Page 4 of The Mafia Bachelor

“It was certainly a thing,” he says with a hint of amusement.

And his accent? Ohhh wow. His Irish accent is like dark liquid honey with a kicker of expensive alcohol.

I straighten and attempt to rewind the past two minutes with the sheer intensity of my humiliation as my face flushes the colour and temperature of a strawberry being thrown into the sun.

There aren’t words to describe how embarrassed I am.

And as I gaze at him, I realise it’s so much worse than I thought.

He isn’t just any random gorgeous man in the beautiful old headquarters of the Archway and Highgate.

He’s the mafia boss. I’ve grown up with rumours and whispers about the Farrell family.

Killian Farrell. The Devil of Archway.

Known for having charm but no mercy, for being sadistic, feared. He’s the reason I hesitated before entering this building. The reason my stomach twists, even as I die inside that I’ve made a fool of myself.

“Sorry.” I cringe. “I’m trying to get a job.” I pluck the pile of printed CVs from my bag on the floor and wave them, as though paper that details my law degree and the fact I ran the historical society at university will convince him I’m not insane. “I’ve been doing this all day, and I just ducked in here to give myself a little pep talk because…” This is the headquarters of the Archway mafia, and it’s silly to think that they’d hire me.

His eyebrows quirk up. “You’re going door to door?”

I nod and bite my lip. “Over two hundred today. I’m going to every business, without exception.” Annnddd now I’ve made it sound like the Farrells are just one of any number of companies, and not the biggest and most important in this part of London.

Nice.

His brow furrows.

“I tried the job websites and things, but I get auto rejected most of the time,” I blurt out, because I would love this man to not think I’m a complete idiot. Plus, I can’t stop talking now I’ve started. “Everyone pre-screens applications these days and I’m…” I’m young, a girl, and inexperienced. I have no chance. “Then I went to all the legal firms. But none of them are taking on entry-level staff, because, well. You know.” I shrug helplessly. I don’t mention anything about modern technology. People can be unpredictable on that topic.

And this is the Devil of Archway. It’s a bad idea to annoy him any more than I already have.

He holds out his hand. Big, and tattoos over his knuckles are visible before he turns his palm up. He has long, blunt fingers. A vision of what his hand would look like spanned over my skin forms in my mind. How the black ink would be stark contrasted with my thigh. How he’d be able to hold any part of me easily.

Crazy thoughts.

“Your CV,” he says mildly when I manage to drag my eyes back to his face.

“Right, yes, sorry.” I’m flustered by the magnetic appeal of this man, and my cheeks flame again. I’m at risk of heatstroke from my blushing.

I snatch at the stack of paper, and the top one rips with a sound like a thunderclap.

“Oops!” I try to make light of it, and grab the next. It crumples under my clumsy fingers. I’m trying to do the simplest task on the planet, and failing. No wonder I can’t get a job. “Not that one, it’s creased.” My face might be permanently singed from how hot it is. “I’ll just…” The next piece I fold the corner. Finally, I pass him a pristine copy. “Here.” My chest is heaving as though passing him a CV is a marathon.

Phew. Okay.

Calm.

He scans down the page. “Avery Morgan.”

“And you’re Killian Farrell.” I press my lips together as he switches that dark-green gaze from the CV to me.

He’s a predator, and I’m a stumbling little doe.

“You can call me Kill. For short.” A second of his intent gaze almost makes me faint, then he glances back at the paper.

Kill. It really suits him. Brutal as the word is, it has unexpected depth. But it also shows very clear who I’m dealing with.

“Kill,” I repeat stupidly.