Driving the Mob (Steamy Standalone Instalove)

I need to get ready for work.

Chapter Two

Murphy

“We won’t allow you to deal drugs in our city, Juan,” I say, my voice ice-cold as I move my finger around the edge of my whiskey glass, staring at the man opposite me.

Juan Pérez is the highest ranking member of the Mexican Cartel who has ever come to the east coast to try and make his mark. He’s tall – almost as tall as me – and burly in a way that makes me certain he’s indulged in some performance enhancing drugs.

His arms are covered in tattoos, bare in his vest, the tattoos shifting as he takes another sip of his beer.

All around us, our men crowd the bar. My second-in-command – Cillian – sits beside me.

Cillian is tall and thin, his face angular, severe, a few years younger than me with a shock of red hair. His freckled cheeks sometimes make people think he’s younger, weaker, but they’d be wrong. Cillian has been with me since the start and he’s got grit that goes bone-deep.

“Did I ask for your permission?” Juan says after a pause.

My men bristle behind me. There’s an edge of near-violence in the air, something I recognize well from all my years of doing this bloody work. Any second the room could erupt into guns and knives and fists.

I sit up, raising a hand to settle my men down.

“You don’t understand, Juan. I outlawed drug dealing almost two decades ago. It was one of the first things I did when I took power. Do two-bit criminals still deal with each other from time to time? Of course, they do. It’s impossible to eradicate it completely. But there’s no way in hell I’m going to let a large-scale operation come here and poison my streets.”

Juan sighs darkly, leaning forward and staring hard at me.

“I was under the impression we were going to discuss business. So why do I feel like I’m being threatened?”

Violent intent shivers through me, and I have to focus hard not to crush my hand into a fist that will shatter the whiskey glass and send the shards flying over the table.

His voice is filled with wannabe-tough guy bluster. Like he’s trying to silently tell his men he’s going to put me in my place. Like he’s trying to project the image of a bastard who fears nothing.

That’s a big, big mistake on his part.

He’s on my turf now, in my city, where I could have him hanging from a hook with a snap of my fingers.

The Cartel always behaves as though they rule the world.

They’ve always looked down on the Irish.

It’s like they don’t know what we could do to them.

I sense Cillian beside me, silently pleading with me to keep this civil. We both know how bad a war with the Cartel could be, and not just for the soldiers involved. The Cartel has no qualms with car bombs and beheadings and all manner of grotesque shit.

“It’s not my intent to threaten you,” I say as calmly as I can, somehow stopping my voice from trembling with barely-withheld rage. “But I also can’t let you think there’s a chance you can operate in my city, Juan. I wouldn’t dream of coming to your home and telling you how things are done.”

He flinches, an enigmatic look flitting across his face. It’s like he respects what I’m saying and he wants to punish me for it at the same time, and he can’t quite decide which impulse to act on.

“That is fair,” he mutters. “But I have a job to do here. And I’m going to do it, whether you like it or not.”

I lean forward, staring him in the eye. He tries to mask his fear behind a fierce expression, but I can read the uncertainty shivering in his eyes. The knowledge that I could dismantle him in a fair one-on-one fight fires into his expression, making his features tight, his frown pinched and uncertain.

“You are not going to deal drugs in my city,” I tell him. “That’s my position. This means, if you do, you’re going to force us into a fucked-up situation. I have no desire to go to war with the Cartel, but if you force me, Juan…”

“Now hold on,” he snaps, his voice brimming with false bluster. “Let’s not get carried away. Who’s talking about war? I’m talking about respect, that’s all. From one businessman to another, surely you can understand I have to act in my best interests.”

I almost roar at him, my temples pulsing with the need to cause this man harm.

He’s lucky this is a business meeting. We’re in a bar and it’s just gone midday, sunlight flooding the room, bouncing off the glass behind the bar and glinting off the gaudy rings that hug his bloated fingers.

He’s lucky I’m a man of my word and we’ve both agreed to keep this civil.