Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Walker

Idon’t do massages.

Getting one implies that I’m overworked and stressed—both of which suggest weakness. In my world, weakness is the kiss of death.

I’ve been the head of the McManus family for five years, ever since my hardnosed bastard of a father dropped dead on the tennis court of his estate, probably to avoid losing the match. He hated second place. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t being groomed to step into his shoes and run the Boston underworld in which I was brought up. There wasn’t a hiccup when I took over, tightening up the operation and bringing the family into the twenty-first century.

I’m not a good man.

I’ve killed. I’ve intimidated. My business practices are illegal, immoral—and they make me a lot of money. I’ve got no intention of going legit any time soon, like the pale, pencil-pushing stool pigeons I see waiting at bus stops when I pass by in my Bugatti. No fucking thanks.

Those are the kind of men who get massages. Their positions at their jobs aren’t contingent on their strength. Their resilience. Their immortality.

Mine is.

Rich, my right-hand man, thinks he’s doing me some big favor surprising me with a massage on my thirty-fifth birthday, but if he thinks I’m going to lie down and let some stranger rub oil that smells like flowers on me for an hour, he’s got another think coming.

Unfortunately, Richie’s mind doesn’t work as quickly as everyone else’s and I don’t hurt his feelings, if I can help it. I met Rich on the first day of second grade when he was getting his ass kicked on the kickball field by a bunch of fourth graders. Growing up in Southie, I’d learned to mind my own business before I could walk, but I didn’t like the way the older boys had singled out learning disabled Richie. Didn’t seem fair.

So I sent them crying to the nurse’s office holding their bloody noses.

Richie has been my shadow ever since. No one messes with him now. I make sure he’s got an armed guard at his disposal at all times. Usually I do, too, but I don’t need my employees thinking I’ve gone soft.

“You’re going to love it, Walker. Love it. Best massage of your life.” Richie is wringing his Sox cap in hands. “I told them to give you the VIP treatment.”

I scratch an eyebrow. “Thanks, Rich.”

Yeah, not happening. I’ll sit in the room and check in with my lieutenants over the phone for an hour. The masseuse can text her boyfriend or whatever. Everyone goes home happy. The alternative is taking off my clothes and lying down, vulnerable in an unfamiliar place. That’s how people like me get killed and I’m planning on living for a while.

“Now, this isn’t one of them cheap p-places,” Rich continues in an excited tone, as we turn the corner onto a quiet, tree-lined street. It’s the section of the neighborhood where I don’t spend a lot of time. Part of the city’s “improvement” measures, which amount to some coffee shops, an overpriced shoe store and apparently, a day spa. Based on the total lack of foot traffic, I’m guessing South Boston ain’t looking to be improved on. “It’s not one of those happy ending deals, either. It’s a real, professional joint.”

“Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it,” I say, patting him hard on the shoulder. “A little R and R never hurt anyone, right?”

“Exactly.” He slaps his hat down on his head and opens a frosted glass door, set back from the street in a wreath of ivy and brick. Before we duck inside, I take a moment to scan the street for anything out of the ordinary. We were cautious coming here, doubling back and taking quieter roads, but the atmosphere has been tense lately in Southie.

A rival outfit from New York has been breathing down my neck to make a deal. They want to transport weapons through my neighborhood and they didn’t take it well when I told them to fuck off. I wouldn’t put it past them to make an attempt to forcibly remove me, their roadblock between point A and point B. I’m planning a visit to New York soon to put a stop to the situation in person, by fair means or foul, but until then, I’m taking no chances.

“And don’t you worry, boss,” Richie continues. “Don’t you worry, because I’ll be right in the waiting room watching your back.”

“I know you will, Rich.”

The receptionist, a young girl with a deep brown complexion and short braids, looks up and drops the phone she was cradling between her ear and shoulder. “Uh.” She stands up and drops back into her seat. “Oh God. I, um…I just work here. Should I get the manager—”

“Relax.” I hold up a hand and bare my teeth in my best impression of a smile. I get this reaction anywhere I go in Boston. And based on her accent, she’s local enough to know who I am. “My friend here booked me a massage.”

“Yeah.” Rich does kind of a nervous sidestep toward the counter, hat back in his hands being wrung. “I put it under my name. Richie Hayes.”

I prop an elbow on the counter and lean in, sliding her a few crisp hundreds. “If you could keep this quiet, I’d appreciate it.” Another slight baring of teeth. “No one is going to know I was here.”

“No. No, sir, Mr. McManus.” She won’t look up from the appointment book. “If you want to follow me to the l-locker room, we can get you a robe—”

“That won’t be necessary.” I take a seat on some oddly shaped, chrome seat and stretch my legs. “Just let the masseuse know I’m here.”

I’m only waiting for another thirty seconds after the receptionist almost breaks a leg launching herself into the back room, but in that short time span, Richie manages to tell me six more times how much I’m going to love the massage. I’m just reaching the iceberg tip of guilt that I won’t actually be enjoying his present for real, when the girl reemerges. “Meadow will see you now.”

Meadow?

Fuck sake. She’s probably going to dissolve into tears when I walk in. I really don’t have the patience for a couple of terrified broads today. My enemies have been getting too close for comfort lately. I’ve got a business opening on the other side of town tomorrow to help me clean my illegally earned money and I’m not satisfied with the numbers yet. We’re moving a shipment of car parts tomorrow night to a distributor and I have to lean a little harder on my favorite dirty cops to make sure we fly under the radar.

Everything will work out. I always make sure it does.

It helps that I’ve got a reputation for meting out swift and deadly punishment to anyone who crosses me.

But I definitely don’t have time for a massage.

A glance at Richie’s hopeful expression, however, has me rising to my feet. “Great. I’m ready.”

The receptionist stumbles in her haste to guide me down a candlelit hallway to yet another waiting area. Jesus Christ. I’m beginning to form a tic behind my eye when soft footsteps approach and another girl enters the room. Her head is bowed forward, so I don’t see her face at first, but interest swipes at my belly nonetheless.

And that’s unusual.

Not only because her hair is hiding her features, but because I generally don’t waste my time with women. When I need my itch scratched, I handle it with someone convenient—usually at one of the many clubs I invest in—and move on, preferably without names or numbers being exchanged. I’m never looking to meet a woman. They’re usually just scenery. As inconsequential as any of the men I encounter who aren’t making me money.

This girl, though. She smells like oranges and the scent cuts right through me, waking up my senses. It’s an unusual smell for me. Coffee, leather, alcohol, gasoline, blood. Those are smells to which I’m accustomed. Her fresh, citrus zing sends fingertips crawling down the front of my body and my cock reacts.

Then. Then she looks up at me and I start praying.

I don’t know what prayers sound like anymore, but my memory dredges them up from years of Catholic school and I silently trip through them, wondering what the fuck kind of magic she’s wielding.

My God.

Meadow, was it?

I’m rock hard behind my zipper. So fat and ready, I could come with one rough stroke of my fist. All because of that pillowy bottom lip, her freckled nose and eyes the color of a freshwater lake. Even her hair is turning me on and she’s got it in a ponytail, little sandy blonde-brown pieces framing her face. Her body isn’t even on display. She’s in a pristine white uniform that hangs loose around her curves, but I can still tell she’s got a dynamite rack. A pussy I definitely want to pound.

Richie’s words from earlier come back to me.

It’s not one of those happy ending deals, either. It’s a real, professional joint.

That so?

I guess I’ll be spending the next hour proving that shit wrong. When I want something, I go after it and I always get it. And I want Meadow like she’s the final inch of water in a canteen and I’ve been hiking in Death Valley.

She turns on the ball of her foot and I follow her toward a room, cursing silently over the two perky swells of her ass cheeks, the way they twitch. When she leads me inside and quietly shuts the door, I’m already unfastening my cuff links, ready to relieve the growing pressure in my groin. Maybe I’m presuming too much, too fast, but I’m a good-looking man and even if I wasn’t, the power I hold would guarantee Meadow gives me a very different kind of massage.

I swear to God, I’m just planning on getting laid, but then she turns to me, pokes me in the center of my chest and says, “Listen, mister. I don’t care who you are. If you can’t behave like a gentleman and keep your eyes where they belong, you can just take a walk.”

Yeah, when she says that, she’s mine.

Meadow is all mine.

To keep.

“Say I want to give you the massage, instead, Meadow.” I step closer and tilt up her chin. “How much would you charge me for that?”