Page 3 of The Mobster’s Daughter (Massachusetts Mafia #2)

Grady

“W hat’s the word out of New York?” Sean asked. “Is Moretti stil l pissed?”

“Right now, they’re staying quiet,” Declan replied. “Maybe they’ve decided causing problems isn’t worth the risk.”

Grady cleared his throat. Everyone turned to look at him. He kept his arms crossed over his chest and reminded himself not to fidget. He hated being the center of attention and would have preferred to have this conversation with Sean privately, but it looked like that would no t happen.

Long gone were the days when it was just him and his boss, shooting the shit and figuring things out.

Now the room was full—Declan, Sean’s son-in-law; his nephew Finn; and Declan’s second, Conor.

In the corner, sequestered behind a computer, was Sean’s new assistant, Angus, brought in as their IT guy.

Technology moved too fast for the old guys to keep up. God, he missed how it u sed to be.

“Grady? Do you have something to say?” S ean asked.

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows beside the ornate fireplace. “They’re up to something, but I have no clue what. There’s been a lot of chatter that the Morettis are scheming, and it will be a big deal. Word is it could cause a rift in our family and take us down.”

“Who told you that?” Declan inquired.

“A couple of my guys have friends in the Moretti family,” Grady explained. “They said they’ve heard rumblings of trouble that could exte nd to us.”

Despite being O’Reilly’s leascheannasaí, he maintained a solid relationship with the men and women who worked beneath him. They talked to him, and he listened.

If he had listened ten years ago, things would be different.

“Grady?”

His head snapped up. “Sorry, boss. What did you say?”

“Do we have somebody inside?” Sean repeated. “Anybody who can get us some inf ormation?”

Grady shook his head. “Nobody deep enough to filter information to me. I’m worki ng on it.”

“I might be able to help with that,” Finn interjected. “I went to school with a couple of guys who are familiar with the Moretti family. One of them is especially close to a high-level player. Let me see what I can do.”

Grady nodded his approval; it was one less thing he had to wo rry about.

They discussed a few other minor issues, then Finn, Declan, and Conor excused themselves. Angus stayed behind until Sean told him to go. Grady poured himself a drink and sat down across from his boss after ever yone left.

“Did you take care of Caitlin’s car?” S ean asked.

He nodded. Caitlin had wrecked her car for the third time in as many years. She claimed it wasn’t her fault, but Grady didn’t believe her; it was always her fault.

“Thank you.” Sean cleared his throat. “I’m sorry that I keep sending you to deal with my daughter’ s issues.”

“It’s my job,” Grad y replied.

“But it isn’t,” Sean said. “Jesus, I run one of the most feared crime families on the East Coast, but I can’t talk to my twenty-five-year-old daughter.” He chuckled and shook his head. “She wasn’t always l ike this.”

“You mean she wasn’t alway s a brat?”

Sean snorted. “I didn’t say that. Did she, by any chance, mention when she was com ing home?”

Grady glanced at his boss out of the corner of his eye. “She said she didn’t know. School keeps her busy.”

Sean sighed. “You don’t have to be nice for my sake. If she said she has no plans to come home, I can handle it. I am well aware of how badly I destroyed my relationship with both of my daughters. It’s not easy rebuild ing them.”

“She didn’t say she wasn’t coming back to Boston,” Grady reiterated. “She said she didn’t know when she would c ome home.”

“Fair enough.” Sean scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve got work to do. Let me know if you hear anything else about the Morettis, will you?”

That was his cue to leave. Grady downed the rest of his drink, nodded at his boss, and left.

As he walked through the halls of the O’Reilly mansion, a place as familiar to him as his own home, his mind wandered, refusing to let go of the past. The ten-year anniversary of the incident at Foley’s Diner was approaching, and he got nostalgic every year at this time.

He hated it. Nostalgia wasn’t really his thing , but he couldn’t seem to stop it from happening.

Memories of Oona bombarded him day and night, memories he didn’t want.

Oona had almost cost him his life, yet he still couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Love did that to a person; it fucked them up and left them to die.

That was why he’d sworn off love. Never again would a woman co ntrol him.

Grady glanced at his watch and saw the time. He’d worked enough for one day. He took his phone from his pocket, checked the time, then called The Velvet Lounge to reserve his table. If he hurried, he could be there before the first dancer took the stage.

He tossed his keys to the valet and took the ticket as he walked past him, all without missing a step. The doorman held open the doo r for him.

“Good evening, Mr. McCarthy, ” he said.

“Phil,” h e replied.

The Velvet Lounge was a high-end gentlemen’s club, one that required a membership to even walk through the front door.

Exorbitant fees deterred most men from joining, keeping the clientele exclusive.

The club exuded luxury and exclusivity, noticeable the moment one approached its discreet entrance.

The building was tucked away on a quiet, out of the way street, only a small bronze plaque to indicate where the driveway was.

Phil—the doorman—wore a tailored suit, and the two valets had on black dress shirts, pants, and vests, so they would fade into the background when they weren’t helpin g clients.

Inside, the club was opulently decorated with rich mahogany wood paneling, soft leather seats, and dim, but warm, gold lighting that bathed the room in an intimate glow.

The smell of expensive cigars, high-end liquor, and polished wood filled the room.

Bottles of rare scotch, bourbon, and whiskey, along with the finest champagne, were artfully displayed on the gleaming marble bar.

The staff were dressed like the valets in all black, professional and efficient.

Booths separated by velvet curtains provided privacy for the clientele—businessmen, politicians, celebrities, and men in Grady’s line of work.

Countless deals had been struck at the Velvet Lounge over glasses of scotch while the girls danced onstage.

More velvet drapes hung at one end of the room, where the dancers entered the stage.

It was a twenty-five-foot-long raised platform, four feet off the ground, lined with lights and gold-colored poles every five feet.

The manager met Grady at the bar and escorted him to his usual table.

He had been a member for almost ten years and because of his position in the O’Reilly family, he was afforded every luxury the club could offer.

At his table, he found a glass of water and a scotch and soda waiting for him.

He picked up the scotch and downed it in three swallows.

Less than five minutes later, a young, attractive waitress put another one in front of him.

He nodded her direction but didn’t make eye contact; instead, he stared straight ahead at the em pty stage.

The music started, the volume slowly increasing until it was at deafening levels.

The dancer, a woman in a pink-and-green outfit, stepped through the curtain onto the stage and began to move, her eyes dancing over the fifteen to twenty men in the audience as she swirled around each pole as she passed it.

Grady sipped the scotch from his glass. He sat alone, watching the dancer in front of him without expression. He might as well have been sitting in church listening to a priest. Even when she sidled up to the edge of the stage and stuck her ass in his face, he did n’t blink.

The music stopped, and the girl left. Grady caught the attention of his waitress and held up his glass. She nodded a nd smiled.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

The alcohol, loud music, and flashing lights probably weren’t the ideal remedy for a pounding headache, but he didn’t want to go back to his empty apartment.

If he stayed long enough, he was guaranteed to find someone to take home with him.

Any of the girls in the club would gladly walk out of here on his arm.

After all, he was Grady McCarthy; in this part of town, his name got him everything he wanted, incl uding sex.

The waitress put a drink on the table in front of him. “Here’s your drink, Mr. McCarthy.”

He smiled at her. He didn’t recognize her, so she must be new. She was young, no older than twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven, attractive, and flirty, with short black hair and dark eyes. As long as she wasn’t a blonde. Grady never took home a blonde; it was too easy to imagi ne it was—

“Can I get you anything else?” the girl said, interrupting hi s musings.

“What time do you get off?” he asked.

“Ten,” she said. “On the nose.” She wink ed at him.

He chuckled. “Great. Meet me out front when you’re done. I’ll be waiting.”

She nodded. “I can’t wait.” She turned to go, but he grabbed her hand.

“What’s your name, sw eetheart?”

“Marjorie,” she said.

He released her. “I’ll see yo u at ten.”

The music came on, swelling to a crescendo and making any further conversation impossible. Grady picked up his drink and turned his focus to the woman on the stage. The girl—Marjorie—walked away, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the room.

She was surprisingly confident around him.

Most people didn’t know what to say to him or how to talk to him.

Caitlin said it was the vibe he gave off, but he didn’t know what that meant.

Grady assumed it was because he appeared perpetually angry, pissed off at the world.

It wasn’t his fault; people were stupid, and dealing with stupidity was not his st rong suit.

At 9:55 p.m., Grady dropped some money on the table, more than enough to cover his drinks, along with a substantial tip, then walked out of the bar.

As soon as the valet saw him, he grabbed Grady’s keys and jogged across the lot to where his Bronco was parked.

The valet pulled it up front and handed the keys to Grady, who gave him a tip before he climbed in the SU V to wait.

Marjorie walked out the door at 10:02 p.m. and looked around. Grady leaned over and pushed open the passenger side door so she could get in. She sat down, turned, and put her hand o n his arm.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I have a place nearby,” he replied. “We’ll go there.”

Grady didn’t take women to his home in Waltham; he didn’t take anybody to his home in Waltham. In fact, no one even knew where the place was, except his boss. He kept an apartment in Boston for nights like tonight, nights when he needed an escape so he could forget the worl d existed.

After they parked, Grady led Marjorie inside and upstairs to his one-bedroom apartment. It was sparsely furnished, with only a couch, coffee table, and television in the living and dining room, and a bed with matching end tables in the bedroom; that was all he needed.

Marjorie walked through the kitchen and into the living room. She dropped her bag on the couch and crossed the room to look out t he window.

“What a gorgeous view,” she murmured. She looked around the room. “You need some furniture, though. It’s kind of bare in here.”

Grady shrugged. “I like it the w ay it is.”

She turned around and crossed her arms. “You don’t spend a lot of time here , do you?”

He shook his head and took a step toward her. “I didn’t bring you here to make sm all talk.”

Marjorie nodded and strolled back across the room. She stopped in front of him, tipped her head back, and looked at him. She was short, the top of her head barely coming to his chin. He star ed at her.

She pulled her T-shirt off and let it fall to the floor. She kicked off her high heels—making her even shorter—and shimmied out of the tight jeans she wore. Once she was naked, she dropped to her knees in fro nt of him.

Marjorie stared into his eyes as she unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them down past his hips. Grady didn’t move. Marjorie didn’t break eye contact, even as she removed his cock from his pants and took him in her mouth.

He closed his eyes and imagined the woman on her knees in front of him was someone else, a tall, athletic blonde with dark blue eyes. The one woman in this world he could n ever have.