Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

Una

O’Malley’s is an Irish bar in Woodlawn. The outside has tinted windows with dark green paint peeling off the frames and an old steel door that looks like it’s seen better days. If I didn’t already know that it was the epicenter of the New York Irish Mafia, I might have guessed. Although, right now, Tommy and I are just ignorant tourists stopping by an authentic Irish bar. When we step inside, I can practically feel how nervous Tommy is. I persuaded him to bring me here after Nero left early this morning. He wasn’t keen and I know Nero would probably lose it if he knew we were here, but he asked me to do a job, and this is me doing it.

The guys sitting at the bar turn, eyeing us as we step inside. I flash them a grin and they slowly focus their attention on me. Tommy looks Irish, but I don’t want them looking too closely. If there’s one thing to be said for mafia it’s that everyone knows everyone else, and someone of Tommy’s heritage will undoubtedly be memorable.

The barman braces his hands on the edge of the thick mahogany bar, a frown pulling his eyebrows together.

“Hi. Can I get a vodka on the rocks and a whisky?” I want them to think we’re just two punters that have walked in off the street. Not that this place exactly attracts the average passer-by.

The man grunts some form of response before turning away and grabbing glasses.

“Ah, don’t mind him, darlin’,” one of the guys says in a thick Irish accent, flashing me a wink. He’s a guy in his thirties maybe, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes that dance with humour. “Wouldn’t know a good woman if she were to slap him upside the head. And you…” He flicks his eyes down my body, straightening the shirt of his collar with a cocky grin. “…are a mighty fine looking gal.”

Slipping on the mask of a nice normal girl is as easy as putting on a jacket. Smiling, I lean my elbow on the bar. “My father always said, never trust an Irish boy.”

“Ah, and why’s that?”

“Because you’d charm the birds out of the sky,” I reply, cocking a brow.

“Aye!” His friend laughs beside him, slapping him on the back. “This one would charm the knickers off a gal in a heartbeat.”

The barman puts the drinks on the bar, and I hand him some money before turning away. “Nice talking to you.” There’s raucous laughter as I turn my back and it’s decidedly less tense than when we walked in. We sit at a table in the corner, and I position myself with my back to the wall.

“I don’t like this shit,” Tommy grumbles, taking a heavy gulp of the whisky.

I sigh. “Keep your panties on. We’ll sit. We’ll drink. I’ll go to the bathroom in a bit and scout an exit. Then we can go.” I want to hit O’Hara here, because it’s the last place he would expect, and the only place I know he’ll come.

Tommy drums his fingers against his glass. Anyone looking at him would know, clear as day, he’s agitated. I decide to speed things up and down my drink, before standing. The door at the back of the bar leads to a short passageway with ladies and gents toilets. I pass the bathroom door and follow the corridor that hooks right. Sure enough, at the end there is a fire exit, but it’s locked, literally chained up and padlocked. Shit. Turning around, I freeze when I find the blond guy from the bar leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and a wry smile on his face. A cigarette hangs from his fingers and he slowly brings it to his lips, narrowing his eyes as the smoke drifts up around his face.

“Ya lost?”

Shit.

I paint a smile on my lips. “I’m looking for the bathroom.”

He jerks his head towards the corridor behind him. “Ya walked past it.”

“Oh, thanks.” I squeeze past him and he makes no effort to get out of my way. I can’t work out whether he’s onto me or if he’s just trying to get in my pants. The second I get in the bathroom, I walk into a stall and bolt the door, bracing my back against it. The last thing I need is them taking too much notice of me. I need to come back in here when O’Hara is here, but then if this is anything to go by, I’m not going to go unnoticed regardless of whether blondie has made me or not. This is a mafia bar. They know everyone, see everything. Unless…

I open the stall and quickly wash my hands before stepping back outside. Sure enough, blondie is still in his spot, smoking his cigarette. I throw him a glance, making sure I lock eyes with him before open the door. I walk straight over to the bar.

“Do you have a pen?” I ask the barman. He hands me one, his surly scowl still firmly in place.

I grab one of the cardboard beer mats, the Guinness emblem all over it. I scrawl the number of one of my burner phones along with the name Isabelle onto the worn cardboard. I hand it to blondie’s friend who watches me the entire time. “What’s your friend’s name?” I ask.

“Darren,” he replies before taking a gulp of his beer.

I nod. “Give this to him, will you?

He chuckles, taking it from me. “I surely will, sweet thing.”

I walk away and Tommy follows me to the exit. “What the fuck was that?” he hisses once we’re outside.

“My in.” We walk down the street, away from the bar.

“Nero’s going to kill me.”

“Nero wants O’Hara dead. He can suck it up.”