Filthy Desire: A Mafia Romance (The Dirty Kings of Vegas Book 4)

by Frankie Love

  Filthy Desire

  A Dirty Kings of Vegas Mafia Romance, Book 4

  Frankie Love

  Alice May Ball

  About

  Filthy Desire

  A Dirty Kings of Vegas Mafia Romance, Book 4

  By Frankie Love with Alice May Ball

  I run the most powerful mob family in Vegas.

  Nobody tells me a girl is “off-limits.”

  Even when I know all the reasons she’s forbidden,

  nothing will stop me protecting her,

  but will she be safe from me?

  * * *

  Dear Reader,

  Liam’s hard instalove is way out of bounds. Lucky for us, we don’t mind raising the sizzle to 11. Xo, Frankie and Alice

  * * *

  The Dirty Kings of Vegas is a mafia romance series with love at its core.

  We met the O’Malley clan back in the novel McQueen – but here they are again, ready to show everyone who’s boss!

  * * *

  Frankie Love has teamed up with the sinfully sweet Alice May Ball and together they’re ready to roll the dice on love.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Liam

  Jack O’Leary finally returns my call, at long fucking last.

  I’m in the VIP bar of the Kingpin Vegas Casino. The top bar in our best casino and the casino is named for me. I am the kingpin of Las Vegas. You’d think I had it all.

  I have money and power. I own property, planes, boats, cars, jewels, guns. I’ve a small army I can call on, not to mention a family of ruthless men, ready to do whatever I decree at the snap of my fingers. Anything.

  We rule in Vegas. Even the Morettis keep off our turf. For now, at least.

  You could say that I have everything. My children are happily married, and all on the way to raising children of their own. The family’s future is secure. After me, my three sons are more than capable of taking charge.

  But I’m not ready to sit back.

  The only thing better than a big empire is a bigger one.

  Clara, our very best bartender, asks me playfully, “Liam, are you ever going to answer your phone?” My phone flashes on the bar. The ringtone that I set for Jack trills. She gives me one of her foxy smiles.

  “More to the point, will you have another shot of the Jameson’s Bow Street?” Attentive service is one of the many privileges of owning the casino.

  Having Clara pander to my whims is another. The glint in her eye conjures inappropriate images in my mind. Thrilling as those bad thoughts are, I would follow up on them.

  Good staff are too hard to find. Besides, she’s too young and lovely to get dragged in the muck and ruined by a dirty old dog like me.

  “Clara, you’re a treasure.” I nod to my crystal tumbler. That flash in her eye could get her into a lot of trouble. But that’s not my business. Not unless she’s indiscreet with a customer.

  The screen tells me Jack is requesting a video call. I fucking hate video calls, unless there’s a giggling grandchild of mine on the screen.

  I push the screen to accept the call, but I leave the phone on the bar top. I can see Jack’s face bobbing about. The little image in the corner shows me that all he can see is the starlights in the ceiling of the VIP bar.

  “Liam I can’t see you.”

  “Jack O’Leary, why the fuck would I ever want to look at your ugly mug, just so that I can listen to you lying to me, you jackass?”

  Did you know that it’s easier to tell when someone is lying to you by hearing their voice on the phone than in the same conversation face to face? Something to do with how we get distracted by eyes and faces.

  Or maybe it’s just because we believe people when they look us in the eye.

  An interrogator told me, if someone goes out of their way to hold eye contact while they tell you something, if they do it more than it’s natural, then they’re probably lying.

  That’s just one of a million reasons I hate video calls.

  Then, behind Jack, a girl in a silky black dress, walks into the room. A girl I don’t recognize. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s carrying a tray like a servant. What the fuck, Jack? Jack O’Leary, late of the spit and sawdust of the highly undistinguished Boston Shamrock Tavern, since when did you start having fucking servants?

  His voice drawls like he’s coming up off a long yawn. “Well, I saw that you called, Liam,” He blinks and grins. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can return my fucking calls in less than a day and a half for a start.”

  “Okay, sorry, Liam.” His tone is breezy. It’s like he’s forgotten who he’s talking to. He says, “I’ve been a bit, you know…” He’s evasive. What’s wrong with this picture?

  “You’ll be totally fucking ‘you know’ if you don’t remember it’s a piece of my business you’re running out there.”

  He stiffens for a moment. “Sure, Liam. But you don’t usually call.”

  The girl’s curves move, twisting, rolling under the dress. The shimmer gets under my skin and into my pants.

  I tell him, “And I don’t usually hear rumbles from two an a half thousand fucking miles away. Only when the whole thing is going to shit, and you’re nowhere to be fucking found.”

  I take the phone to a booth and drop it on the table so the sly fucker still doesn’t get a look at me. Clara brings my whiskey. She leaves the bottle and an ice-bucket and a sparkling smile.

  “Liam, calm down.”

  I’m glad all he can see is the fucking ceiling. Fucking gobshite, telling me to fucking calm down. And he’s grinning like a shiny kid with a big ice-cream. He tells me, “There’s nothing to worry about. Takings are down but it’s just a blip.” Then, “I’ll bump your taste this week, out of my own take.”

  Jack O’Leary, offering up his own money? When there’s nothing to worry about? Now I know it’s a shitshow on a slide to Hell, and Jack is lying to me like a toad.

  And I need to know why.

  My plan was to give him until the weekend to get it all straightened out. That’s off the cards as of now.

  He says, “Leave it with me, Liam. It’s all going to be fine.”

  Behind Jack, the girl moves around the room. I’m distracted watching her. The glimpse of her creamy breasts and the swish of the dress over her rolling ass give me thoughts and feelings like I haven’t had in a long, long time.

  My mental image of my Maria shakes her head and narrows her eyes with a sinful tut. Ah, my evil Jimminy Cricket.

  I’ve tuned out Jack O’Leary. I’ve no patience for bullshit. I cut straight across his yammer and tell him, “Be fucking straight with me, Jack.” He’s quiet. “Do not attempt to fuck me about.”

  “I’ll get it sorted.”

  When I lift the phone, Jack’s face drains pale. I must be letting some of my feelings show. That’s not like me. But it’s not why I picked up the phone. I had to get a better look at that girl. As she leaves the room, the sway of her ass stands me hard and full.

  I’m thinking of her and all that goes on under that silky material. She’s way, way t
oo young for me. My cock doesn’t care. He’s long and hard and proud.

  When the door closes, she’s gone. I hang up without looking at Jack’s face.

  Ten minutes later, with an old, familiar tingle of guilt, I’m still thinking about her. The images in my head haven’t gotten any more respectable. I’m imagining secret tastes and scents. Opening forbidden places. Probing.

  Clara brings me a fresh jug of iced water. Her shirt is open one button deeper than it was. She she leans across the table as she pours whiskey to refresh my glass.

  “Liam, you could have any woman in Vegas.” Her soft, full breasts rise and a smoky look gleams in her eye as she wets her lips. “Any woman would give a month’s salary just to try and make you happy.” Her head tilts to one side. “You know that. Right?”

  She’s a big, full-figured woman. Just my type. I won’t lie. If she weren’t on the staff, I would be more than tempted.

  My eyelids droop. I grin and raise an eyebrow, “A whole month, you say?”

  She pouts. “Salary. Not tips.” She wets her lip. “Salaries here are bullshit.”

  “You probably shouldn’t talk to your boss like that.”

  She puts a finger to her lip. “Do you think he would spank me?”

  “He’d have to fire you first.”

  Her head shakes. “Shame.”

  “It is, Clara. I couldn’t afford to lose you behind the bar.”

  The flirting is a spark in the day.

  She’s a great girl, with tits you could smother yourself in, and an ass to make you roar. You’d sing and shout when she crushed you between her thighs. But I’m old enough to know, if I can resist, then I should. And I will.

  It’s better for us both.

  She’d make any young hound happy, all the way up to life-threatening peaks. Probably as many times as he could survive.

  “You’re a miracle of a girl, Clara. Any man could die happy in your arms.”

  She pouts again. “That didn’t sound like an offer of a raise.” Her eyes glow with the double entendre.

  I do have a huge raise of my own going on. But it’s the girl in the background at the O’Leary house that I’m thinking about.

  I leave Clara an even bigger tip than usual and I tell her to keep the bottle behind the bar with my name on it.

  Her eyes pop and she says, “Can I take a sip?”

  Chapter Two

  Liam

  I spin the Bentley Continental GT convertible up the ramp from the Kingpin parking level. Swaggering across the Vegas night traffic, I get John, my eldest, on the phone.

  “I’m going away for a few days. Call the airport. Get the plane fueled and ready.”

  “The Gulfstream or the big one?”

  “The Gulfstream. I’m in a hurry.”

  “Sure, Dad. Shall I call out the flight crew, or do you want to brief them?”

  “No, no need. I’ll drive. And I’ll take Gavin.”

  I call Gavin and tell him to meet me at the hangar. Gavin can copilot. He was in service with me. Any situations I get into, he’s the man I want by me.

  Then I call Finn Connolly in Boston and tell him what I need.

  A steady female voice requests my flight plan through the hiss and crackle in the headset. In the glow of the cockpit lights and dials, the ritual of preflight checks, the chatter and clicks are all music to me.

  My time in the navy gave me the bug. I miss the white-knuckle rides. A catapult off a pitching carrier deck, in a heavy ocean swell. The stomach-dropping lurch as the jet kicks off the end and up, into the storm.

  I don’t miss trying to land on the fuckers, though. Hardest part of any mission was right at the end, when you were already exhausted.

  In the blackest of night, when our attacks always went off, you circled back afterward, fuel down to reserve. Hunted in the blackness to see the carrier deck. When you found it, it was a tiny gray coffee table, tossed on black, biblical waves.

  Aim, then drop through the gale like a stone. A million ways to miss and no second chance. Hard contact, wheels down, tires squealing, undercarriage jarred your spine as it thumped and bottomed out. Then a moment of blessed relief when you jolted to a stop.

  And it taught me, no matter how tough a fight is, always keep something in reserve.

  Gavin, my driver and chief bodyguard, was with me in the navy. He completes preflight checks with me.

  I feel the power of the twin jet turbines rise.

  I tell the controller, “Gulfstream four, seven, five, five, echo, alpha, ready to taxi.” The whine of the engines lifts as I nose the O’Malley jet out of the hangar.

  There is that hint of a smile in the laid-back drawl in the headset. “Gulfstream four, seven, five, five, echo, alpha, proceed to runway twenty-six right via bravo echo. Wait clearance.”

  When I slow the plane down at the ramp, I give my callsign. “Ready at twenty-six right.”

  Tower comes back, “Gulfstream four, seven, five, five, echo, alpha, you are clear for departure to Boston, heading two seven seven right.”

  “Two seven seven right. Thank you, tower. Roger that,” and I turn the jet to line up on the runway.

  Tower signs off with, “Clear for takeoff,” and she says, “Have a good one, Mr. O’Malley.”

  I wind the engines up and race along the tarmac. Wind lifts the wings. I pull the nose up. The sensation of power when the wheels leave the ground and the plane leaps still gives me a thud of excitement.

  In that instant, as my stomach drops, I’m thinking of the curves under that silky dress.

  It’s wrong, I know, but where’s the harm? I won’t act on it; she’s far too young for me.

  At cruising altitude, I ask Gavin casually, “You know about a girl in Jack O’Leary’s house? Curvy with strawberry blonde curls? She looks about nineteen.”

  Gavin eyes me suspiciously and he’s quiet for a moment. “Boss? Are you coming back from the dead?”

  Chapter Three

  Tegan

  The hard buzz of the house intercom jolts my nerves. Jack shouts from his study.

  “Tegan! Find out who that is.”

  I’m all the way down in the kitchen, but I hurry up the back stairs. I run toward the hallway where the entry screen is. Running is not in my special skill set, but I’ve learned to do what Jack says.

  He’s so angry, he beats me to the buzzer. His eyes flash, and he stands back in shock, glowering at the tiny screen. Somehow, he puts a smile in his voice.

  “Liam. What a… what a great surprise. How great to see you!”

  His scowl darkens as he pushes the buzzer to swing open the driveway gates.

  Even I’ve heard of Liam. Daddy talked about him. He was a big-time gangster here in Boston, before he moved to Vegas and took his family out to their new desert kingdom. Now, he’s called the kingpin of Las Vegas.

  I get an aching throb, just knowing he’s here. The boss of one of the most powerful Irish mob families in the whole country.

  Jack gets angry if I say, ‘mob family.’ He says it’s disrespectful, and it’s stereotyping, but I think it’s because he isn’t in one.

  Daddy told me about Jack O’Leary, too. Jack works for a syndicate. He’s always saying that the men he works for are the ‘top dogs,’ but I heard him lecturing his son, Aaron. He said, ‘The last couple of rungs up the ladder, they’re longer, steeper and harder to climb than the whole of the rest of the way up.’

  And he snarled, ‘You’ve got to be ready to do anything. Anything. Whatever it takes to get a seat at the table with these bastards.’

  Jack is rich and he’s powerful, but I know he feels like he’s practically a servant. The way he made my daddy feel, I guess. And the way he tries to make me feel now.

  Liam O’Malley is in a whole other league.

  I’m remembering when I was first driven up to this house. High black iron gates swung slowly inward and I curled up as small as I could get in the back of the big SUV. The car crunched up the long, gravel
driveway till the tall black windows of the house loomed over the windshield.

  I felt like I was the next victim for Dracula’s castle.

  The car rocked to a stop between the circular lawn with a dried up, moss-smeared cement fountain, and the big stone steps up to the columns and the portico over the dark, paneled double doors. When the doors parted to open inward, there was Jack O’Leary.

  His face drooped in that sympathetic frown he puts on, and his arms spread out wide.

  They practically had to push me into the chilly breeze out the back of the car. I didn’t want to go anywhere near Jack or his spooky old house.

  Jack stands in the big doorway now, stretches his arms out for Liam O’Malley.

  Liam lopes up the steps, prowling like a big cat. He has a glow, a magnetic energy. He’s as big as a bear, but he moves with power, like a king.

  As soon as he’s in the doorway, there’s a change in the air. A charge. I’m trying to get myself out of the way, but his pale blue eyes catch mine and lock.

  My stomach drops. My breath turns thick and solid, and I’m rooted to the spot. A faint shock of the dark, musky scent of him makes me squirm. I’m hot and breathless.

  Jack greets him. Liam’s face is like granite. Jack says, “It’s a great pleasure, Liam.”

  Jack can put it on. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he meant it.

  While he slaps Liam O’Malley’s back and pumps his hand, without even turning to look at me, he says, “Tegan, bring us a bottle of the finest malt and some snacks. Down into the den.”