. There was no chance someone would find Jesse’s stash before she had a chance to get it—her brother had been no man’s dummy. But the problem was, no matter where she went in Boston, Junior Toussaint could probably find her and turn her over to Jean-Paul. In order for him to take over all of her brother’s “business” interests, Junior needed Jean-Paul as an intermediary with Jesse’s men—his army. And unfortunately for her, Junior’s men had access to anywhere she might run to. They could watch the harbor, the airport, the trains.

  Junior was one of BPD’s “finest.” A detective who straddled both sides of the law. As a result, he literally got away with murder.

  Shay was proud that her fingers didn’t shake as she unlocked the school’s side
door, then quickly locked it behind her. Not bothering to shake the snow off her boots, she scurried down the empty corridor to her office. It was too early for anyone else to be here just yet, though thankfully it had always been her habit to get in and start setting up for the day before the crack of dawn. Whoever was watching her wouldn’t think anything was out of place. As quickly as she could, she shed her usual prim attire for casual, warm clothing and a different pair of snow boots. God, she wished she could’ve taken her car, but had she driven the few blocks to work Jean-Paul would’ve known something was up and would have alerted Junior.

  Stuffing her discarded clothing into the back of the locker she’d seen fit to have installed in her office, thank God, she bundled up in the nondescript goose down, pulled a knit cap low over her forehead and eased out the back door. Instead of taking the T a block over from the school, Shay took the city bus towards Dorchester, not getting off and hopping on the light rail until she was well away from her neighborhood and deep in the heart of the one place she probably wasn’t going to be able to blend into, but damn sure wouldn’t get caught by the men who had killed her brother.

  Irish South Boston.

  Chapter One

  Pain was good. Pain helped a man remember he was alive. Shannon O’Shea welcomed pain in many forms. Taking part in unsanctioned, bare-knuckled boxing matches, unsanctioned, unlicensed MMA matches, punishing workouts at the gym, rough sex—you name it, he was down for it. Pain was often the only honest human sensation he could feel. Even lust was kinda perfunctory, a natural need for release and nothing more. But pain—ahhh, pain demanded attention. Stayed around for days helping him to remember he was not a ghost, he had survived.

  “Your father chose me to be in charge of the ladies for a reason!”

  That annoying voice, the constant bitching—that wasn’t the kind of pain he wanted or needed at all.

  Shannon stopped on the way to the ornate office the Russian woman screeching at him had claimed as her own. Already there were men inside getting rid of all the gaudy shit she had decorated the room with, stripping it down as much as possible until it could be remodeled. He didn’t turn to look in her direction, just rolled his shoulders to will his temper back down to a reasonable level. Not only had this bitch gotten too many of his girls hooked, she was giving information to both the old man and a son of a bitch trying to poach the few top-shelf girls who didn’t have a need for H or worse, meth. Bart…motherfucking…Holten. Son of a bitch wasn’t even Irish. There were too many snakes in his little illegal garden of sin, placed there by none other than the bastard that spawned him, Paddy O’Shea. It was time to get rid of the old man’s underlings. Kieran had come up with a plan that would free Shannon and his brothers for good if the old man wouldn’t step aside. But of course he wouldn’t—Paddy thought he was a god. His sons would show him soon enough that he was all too human. All too vulnerable.

  “I am in charge.” Shannon spoke evenly. No way he was offering her any other explanation than that, because that was all the fuck she needed to know. Damn, he hated to be challenged by the scum Old Man O’Shea had running the less-than-legal elements of the family. Really fucking hated it. But this bitch at his heels—well, she was one of the worst. The reason he was here tonight was because of her; he planned on making sure she was done running his girls. “Since you obviously can’t handle a bunch of prostitutes without drugging them,” he continued with scorn in his voice

  The bitch had the nerve to actually scoff. At him. In his fucking presence. He had to give it to her—the bitch had more balls than most men.

  Sneering right in his face, Magda had the unmitigated gall to challenge him even further. “The bitches are easily controlled with a little help. Hey—we don’t need new girls!”

  Perhaps Shannon would’ve been able to shake off the latest in the long line of Magda Magpie’s insults and presumptions. If only she hadn’t actually reached her bony hand out to grab at his shirt to try to turn him to face her.

  As if she could. The soon to be ex-Madam was perhaps a buck-o-five soaking wet, her tall thin frame all angles with no muscle tone. It would be a cinch to break her in two, but Shannon didn’t fight women, and he wasn’t the stone cold killer of the family.

  “Get-your-fucking-hand-off-me.” No one touched him—he hated to be touched. His brother could slap him on the back, maybe a quick hug, but other than that, he couldn’t stand a person’s hands on him.

  Magda may not be bright, but she took a hint from his tone and stepped back, allowing Shannon to continue on to the office. Too bad she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

  “This is stupid! I saw the girls you have lined up for interviews! These are girls belonging in Basic maybe, but not the Ritz, not Sugar Babies.” Her breath was coming out in little huffs as she struggled to keep up with Shannon’s stride. Fuck, why didn’t she shut the fuck up? “No one is going to pay top dollar for—”

  “Mickey, gag this bitch and sit her in the corner.” Fuck Magpie for pushing him to this point.

  Dropping his large frame on the fragile-looking chair behind the desk, Shannon did a quick scan of the place once more. The furniture was going to have to go, as were the fucking cameras in every room. The connection to the various “pharmacies” Old Man O’Shea had created had been shut down. Eighty percent of the girls at Basic, the working-class brothel, would have to go, about sixty percent of the girls at the Nunnery, a place for the bored suburban dad or mom, and about forty at Sugar Babies and at the Ritz, the high-priced houses. And it was all because Magda Magpie the Russian bitch supreme, egged on by the old man, found it easier to control the women in her charge with drugs than to actually manage the varying businesses.

  Watching Mickey stuff Magda into a corner chair, Shannon took several deep breaths to calm himself. Nothing was worse in his opinion than mistreating women and children. Didn’t matter what their profession was. In fact, prostitutes were some of the most honest people he knew. Thinking back on the very few times his mother had been able to visit Fionn and himself, he’d never forget her whispered words of wisdom. “Never judge a woman by what she’s forced to do,” she’d breathe out, her eyes full of sorrow. “You never know what forced her into that position. And never take what ain’t given freely. You’ll be taking more than her body—you’re taking her soul.”

  He hadn’t understood those words then, but he did now. Gillian O’Sullivan had never been anyone’s wife; she was the possession of Patrick “Paddy” O’Shea, often referred to as Old Man O’Shea in the neighborhood. After catching the eye of South Boston’s most notorious “boss” at the tender age of sixteen, she no longer had any say to anything about her life. He and Fionn had been taken from her when they turned six and given into the care of Danny, one of the old man’s most merciless enforcers. So had the old man’s legitimate sons, Conall and Kieran. There the boys had been pitted against one another for food, clothing, knowledge—even to take a shit. Instead of creating animosity between the four, as had no doubt been the old man’s intent, it had created an unbreakable bond between the four. They grew strong, they grew merciless, but they grew strong together.

  The world was full of prostitutes of all kinds. Hookers, street whores, high-class whores, sluts—you name it, more than half of society was one of them. The thing was, most people didn’t understand true whoredom wasn’t about sex at all. It was about selling. Didn’t matter if a person was selling their body or their soul, they were selling some part of themselves to claw ahead, be better than the next guy, or just for greed and need. Most times, the need fed the greed—need for bigger and better toys, need for power, need for escape from their very existence. Shannon understood prostitutes of all kinds, which was why he chose to deal with the most honest of the bunch, sex workers. Unlike business whores, drug whores, or gangster whores, sex workers presented their product up front for a price and gave exactly what was paid for. The whole “I give you physical pleasure, you give me money” was simple, to the point and
not full of bullshit, unless that was what you were paying for. Even then it was honest. A person pretending so the buyer could escape. So who was the real whore?

  One thing that Shannon had figured out pretty quickly was that women and men who sold themselves were usually the most honest of any so-called criminal you’d ever meet. He took any kind of abuse to one of his girls pretty fucking personally. It was his own fault the drugs problem had gotten out of hand in the brothels; he’d been so tied up with slowly closing the pharmacies that were poisoning the neighborhood and placing firmer restrictions on the Arsenal, South Boston’s one-stop shop for weapons of all kinds, he hadn’t been paying as close attention to the brothels as he should have.

  That was changing today. Any girl who had been using was out. She could either accept help to get clean and get set up in a new business or she could leave. One thing Shannon was crystal-clear on—junkies couldn’t be trusted. They weren’t too discriminating about workplace safety or customer service. The last thing he needed was girls spreading diseases and getting sloppy.

  So he was holding interviews for all houses here at Sugar Babies, the high-priced joint located in a huge triple-decker house near the border of the South End. Made it easier for rich pricks to come get their fix. Sugar Babies specialized in light BDSM, mainly focusing on May/December experiences, though not all their clientele were older men. It was more about the girls, usually ranging in ages between nineteen and thirty, but all of them having something sweet about them. They dressed in frilly, girly things and called their johns Daddy or Uncle. Kinda sick but it was the biggest moneymaker of all the houses. Dumb fucks who couldn’t afford it spent the kids’ college funds on his girls. Not his problem. But keeping the stable fresh and clean—that was.