Driving the Mob (Steamy Standalone Instalove)

Chapter One

Molly

“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Dad says, putting his head in his hands and letting out a deep sigh. We’re in the living room of our two bedroom apartment, moving boxes waiting to be unpacked all around us. “I thought I had it under control, Molly. I swear I did.”

I let out a shaky sigh, anger warring with pity inside of me, a clashing battle that I can’t get under control. I want to tell my dad it’s okay, I understand he’s always had problems with gambling and I don’t expect him to be able to flip a switch and fix them right away.

But there’s another part of me that wants to scream at him for being so stupid.

We moved to England when I was sixteen to get away from the men he’d angered with his gambling addiction, and instead of taking the opportunity to reinvent himself and find another passion, he fell into his old ways and forced us to run away from the life we’d started building there…

Well, it wasn’t much of a life.

There was my waitressing work and my occasional visits to the track to try and pursue my dream of being a rally car driver. When Dad wasn’t at the warehouse for his work, he was in the betting shop – the British called them bookies – and once again he’d borrowed money from the wrong people.

So here we were.

“What would you do if Murphy Moran wasn’t your best friend?” I ask.

My chest tightens when I say Murphy’s name. He was the reason Dad hadn’t been killed for borrowing money from the wrong people three years ago when we moved. He arranged the move to England and got Dad work at the warehouse, ordering him to keep a low profile until things calmed down in the States.

I remember Murphy as a tall steel-haired man, throbbing with muscle, his blue eyes bright and gleaming and missing nothing. He’s the leader of the Irish mob and the biggest man I’ve ever seen… and yes, maybe sometimes I let my fantasies run away from me when I think about his tight clean shaven jaw and his stern glinting eyes and the fire in his expression.

It was never aimed at me, of course. I was sixteen and still in braces the last time he saw me. He’s always been polite, but never anything more.

I’m just his best friend’s daughter.

What about now? a voice whispers, driven by something deep inside of me.

I’m nineteen years old now. Maybe he’ll look twice this time.

I doubt it though.

I’m curvy and wide-shouldered and I don’t care to make myself ladylike and demure and all the things a woman seemingly has to be to get a man.

“Dad?” I snap when he stares down at the floor. “Did you hear me?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Okay? I have no idea what I’d do if Murphy hadn’t bailed me out. What do you want me to say? The men I’d borrowed money from would’ve killed me. Maybe they would’ve killed you. I fucked up. I fucked up bad.”

I fight the urge to reach across and give his shoulder a comforting squeeze. He looks so sad and deflated. He’s the same age as Murphy, forty-two, but he’s nothing like him in build and temperament. His cheeks are sunken and his hairline has receded almost right to the back of his head. His eyes brim with regret, making me ache, making me want to tell him it’s okay.

But we’ve been through this so many times, with Dad screwing up and then me comforting him. And it’s led us to the same place every time. Running away from debtors, starting afresh.

“You need to stop, Dad. Murphy’s gotten you into that support group. He’s given me a job. This can be a new start for us.”

How many new starts were we going to have?

“I hate that you have to work for the Irish mob. I never wanted that for you.”

I sigh. “Dad, it’s just a driving gig. How hard can it be? I’m sure driving a bunch of mobsters around the city is easier than zipping around a rally track. And the pay is way, way better than the waitressing job. I’ll be able to go to the track more on my days off.”

He smiles at me, looking a little like the man I remember from my early girlhood for a moment.

Before Mom died he was a completely different man, optimistic and full of life, always quick with a smile and some kind words. He never would’ve let himself sink into addiction and self-sabotage.

“You’re going to shock the world, Molly,” he says. “Mark my words. One of these days you’ll break all the records. I’m going to be so proud. No, I am so proud, already, so I’ll be prouder.”

A warm glow infuses me, reminding me that Henry Davis is a good man… if I can claw past the addiction and all the upset he’s caused me over the years.