Illicit King

ILLICIT KING MAFIA WARS IRELAND BOOK ONE MAGGIE COLE PULSE PRESS INC Copyright © 2023 by Maggie Cole All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Irish Terms Prologue 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 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Epilogue Illicit King-Steamy Bonus Chapter ILLICIT CAPTOR AIDAN O’CONNOR CAN I ASK YOU A HUGE FAVOR? Ready to Binge the Original Mafia Wars Series? Get to know the Ivanovs and O'Malleys! More by Maggie Cole About the Author IRISH TERMS Below is a list of some terms used in Ireland and England that ya may or may not be familiar with that ya will find in this series. A stór - my treasure Arse - ass, butt, OR a stupid, irritating person Aye - yes Bloke is a slang term for a common man Burd - girl, girlfriend Garda - police in Dublin Plonker - idiot, moron Runners - workout shoes Da - Dad, father Mum, mammy - Mom, mother Ya – you Yea - Yes PROLOGUE Brody O'Connor Overhead bins rattle above my head, and I dig my fingertips deeper into the armrest. My heart thumps against my chest cavity, and I clench my jaw. "Is that all ya got?" my brother, Aidan, shouts, his eyes wild with excitement. "Dumbarse," my other brother, Devon, mutters, white as a ghost. A loud screech fills my ears, and the jet teeters unsteadily for a moment before the wheels skid on the pavement. We slide down the runway before coming to a stop. "Bloody hell! Now that's some flying!" Tynan, my youngest brother, declares. I lift my sweaty hand from the seat and wipe it on my pants, grumbling, "All of ya shut up." I release my seat belt and glance out the window, pissed I'm not back in Belfast. I've got a dozen things to do, and not one revolves around an emergency landing in England. "Don't get your knickers in a twist," Aidan reprimands. I point at him. "We've got shit to do. None of which involves this place." He shrugs. "Relax. A bit of extra time away from Belfast won't kill us." "So typical." I scowl. As the firstborn O'Connor son, it's not a secret that the responsibilities of the family are all on me. Plus, we spent more time in Italy negotiating new arms deals with our allies than I anticipated. My brothers have it easy. They get to fuck off and not worry about the future of our empire. That scenario is all on me. And lately, our business is getting harder to grow, never mind maintain. For the last year, the O'Learys have increased their power across the U.K., even encroaching on our territory. We've lost men, money, and part of our future. So my father made it our job to come across the pond from New York and reestablish the power of the O'Connor clan. Nothing about it is proving to be easy, including this current situation. Maureen, our flight attendant, slowly rises, her cheeks a bit green. She puts on a brave face and chirps, "Welcome to London." The door to the cabin opens, and our pilot, Shea, steps out. "Sorry for the rough landing. I think we're going to be here for the night." I curl my palm into a fist, gritting out, "Isn't it premature when the mechanic hasn't assessed the damage?" Shea shakes his head. "There aren't a lot of parts lying around for this old of a plane." I curse my father in my head. I've told him to upgrade our equipment, but he's too stubborn. He insists we use everything until it falls apart since our operations aren't doing well here. It's completely opposite of his luxury jet. I reach for the door, push it open, and a cold gust of wind hits my face. I stomp off the plane, pull my phone out of my pocket, and call New York. "Brody," my father answers. I bark, "Guess where I'm standing?" "Don't have time for games. Spit it out, son." I snarl, "London." The line turns silent. I move farther from the plane and stare at the smoke pouring out the back of it. My father asks, "Why are ya there?" "Because ya refuse to give us a plane that isn't a hundred years old!" I accuse. "Don't be so dramatic. It's only forty," he states with an amused voice. It angers me further. A light drizzle starts, and I turn the collar of my jacket up. I seethe, "I don't have time for this shit. Plus, we could have died." He grunts. "How long until you're back in the air?" "Pilot thinks we're here for at least the night." A moment of silence passes, then he replies, "Well, all things happen for a reason. This is your lucky day." I rub my hand over my forehead, not into my father's antics, demanding, "How's that?" He informs me, "We've got a problem in London." My pulse pounds hard between my ears. I gaze at the gray sky and inhale a deep breath of smog. My father continues, "Go check on Ronan Potter. Things are off." The hairs on my arms rise. Ronan's been the head of our gambling operations for decades. This is the first I'm hearing of anything wrong in London, and I don't need any more tasks. I question, "What do ya mean 'off'?" "Off. Don't make me spell it out," my father instructs. I tug at my hair and stare