Rake: A Dark Boston Irish Mafia Romance (The Carneys Book 1)

by Sophie Austin

  I don’t need to know what Finn Carney’s bedroom voice sounds like. Why is this happening?

  He helps me into said bedroom and unzips my puffer coat, guiding me to sit on the edge of his king-size bed. I suppose I should be nervous, sitting in this intimate space. But I’m sure I’m not the kind of woman Finn usually has on his bed. I’m sure I don’t even register as a woman to him. My fingers trace over the silky, expensive damask bedspread as he places my jacket in the en suite bathroom.

  “That was one deceptive coat. I’m not going to have much that’s small enough for you to wear.” He drags his gaze over me slowly, and I’m suddenly too embarrassed to meet his eyes. Finn stands there for just a minute, but then walks over to a tall chest of drawers.

  It’s an incredible piece of furniture—mahogany maybe? It stands on four legs, the feet carved to look like lion’s paws. It’s a masculine but elegant piece, and I bet it has a secret compartment. My many viewings of Antiques Roadshow reruns tell me it’s American Empire style—old and expensive as fuck.

  He pulls out a long-sleeved shirt and hands it to me. It’s dark blue and very soft.

  “I got that at a charity run I did,” he says. “Don’t worry, I didn’t run in it. It’s way too small for me, but I kept it to remember the event.”

  The logo on the front is for a fundraiser for the Boston Athenaeum.

  What did they need a fundraiser for? The Athenaeum is a private library where rich jackoffs can view historical treasures that the great unwashed have no access to, lest we spoil the antiques with our greasy fingers. Figures. Just when I softened a bit for him…

  Irish folks like the Carneys wouldn’t have been let in just a hundred years ago.

  I guess the climate control for those rare books isn’t cheap. If only the Carneys cared as much about the climate their staff operates in. The kitchens of their casino restaurants run brutally hot, and when kitchen workers asked for the ventilation hoods to be inspected, James had told them to bring in fans from home or find another job.

  “Sasha?”

  Finn’s voice snaps me from my thoughts. He’s holding up a pair of dark yoga pants.

  “Big fan of yoga?” I can’t stop myself from asking. It doesn’t seem to match his aesthetic.

  “I probably should,” he says, shrugging. “But no. A friend of mine left these here and I never got them back to her.”

  A friend. I bet.

  God, I don’t want to put on one of Finn Carney’s ex’s pants. But I’m cold, damp, and just want to get to the part where we figure shit out so I can get the hell out of here.

  Finn’s blue-black eyes take me in for a few seconds longer. I’m self-conscious and hold the clothes in front of me like a ward. Whoever wore these before me was probably some ridiculously hot supermodel type. I’m not looking forward to this attractive man who oozes confidence seeing how I don’t measure up.

  It’s not that I want him to find me attractive. I just don’t want him to think I’m some kind of hideous bumpkin.

  He gives me a sexy half smile.

  I don’t want him to find me attractive. Right.

  “If you need help let me know. I’ll wrap your ankle after you get changed.”

  With that he leaves his bedroom, shutting me inside.

  4

  Finn

  Patrick is right. This is going to be fun.

  I don’t love the way I got Sasha here, but P.J. was thrilled to participate.

  “Man, I love theater,” he’d said. “I was in a ton of plays in parochial school until Sister Mary Cunt-face decided I needed to spend more time on math. I got expelled after I showed the new play lead what I meant by ‘break a leg.’”

  He agreed to flush Sasha into my place. We worked out the script to trick her into believing she and I had a common goal: fear of my father.

  In some ways it’s a lie, and in others, it’s not.

  I’m not afraid of my father’s violence—he’s got more effective ways to keep his kids in line these days, namely money.

  But Sasha does have a lot to fear from him. If I don’t convince her to give up her foolish work, she or one of her family members will disappear – permanently. She wouldn’t be the first, nor would she be the last person to go missing after displeasing James Carney.

  Patrick, Callan, and I are under no illusions about our father’s business practices. I’m not so sure about my youngest brother, Rory, and my sisters definitely are kept in the dark as much as possible. My father doesn’t do this out of masculine protectiveness for his daughters. His goal is to keep them out of the loop and therefore as marriageable as possible.

  Can’t have those future senator sons-in-law knowing where the bodies are buried, after all.

  It’s why I can’t resent them for it. My sisters are merchandise in our family, too.

  It’s unfortunate that P.J. was so rough with Sasha, but it did lend to the verisimilitude of it all and wasn’t totally out of line with what I’d expected. If I’d thought we could negotiate without the ruse, I would’ve taken a different route. She’s already sacrificed quite a bit to organize the casino staff and obviously isn’t giving up without a fight. I’m looking forward to the challenge.

  Breaking that conviction down will be fun, and I’m gentleman enough to see that she’s left satisfied in other ways.

  I’d been worried that part of the difficulty here would be lack of physical attraction, not that that’s stopped me before, but turns out it’s a non-issue.

  Sasha is a beautiful woman. In an understated way, true. Not the sort of outrageously attractive women I usually go for, but she’s lovely. There’s a rawness to her beauty that intrigues me, and I wonder what she’d look like all done up. Something to consider later.

  My bedroom door opens and she leans against the doorframe, standing on one leg with her injured ankle tucked behind her. My shirt hangs almost all the way to her knees. She’s average height for a woman, but I’m used to fucking tall, leggy models. There’s a certain vulnerable femininity about her petite size that appeals to me in a surprising way.

  She’s blushing, those big hazel eyes of hers glued to my floor. Her honey blonde hair, still damp from the snow, hangs in loose waves around her shoulders. My eyes linger on the curve of her breasts, and my cock twitches in response.

  Yes, no problem with physical attraction at all.

  I help her to the couch, enjoying the feel of her warm body against mine. The curves are even more luscious than they look in her ill-fitting clothes. Once she’s settled on the sofa, her eyes sweep the living room and take the fireplace. It’s old, but I had it converted to gas using some of the money my father earmarked to buy off various Charlestown preservation societies.

  It’s within scope, after all, and our downstairs tenants were happy for the upgrade. I don’t want to be a slumlord. We left the ornately carved mantelpiece. I didn’t want to disrupt the old-world charm of this place but didn’t want to live in an outdated, stuffy crypt, either.

  With a flip of the on-switch the flames flicker to life, casting a warm glow on the soft taupe leather of the couch and on the face of the enticing woman sitting on it. I don’t use the fireplace much myself—I’m hardly ever cold.

  But women tend to run cold, and it’s easier to get them naked when the heat is turned up.

  When I come back from the bathroom with the elastic bandage, Sasha is leaning toward the fire, her eyes closed and her arms wrapped around her body. She hears my approach, eyes flying open with a flash of panic.

  I ignore it and sit on the couch, tapping the cushion between us. The reluctance on her face is delicious. Overcoming her fear is going to be difficult, but the challenge of it turns me on even more.

  If I didn’t have my father’s ire to worry about, I’d take my time with her. Alas, time’s not a luxury either of us can afford.

  “Ice is next, so you might as well just let me wrap it up.”

  As she shivers, I press my lips together to keep from
grinning. She slides her leg toward me, good girl that she is.

  The yoga pants are too long for her and also a bit tight. I can’t remember who left them here, but whoever it was clearly didn’t have Sasha’s amazing curves. Enjoying the view, I take my time inching the pantleg up.

  There’s something to be said for a woman with tits and an ass you can get lost in.

  I stroke her ankle with my fingertips. Her skin is cool to the touch, even with the fireplace going. The swelling is acute. I move the bandage around carefully to offer her some support, securing it with two metal clasps. I admire my work for a minute and pull down her pant leg. Her face remains a neutral mask.

  I grab a pillow and prop up her foot, placing an ice pack over the swelling. She presses her eyes shut again, obviously in pain. But she’s fighting hard not to show it.

  She’s scared; she should be. She strikes me as too intelligent not to be scared.

  I pull the cashmere throw from the back of the couch and hand it to her. If she were a different person, I’d tuck her in. That’s not going to get me where I need to go with Sasha, though.

  She takes it wordlessly and wraps it around her like some kind of shield.

  “So, anyone missing you tonight? Boyfriend maybe?”

  Her hazel eyes appear rimmed with gold in the fire light. She’s thinking about lying. I can tell. Instead, she sighs. “No. Haven’t had much time for dating between work and the constant physical therapy.”

  She cuts her eyes to me to see if she strikes a nerve with the PT comment, but I don’t react and she continues. “I’m sure my father’s drunk off his ass already and my little brother stays with his friend after swim practice Friday nights. It’s why no one noticed I wasn’t home last time I met your friend P.J.”

  Oh shit. P.J. was there too? I confirmed with Hamish that he’d been involved in her kidnapping, but I’d assumed he’d handled it himself. They needed two big men to subdue this small woman? A ripple of guilt passes through me, but I push it aside and hold Sasha’s gaze.

  The fire in her voice doesn’t match the fear in her eyes.

  “He’s not my friend,” I say coolly. “He’s my father’s business associate.”

  “Business associate. Right. Does it feel better to couch it in such sterile language, Finn?”

  She is bright.

  “Yes,” I say. “It does. Frankly I don’t like to think of someone beating a woman half to death.”

  That much is very true.

  “How nice for you.” Her voice has a dreamy quality, like she’s drifting off in her mind to somewhere safe. Somewhere I can’t reach her. I’m losing control here.

  “I’m going to make dinner. Any allergies?”

  “Sadly, no. Nothing easy to take me out with.”

  I stifle a laugh. “A shame. It’d save us all a lot of trouble.”

  She stares daggers into me, which is more of a turn-on than I’d like to admit. But she needs to understand what’s happening here and how much she has to lose.

  It’ll be easier if she just cooperates.

  But more fun if she doesn’t.

  Since I knew I’d have a guest tonight, I picked up an assortment of food. Moving to the kitchen, I pull out some oysters and scallops. I’ll pan roast them and make one of my favorite recipes—a seafood soup that’s easy to make but tastes like I’ve spent hours preparing.

  It never fails to get those panties to drop.

  I toss some bacon into my Le Creuset pot, and once the meat is soft, I add some celery and onion. Fish stock and, importantly, oyster liquor, my secret ingredient, make the base of the soup. After I blend in the spices, I leave it to boil as I sear the scallops. Once the liquid boils, I back off on the heat, let it simmer for a while, and then it’s time for the oysters, some Worcestershire sauce, and finally, the delicately seared scallops. It smells amazing, and I peer out into the living room to see if Sasha is interested.

  She’s asleep.

  Of course.

  I pull the baguette toasts out of the oven and set the food up on my antique dining room table.

  The soup is best hot, so I gently shake Sasha’s shoulder.

  She shrieks. Christ.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you might be hungry.”

  Her eyes are wild with fear. It takes a minute for her breathing to calm.

  Next time I see her breath feverish and coming in pants, I want it to be from desire. Until we get there, though, I’ll have to be more cautious.

  I help her up, and she opens her pretty mouth as if to protest, but I ignore her and sling my arm low on her waist, helping her to the table. I pull out her chair, enjoying how annoyed she is at the theater of it all. Once she’s settled, I pour us some wine. Her eyes narrow just the slightest bit, but she takes the glass when I offer it to her.

  “How did you get into union organizing?”

  “Mostly for the opportunity it gives me to meet all sorts of interesting people.” She throws it down like a gauntlet and takes a sip of her wine.

  “I understand why you’re defensive, but I’m just trying to understand you better so we can figure out where to go next.”

  The soup is perfect.

  She exhales sharply. “My mother died when I was in college. She had type one diabetes, and her job cut her hours so they wouldn’t have to provide health benefits. Insulin isn’t cheap and she rationed it so we could pay the bills. When she died, I had to drop out of college to take care of my little brother. I’d been working in the cafeteria part-time, and the non-student employees were SWU 105. They connected me with the union office. I eventually took a job with them.”

  “I’m sorry that happened.”

  If it hadn’t, a smart, pretty girl like Sasha would’ve been able to finish college and find a more suitable path.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “How much younger is your brother? I’ve got three brothers and three sisters. All younger except one.”

  She swirls her spoon in the soup for a minute and then takes a bite. “You’re a good cook. Ever think of doing it professionally?”

  “No. Making it a job would take the joy out of it. My father wanted me to be a politician.”

  “That’d be handy for him, wouldn’t it?”

  “You can imagine his disappointment when I decided not to pursue that particular path.”

  She eats more of the soup and then puts the spoon down, propping her chin up on her hand. “What did you want, then? Not that harassing people who intrude on your shady business dealings isn’t fulfilling and all, but it can’t be what you dreamed of doing when you were a kid.”

  I top off our wine glasses.

  “Not a lot of room for dreaming in my childhood,” I say, gesturing with the glass. “I just knew I didn’t want to be a politician.”

  It’s a balance to give her enough to be disarmed and share her secrets, but not enough to think she knows me in any discernable way.

  “Hmm.” Her cheeks are a little flushed from the wine now. It looks good on her. She hasn’t eaten much. Normally I’d be offended, but she’ll get tipsy much faster this way.

  “My brother’s a senior in high school. Nine years younger. My mom wasn’t supposed to be able to have kids at all because of her condition, let alone a second one after the complications from her pregnancy with me. He’s a brilliant pain in the ass. Going to school for engineering in the fall, hopefully.”

  “MIT bound?”

  She stiffens for a minute. “No. Stanford or Cal Tech, we hope.”

  “Far from home, but I’m guessing that’s the point?”

  “My father’s a loser, Finn. Is this what you’re waiting to hear? He was a big-shot hockey player when he was young, but he blew all his money. He got injured and didn’t bother finding more work and lived off my mother and grandmother, and now that they’re both gone, he lives off me. He’s a shit-ass drunk and I’ll be damned if I let my brother end up like him. I promised my mother I’d get him out, and I neve
r break my promises.”

  The color’s rising from her collarbone to her delicate throat. I notice some bruising there.

  Her eyes shine with rage. “Never, Finn. I’m not going to give up on Trinity’s staff. If we can come to an agreement that allows me to help them, I’m all for it. Otherwise, you’d better just kill me and get it over with.”

  The wine’s done its job. I lean forward at her confession. “But then who will take care of your brother? Are the casino workers more important than your own flesh and blood? Surely another family trauma would keep him from getting to Stanford?”

  She blinks several times, holding back tears. It’s so satisfying to watch her walk into my trap and see the self-righteous rage drain from her face. She pushes away from the table.

  “I can’t do this. I’ll take my chances out there.” She steps down on her good foot and winces when she puts weight on the bad one.

  I watch her with amusement for a few moments before following as she limps toward the bedroom. She’s grabbing her damp slacks from the bathroom, and I lean against the doorframe. My body fills the entire doorway.

  She spins to look at me, tears streaking down her oval face. “Finn, please, just let me go.”

  I shrug. “I can’t let you go, Sasha. I can deal with my father’s ire.” I’d prefer not to, though. “But I’m not so sure if you can. You’re tired. It’s been one hell of a stressful day, and you’re hurt. Why don’t you just rest here tonight, and tomorrow we can try again to find some middle ground? If you leave now, P.J. will find you and it’s over. I won’t be responsible for that.”

  She’s wrestling with what she wants to do, and what she knows is the smart thing to do.

  “Besides, not to read too much into what you’ve told me, but your father may be angry if you disturb him now.”

  She flinches. It’s cruel, but I’m not wrong. Sasha raises her chin, trying to project a strength that’s left her.

  “You’re just as bad as he is,” she squeezes out.

  Does she mean her father or mine? Doesn’t matter I suppose. But before I can rebuild Sasha, I have to break her down. It’s part of the process.