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CHAPTER ONE
Three years ago
She had been away from home for the past four years. Had it been Layne’s choice? Hell, the fuck, no. She would have preferred to stay in the Upper East Side of the city where she had been born and raised in New York.
According to her father, going to school for an education and degree was far more valuable than deep-diving into the family business. Insert Layne’s aggressive eye roll here. However, she had a solid hunch that he had sent her away to get her off his back about getting more heavily involved in his business dealings of the organized crime persuasion.
You see, her family had been at the pinnacle of power in the city’s criminal underworld, and her father sat at the top of his organization as the kingpin.
Another reason to send her away to the other side of the country? So she would stop picking fights and inserting herself into legitimately dangerous situations.
Layne couldn’t help herself. She had always had an attitude the size of the Hudson and an even bigger right hook. Just ask Rob Holmes, her first (ex) boyfriend when she was in the tenth grade. Nothing topped getting your clock rung by a girl in front of the entire gym class.
Living out on the West Coast at UCLA for the last four years didn’t change any of those pesky personality traits. The only thing going out west got her was an expensive piece of paper and time to polish her fighting technique with a few high-end trainers, and daddy didn’t even realize what his money was paying for. The one thing she didn’t come home with? A tan. Damn her Irish genetics.
Most people knew her father as Scott O’Reilly—Scotty to his closest confidants. When questions were asked about the details of the family business? It was always don’t ask, don’t tell. The criminal underworld they operated in was a carefully crafted web of a few legitimate business transactions, under-the-table negotiations, and outright violence and intimidation tactics.
Her dad took pride in his heritage, having been born in a small town just south of Limerick, his mother and father moved themselves over to the U.S. when he was a wee lad of just two years old. Any traces of an accent were non-existent, but the Irish tricolor ran through every fiber of his being.
The hired associates who took orders from Mr. O’Reilly were part of a local network of men mostly of Irish-Catholic descent throughout the footprint of Manhattan. Most of them were well-versed in sketched-out operations of the shadows of the underworld. There was no sense in hiring rebellious kids who were looking to make a quick buck and potentially get a stint behind bars due to their irresponsible fuckups.
Any women that were part of the network of employees merely had the archaic supporting role of either popping out all the babies or being the friendly entertainment for all those hardworking men her father employed.
From a young age, Layne knew that she was not like the other ladies she saw coming and going from O’Reilly Manor at all hours of the night. By contrast, there was her mother who embodied the epitome of the finest maternal attributes and had played the role of perfectly doting wife and homemaker. Shannon O’Reilly had embraced her position within the family structure, ensuring to maintain the public-facing image of a well-adjusted family unit.
Iron-willed, stubborn women looking to make waves were not welcome in this particular enterprise.
As for little Miss Layne O’Reilly? She had wanted to be involved in business operations for as long as she could recall. However, her father had always discouraged her or outright prayed she’d grow out of such a silly aspiration. Scott insisted on telling her that a beautiful young lady need not be worried about these sorts of matters. Insert yet another heavily used eye-roll here.
Instead, when it came to business, her father favored his youngest child, Liam, who was only eleven months younger than Layne. Liam was going to be the big man in charge one day, and it showed in the opportunities he was given as a means to get his hands dirty.
Meanwhile, Layne was only given almost anything and everything an uptown girl could have asked for. Yet, Liam was going to be handed the O’Reilly legacy. It pissed her off.
The driver pulled up in front of the multi-million dollar townhome that belonged to the O’Reilly family—O’Reilly Manor as it was frequently referred to. She had grown up inside of this house with some fond and some not-so-fond memories.
When the driver promptly rounded the Escalade and opened the door for her, Layne tossed her phone back into her jacket pocket and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“Thanks, Artie.” She offered him a polite smile as she stood right outside the expansive residence taking in the view and mentally preparing for yet another drawn-out conversation about her future and role in this family. Artie gave a nod of his head and stood there at full attention in the event she needed anything further from him.
Drawing one more deep breath, she gathered a little more courage inside of her to take the first step. Confidence was going to be key here.
Layne approached the stone steps that led up to two wrought iron gated doors protectively situated ahead of the front door and let herself through both entranceways into the interior of the excessively opulent residence. Everything was as she recalled it; polished floors, sparkling chandeliers, high-end artwork, and cold. It was not physically cold, but nothing inside the house made it feel like a home. Not anymore anyway. Even burning a damn Yankee Candle would have helped.
She had arrived wearing a dark pair of blue jeans and a cream-colored blouse under a fitted cargo-styled jacket. Layne’s favorite pair of heeled boots gave the ensemble a pop of her grittier personality. Her lengthy locks of dark chestnut hair were gently pulled back away from her face into a simplistic ponytail. The depths of her stunning emerald eyes scanned the foyer for any signs of activity. That’s when she heard it.
“I don’t give a damn! You go back and tell that motherfucker that if there is so much as a whisper about his people stepping foot in my territory, I will personally deliver each one back piece-by-piece in shoeboxes!” The familiar thunderous male voice boomed from down the hall where a mahogany door had been left ajar. There was a pause, followed by some quieter voices discussing something or other.
Layne approached, keeping her ears open to see if she could garner additional context about what her father had been shouting about. Right as she got to the door to the office, it swung open as Mick, her father’s second in command, was on his way out.
“Oh!” Taken back by surprise, Layne stopped short in her tracks to avoid running right into the tired-looking man who had short, salt-and-pepper hair, though more pepper than salt. If he had been surprised to see her standing there, it didn’t show. Mick gave her a warm smile and opened up his arms, “Ah, there she is! Layne, I heard you were back. You look radiant.”
“Thanks, Uncle Mickey; it’s nice to see you, too.” She leaned forward and gave him a big ol’ hug. Even well into his fifties, Mick Flannigan was built like a tank, making it difficult to fully wrap her arms around him. By that same token, his arms engulfed her all too easily.
He wasn’t truly her uncle, but he may as well have been. Mick had been working for her father since before she was born. Every birthday, every holiday, every heartbreak, and every blow-out argument with her parents he had been there.
He returned her hug with a big squeeze and a quick peck on the cheek. Before they could catch up, another more slender figure appeared beside them.
“Hey, sis.” Her brother, despite being almost a year younger than she was looked like he had aged twice as much in the four years she had been gone. It was all in his eyes—he had seen some serious shit. The type of shit that saturates your soul with an inconceivable darkness.
