The Billionaire Mafia (5 book series), chapter two

LIAM I duck my brother’s massive fist, sidestep, and throw a punch right back. Conor blocks me and hits me in the solar plexus, and I gasp as the air wheezes out of my lungs. “You bastard!”

I say, laying a hand over my chest. My twin just laughs. We’re outside, screwing around on the back lawn on the family compound.

It’s a gorgeous day and the summer grass is green as emeralds. “Better get back in the ring and work on your technique there, brother,”

Conor goads, lightly polishing his knuckles on his shirtfront. “You’re the fighter, Con. Not me.”

“That’s true,” he agrees and slaps me on the back.

“We can’t risk anything happening to father’s number one son.”

“Fuck off,”

I respond goodnaturedly. Because we both know it’s true. Even though I’m only two minutes older than Conor, I’m next in line to take over the O’Shea organization.

When our father steps down, it’s my responsibility to make sure our businesses keep running smoothly. I’m 28 and Nolan O’Shea is still only pushing 50 years old. The old man still has some good years left, so I’m not too concerned yet.

A part of me wishes Conor was more interested in running things with me. We’re extremely close and would make a kick ass team when it comes to ruling over the O’Shea empire. But he isn’t interested.

Still, I like to hint at it every now and again, so he’s aware that I’m open to the possibility. “What do you say, bro? Maybe hang up your boxing gloves in five years and help me run the kingdom?”

Conor rolls his bright blue eyes, the exact same shade as mine. “No thanks. Besides, within the next year or so, I plan to be running my own fights.”

“Yeah, I know,”

I relent. “But I’m still going to harass you about it.”

“I have no doubts.”

My twin and I are extremely close. Identical physically in every way from our coal black hair and cobalt blue eyes to our height of 6’3”.

We’re both slim, but muscular. I’m not quite as big as my brother when it comes to the muscles department because he’s constantly training and conditioning whereas I like to indulge. A nice pint of Guinness and Shepherd’s pie hits the spot every time down at the pub while he’s constantly sucking down protein shakes.

There’s only one noticeable difference between us—I’m missing the top part of my pinky finger on my left hand, courtesy of that bastard Matteo Marino. He cut it right off at the knuckle when I was only a 16-year-old kid. I used to be self-conscious about it, but now it doesn’t usually bother me.

I’ve had time to adjust, but I still hate him and his goddamn family. The Marino’s are Italian and my family’s enemy. The Marino’s and O’Shea’s have never gotten along and have always fought for control over Chicago.

The bitter rivalry started over 100 years ago during Prohibition when our great great grandfathers were running booze for opposing gangsters. My family was aligned with Dean O’Banion and the North Side Gang while, unsurprisingly, the Marino’s worked under Johnny Torrio and Al Capone. Of course, we all know how that ended up.

Capone rose to power and the North Siders were eventually snuffed out. My father refuses to celebrate Valentine’s Day and still talks about the 1929 St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. I know the story like the back of my hand.

Capone ordered his men to try to take out Bugs Moran, head of the North Side Gang. O’Banion had already been shot down in his flower shop and now Capone’s gangsters went after the new leader. Dressed up like Chicago policemen, they entered the S.

M. C. Cartage Company garage and found seven of Moran’s men awaiting a shipment of hijacked booze.

The men were lined up against the wall in a mock police raid and shot to death. Moran was running late and narrowly escaped the others’ fate. “You want to be like Bugs Moran’s men?” my father would ask me.

“If not, then you fight your enemies and do whatever it takes to protect and nurture your family business. Because if you don’t, those Marino scum will shoot you in the back just like Moran’s enemies did.”

Ever since I can remember, it’s been drilled into our heads that the Marino’s are the enemy. We’re in constant competition in every profitable business from our legitimate companies to the underground ones. Every single billionaire business in Chicago is either owned and operated by us or them.

Same goes with the darker side of the family business which involves illegal gambling, prostitution and narcotics. I was blissfully unaware of the illegal side of the family business until I stumbled upon some bookkeeping records last year. When I approached my father and questioned him, he explained that our roots are so deep in those areas, have been for nearly a century, and can’t be extracted.

I had no idea and when I told Conor, he re-emphasized not wanting anything to do with running the O’Shea organization after Dad steps down. I’m not going to lie, I’ve struggled with it and when I mentioned my concerns to my father, he looked at me like I had two heads. “So what do you suggest we do, Liam? Hand it all over to the Marino’s? Let them take our billions of dollars of revenue away? If that’s where your head is at then clearly you’re not cut out to run the family business.”

He made me feel like a weak fool and I haven’t brought it up since. But lately, he’s involving me more in the day to day operations and I’m still not completely comfortable with all the shady, illegal bullshit happening. But I know it’s my responsibility to step up and take charge sooner rather than later.

It’s a heavy load to bear and lately I’m not sure I want to do it. Doubts keep me up at night. But letting my family down isn’t an option.

That’s what I keep reminding myself. My mother is used to the finer things in life and then there’s my younger siblings to think about. Rafferty, my brother who is a couple of years younger than me and Conor, and Finley, my baby sister who just turned 22.

I can’t let them down. Glancing over at my twin brother, I watch him throw some punches into the wind and wish we could trade places. I haven’t thought that in a very long time, but the pressure of the family organization is starting to take its toll on me.

And I have at least five more years until I’ll actually take the business over fully. Fucking great, I think. That means by the time I’m 33, I’ll probably be on the verge of having a heart attack.

Or a nervous breakdown. Running a hand through my thick, dark hair, I realize I’d give anything to travel back in time when life was simple and I was ignorant of what the family business involved. “Tell me I’m being a pussy,”

I say and Conor stops throwing punches and nods. “You’re being a pussy,” he immediately responds.

“Okay, thanks.”

Shoving my shoulders back, I grit my teeth and dig deep. I have to do what I have to do. There’s no other choice or I’ll end up letting the people I love most down.

“You shouldn’t need to be reminded,” he jokes.

“It’s pretty clear.”

When he throws an unexpected jab, I don’t even flinch. Conor hikes a thick, dark eyebrow and, at the same moment, Sean Flannigan, our father’s most-trusted associate appears. He’s a lawyer, always around, lurking, and keeps everything we do looking above board, by some miracle.

“Your dad wants a word with you, Liam,” he tells me.

As usual, he’s wearing a suit and tie with polished loafers. I’m in jeans and a t-shirt while Conor is in gym shorts and a tank. Sometimes, I feel like we don’t quite fit into my father’s world.

“Sure,”

I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but inside my gut curdles. A bad feeling settles over me, but I push it aside, tell my brother that I’ll see him later and follow Sean back across the lawn to the main house. I feel like a little kid who’s about to get into trouble or something equally as crazy.

Even though I’m more responsible than Conor, I don’t always want to be. He’s more rough around the edges and does his own thing, while I’m a bit more polished and a sucker for the rules. Yet there are times, especially lately, when I want to smash the rules and expectations and just do my own thing.

It’s becoming a delicate balance and, more days than not, the stress I’m suffocating under makes me want to leave all of this and disappear. Shit. By the time I’m 30, I’m going to be completely gray.

I noticed a silvery-gray hair the other day and almost shit myself. I plucked it right out and cursed it hell. It’s interesting that my father only has a light silvering at his temples.

His hair is still thick and dark which makes me believe that he doesn’t harbor an ounce of guilt over what he does. I need to figure out how he manages that and learn it for myself. When we reach my father’s office, Sean opens the door and we walk inside.

My dad doesn’t talk to anyone in his office without Sean being present. Not even me. If it’s business-related, anyway.

So, I’m assuming this isn’t a friendly meeting. Not that we ever have those. My dad is very serious and I can’t remember the last time I saw him smile or, God forbid, laugh.

“Sit down,”

Nolan O’Shea practically growls. He possesses a hint of an Irish accent unlike us kids. We never had one, but my grandparents did.

He still speaks in Gaelic sometimes and I have no clue what he’s even saying. Our Irish roots revert straight back to Dublin and we’re proud of our heritage, though completely Americanized. From his tone, I can tell he’s angry and I drop down in the chair opposite across from his desk and meet his icy-blue gaze.

“What the fuck, Liam? You were supposed to collect the money from Joe Donnelly the other day and you gave him an extension? He was already a week late.”

“Yeah, well, he had extenuating circumstances,”

I explain carefully. “His wife just died and he had to pay for her funeral, so I cut him some slack.”

“You cut him some slack?” my father echoes dryly.

I shift in my chair under his penetrating gaze. It’s like blue ice and chills me to the core. My dad is a scary asshole when he wants to be and I have a feeling I’m about to be told I fucked up royally.

“He needed money to bury his wife, Dad,”

I say, trying to make him understand and show some empathy. “After paying for the funeral, Joe was out of money. It drained him dry. But he said he’ll pay off his debt to us in two weeks when he gets his next paycheck.”

My dad shakes his head. “How many times have I told you this isn’t personal, it’s business?”

More times than I care to count. “A few times,”

I answer. “But—”

“But nothing!” he shouts and slams a fist on his desk.

Then he slides a folder across the table. “Open it.”

I glance over at Sean who hovers in the corner, watching and listening to the exchange. Fuck, I wish he’d just go away. He’s always hanging around and it makes me uncomfortable, especially when my father is screaming at me.

Looking down at the folder, I flip it open and see a black and white picture of Joe Donnelly sitting at a bar, drinking and laughing. “It’s Joe. So what?”

“There’s another picture,” my dad says between gritted teeth.

With a sigh, I flip to the next photo and see a woman sitting in a beauty shop, getting her hair and nails done. “Who’s this?”

I ask with a frown. “Mrs. Donnelly,” he informs me archly.

“At the beauty salon. Yesterday.”

I shake my head. “No, that’s impossible. She died last we—”

My voice cuts off abruptly mid-sentence when I realize that bastard Joe Donnelly lied to me. “And the picture of Joe was taken last night at O’Malley’s where apparently, he spent quite a pretty penny on dinner and drinks. Looks like he was celebrating the return of his wife from the dead. My head drops and I feel like an utter fool. “Dad…” I’m grasping for words to explain the desperate situation Donnelly presented to me. “He begged me for an extension and when I didn’t immediately agree to it, he started crying. Bawling like a baby. He told me his wife—” “Shut up.” The words are soft, menacing, and my skin prickles. I slowly close my mouth and prepare for the wrath I’m about to endure. “I’m questioning, yet again, if you’re cut out for this job, Liam. This isn’t the first time you’ve believed some cockamamie story and led with your heart.” He shakes his head, disappointment in every crevice of his aging face. “What have I told you? Lead with your head, not your heart. We’re running a business and if people can’t pay back the money we so kindly gave them then they need to be taught a lesson. A very valuable, very strict lesson that they won’t ever forget. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir,” I murmur. My father lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “Maybe I should’ve chosen Conor to take the reins when I step down.” Ha. Conor wants nothing to do with your empire, I want to yell. Instead, I look down at the photo of Joe Donnelly’s smiling face as he drinks a frothy beer and gets shitfaced. Believing that he got away with tricking me. That sonofabitch. “You get too emotional, Liam. I’m not sure you’re capable of handling the family organization. Hell, if morons like Donnelly can fool you, what are sharks like Matteo Marino going to do? I’ll tell you,” he continues before letting me answer. “They’re going to smell blood in the water and attack. You, son, do not stand a chance against an enemy like Marino. He will eat you alive.” At this point, I don’t comment. It’s better if I just keep my mouth shut and wait to be excused. “Just go,” my dad finally says, his voice full of disappointment and disgust. Without a word, I walk out of his office and the further down the hallway I get, the more pissed I grow. Squeezing my hands into fists, I grit my teeth and just want to get the hell out of here. I don’t want to think about Joe Donnelly or his undead wife or my dad or the lurking Sean Flannigan. I just want to go to my apartment in the city, find the nearest pub, get stinking drunk and forget about my life for a while.