Driving the Mob: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance

  Contents

  Driving the Mob

  NEWSLETTER

  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

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  Collaborations

  About the Author

  Driving the Mob

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 244

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  Driving the Mob

  I’ve had a crush on Murphy Moran forever. He’s the leader of the Irish mob, a forty-two year old man with steel hair and a bodybuilder’s physique.

  He’s also my dad’s best friend.

  Dad and I have been in England for the past three years, but now I’m home and, as a favor to Dad, Murphy has given me a job as his driver.

  I dream of racing cars one day, but this chauffeur job has my heart racing instead.

  I don’t expect him to look twice at me. I’m just a shy virgin, over twenty years younger than him, with nothing to offer him. My crush isn’t going to turn into reality.

  But then this billionaire alpha makes his move, and nothing will ever be the same again.

  Amidst a war with the Cartel, keeping secrets from my Dad, and falling deeper and deeper under Murphy’s spell, this has got to be the most eventful new job ever.

  Can our closeness survive, or is it all going to come crashing down?

  *Driving the Mob is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  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.

  I stand up, hands on my hips, looking around our apartment. It’s not the biggest place, but everything is modern and clean and well-kept. It was the same in England. Though Murphy won’t stoop to supporting his best friend for life – in the mob world, it would be disrespectful to treat Dad like a child – he always sets us up in good accommodation and pays a portion of the rent.

  “Let’s finish unpacking,” I say. “And then I need to get into work for my first shift.”

  My belly swirls with a thousand fireflies, each one buzzing hotter than the last. My first shift as a driver, working for Murphy freaking Moran.

  And fine, maybe I’m not driving in the specific way I want to one day, but it’s still a job where I get paid for being behind the wheel.

  It’s something, a start, and I’m determined not to waste the chance.

  Dad nods and stands, and together we unpack our meager belongings. I fight off the sadness when I think about how paltry all this is, a few books and mementos, our whole life reduced down to half a dozen cardboard boxes. But I don’t let the sadness eat away my optimism for this new job.

  I wonder if I should be more nervous about the job, but the truth is the thought of seeing Murphy sends far more butterflies dancing around my body.

  I spend way too long in front of the mirror, brushing my auburn hair down to my shoulders, looking into my pale green eyes and wishing they were brighter, more vivacious, more like whatever the heck Murphy would want them to be.

  But none of it matters in the end.

  Murphy Moran isn’t going to pay me a single moment of attention and that’s that.

  “Molly, I’m heading out,” Dad says from the other side of the bathroom door.

  I bite down on the question that rises automatically on my lips.

  Where is he going? What is he going to do when he gets there? Does it involve gambling?

  “Okay,” I call back.

  I promised to respect his recovery process when we returned to the States, and not to treat him like he’s under surveillance. But the questions still bounce around my mind painfully, joined by vignettes of what our life was like before Mom passed when Dad was bright and happy and ready to take on the world.

  I sigh, pulling my bangs over my forehead, a habit I’ve never been able to kick no matter how much I promise myself I’ll be confident and calm and collected.

  It’s like I’m hiding behind my hair, but I can’t help it.

  Even if I try to show the world a brave face, a unfazed demeanor, and a take-no-shit attitude, sometimes I feel like a scared little kid just waiting for everything to go wrong.

  I leave the bathroom and walk across the empty-feeling apartment toward my bedroom.

  My driver’s uniform waits for me on my bed.

  I feel silly as I stare down at the black trousers and the black jacket, with the old-fashioned hat sitting at the top of it all. There’s no way I’m going to be able to wear my hair down, so all that brushing was a waste of time… and even if I was able to wear it down, there’s no way Murphy Moran would even glance at me stuffed into this antiquated outfit.

  I pick up the hat and turn to the full-length mirror in the corner, holding it over my head. I’m right. I look ridiculous and unprofessional with my long auburn hair spilling out from beneath the cap, shading my eyes, making it look like I don’t even care if I can’t see.

  I sigh and put my hair up in a bun, trying not to let my mind flit to Murphy and his glinting intense blue eyes as I run my fingers through my hair. But not thinking about his eyes only leads me to imagine that it’s his fingers moving through my hair instead, stroking tantalizingly across my scalp.

  I remember the last time I touched myself to the thought of him, just a week ago when I learned we were returning to the States. I’d been good and had withheld the desire for a long time, but the moment I heard his name again, lust ignited inside of me and that night I couldn’t help but stroke my fingers up and down my body, teasing the lust out of me with steamy vignettes.

  I imagined him leaning over me, his muscular body throbbing.

  “I know you’ve had a crush on me forever,” this mind-made version of Murphy snarled, bringing his fire-hot lips to my skin, kissing and then opening his mouth in a lustful bite. “And now look at you, all grown up. I need you, Molly. I need you now.”

  I glance at the clock, suppressing a moan. I haven’t got enough time to indulge in fantasies.

  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.

  Because right now I want to smash his face into the table, shattering and splintering it, making everybody wonder if the crack is the wood or his bones breaking.