Reluctant Heir

RELUCTANT HEIR PART ONE JACIE LENNON Copyright © 2021 by Jacie Lennon All rights reserved. Visit my website at www.authorjacielennon.com Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. CONTENTS Content Warning Prologue 1. Connor 2. Wryn 3. Connor 4. Wryn 5. Connor 6. Wryn 7. Connor 8. Wryn 9. Connor 10. Wryn 11. Connor 12. Connor 13. Wryn 14. Connor 15. Wryn 16. Connor 17. Wryn 18. Connor 19. Wryn 20. Wryn 21. Connor 22. Connor 23. Wryn 24. Wryn 25. Connor 26. Wryn Thanks for Reading! Other Works by Jacie Lennon Acknowledgments CONTENT WARNING This book is a dark(ish) mafia romance. During the story quite a few different dark themes are talked about and I wanted to list those below for anyone who may need them. If you find them to be an issue, please take care of yourself and don’t read this book. Violence Blood Gore Talk of human trafficking Talk of murder On page murder Kidnapping Child abuse in a main character’s past that is shown PROLOGUE CONNOR Chicago, Eight Years Old “Come on,” Mama says as she pulls on my hand, taking my attention away from whatever caught it. A beam of light passing through the tree’s leaves or maybe a car horn honking loudly at a crossing pedestrian. It’s not hard for me to lose focus. “Your head is always in the clouds, my darling. But you must learn to keep that for yourself. You must learn to pay attention.” She speaks calmly, softly. But urgently. I know she’s right. Even though I’m eight years old, it’s been drilled into me as often as another child would learn their letters or numbers. But still, sometimes, I find myself off in another universe, land, or story. Mama calls me a dreamer; Father says there’s no place for dreamers in our family. I shuffle along beside her, and the toe of my sneaker catches on an uneven space in the sidewalk, but her firm grip on my hand keeps me from falling. I smile up at her, marveling as the light catches her auburn hair, like firelight. “Thank you,” I murmur as she stops and bends down to look me in the eye. She smooths her hands down my arms, rubbing slightly as she makes a clicking noise with her tongue. “For catching me,” I add when she doesn’t say anything. “Oh, Connor,” she replies, her lips quivering for only a moment. I stand still, my young mind knowing that this is a monumental moment. It doesn’t matter that we take this same route every week at noon on Mondays for her meeting with Miss Lulah. This moment is different. “I’ll always catch you, my darling boy.” I watch as a tear glistens along the lower lid of one eye. “You are my heart, my soul, the very air I breathe.” I reach up and swipe one finger under her eye. She grabs it, pressing a kiss to the pad, where the drop lingers. “You always remember that. Remember that you are mine. Not theirs.” “What do you mean, Mama?” “Just remember that you are kind and loving and, most of all, a dreamer. You don’t have to fit into a box they give you. You are a dreamer.” She says the last part with a bit of anger behind her words, as if she’s trying to remember it herself. “Now, come on. Lulah is waiting.” She stands, pressing a kiss to my forehead before grabbing my hand again as we continue our brisk walk. I’ve always loved coming to Miss Lulah’s. She has bright colors everywhere and always gives me hot cocoa. Her shelves are filled with books, and she lets me pick out a new one each week but only after I’ve returned the previous one. I wander around as Mama has her reading, seated at the small table in the dining room. It’s covered with a red tablecloth. I don’t really understand what they are doing because they aren’t reading anything with words. Miss Lulah looks at her hand or some cards or sometimes in a cup and then tells Mama things. But Mama always looks happier when she leaves, so I don’t ask questions. I peruse the books on the shelves and pull a large one from its resting place. It’s old and a little dusty, and it has gold writing on the front. The Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. I shudder. I don’t know why. “Ah, a good choice,” Miss Lulah says from behind me, making me jump. Her hand lands on my shoulder, a large ring glinting in the light, and I turn to look up at her. “Fairy tales are my favorite. Filled with lessons that need to be learned.” I wrinkle my nose, looking at the brown book again. “Lessons?” I ask. “Not the kind you learn in school,” Miss Lulah says. “But the more … practical kind.” She takes the book from my hands, opening it and running her fingers over the words printed across the page. “Life lessons. These stories aren’t always bright and pretty. More often, they are ugly and sad.” “Why would I want to read that?” I ask, furrowing my brow. I stuff my hands in my pockets and look at her, waiting. “You will do well to learn these things early on. Sometimes, Little Red Riding Hood gets eaten by the Big Bad Wolf. Sometimes, evil triumphs. And the more you are aware of the wolves out there,