by Meghan March
Alanna lifts her hand to her mouth as her eyes glisten. “Oh, Indy. You look beautiful.” She swallows and holds out a hand. “I’ve never been so glad to have a daughter divorced so I could see her get remarried.”
I walk toward her, and she grips my fingers tightly. “Thank you,” I whisper.
We both blink back the tears as she leads me toward the sliding glass door that opens to the pool and patio, where the wedding guests are waiting. Holly hands Summer her flowers, and they head out the door. Instead of a traditional bridal party processional, Summer will be standing near the cliffs, opposite the groomsmen, and Holly will join her once she finishes singing.
“I’ll give you two minutes, and then I’m starting,” Holly says with a smile, and I’m grateful to call her a friend.
Creighton Karas and Lincoln Riscoff, who forgave Jericho and my father for the rocky business negotiations, are standing up for Jericho today. Riscoff insisted Karas pay back the winnings on the bet they made over six months ago, because they were both right about when Jericho would say “I do”—within six months and a year.
My father meets Alanna and me at the doorway. “It is my honor to share the privilege of walking our daughter down the aisle together,” he says to Alanna. The two have become friends since he moved to Ibiza, against doctor’s orders, to be close to Summer and me.
They each hold out an arm to me. “Are you ready, sweetheart?” Alanna asks.
“Absolutely.” My flowing dress flutters in the ocean breeze as I lay one hand on top of each of theirs.
The first notes of the piano sound, and we step outside as Holly sings the most incredible cover of Ruelle’s “I Get to Love You.”
Jericho’s stormy gray eyes shimmer like moonlight on the ocean as soon as he catches sight of me. Pure, radiant happiness beams from him as he watches me come toward him. The guests seem to fade away as I near him, until all that’s left is us.
My mother and father press kisses to my cheeks, and Jericho takes my hands and raises them to his lips.
As he brushes his lips across my hands, he says, “I would marry you over and over, every day for the rest of our lives. Once, twice, a thousand times. I don’t care. You’re mine until the last breath leaves my body.”
It takes everything I have to keep the happy tears from tipping over my lids. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much.
“Until the last beat of my heart,” I tell him.
He drops to one knee, cups his hands around my belly, and looks up at me as he whispers to my bump the way he’s done dozens of times since we learned I was pregnant.
“I’m holding my world in my hands. This is true wealth beyond measure.”
The End
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What’s next? First, you don't want to miss Forge and Indy's bonus scene! Details on how to get it can be found after the HUGE secret I've been keeping about my next book! Are you ready to hear this? Because it's BIG! I'm back in the Dirty world, but this time, I'm writing a HOT and gritty mafia story that is unbelievably delicious, and I'm so excited! (*Cue dancing in your seat!*) Keep reading to get the inside scoop and to preorder Black Sheep, the first book in the Dirty Mafia Duet!
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About Black Sheep
From New York Times bestselling author Meghan March comes a story of untold truths and one man’s redemption in the Dirty Mafia Duet.
Every family has a black sheep.
In the infamous Casso crime family, that black sheep is me—Cannon Freeman.
Except I’m not a free man. I’ve never been free. Not since the day I was born.
I owe my loyalty to my father, Dominic Casso, even if he won’t publicly acknowledge me as his blood.
I’ve never had a reason to go against his wishes… until I met her.
Drew Carson turned my world upside when she walked into my club looking for a job.
Now, my honor and my life are on the line.
Going against my father’s wishes might buy me a bullet straight from his gun, but black sheep or not, it’s time to make my stand.
She's worth the fallout.
Black Sheep is the first book in the Dirty Mafia Duet and is available for preorder now by tapping on the title. Keep reading for a sneak peek of the first chapter!
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But first—not ready to leave Forge and Indy yet? If you sign up for my newsletter, you’ll receive access to a special bonus scene I wrote for them!
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CLICK HERE TO RECEIVE ACCESS TO THE THE BONUS SCENE
Black Sheep Sneak Peek
CHAPTER ONE
Drew
I walk into the most important job interview of my life knowing every word out of my mouth will be a lie. The résumé and references in my bag are all fake, but thanks to one of my close friends, a white-hat hacker, no one will ever know.
I will get this job. I will get my answers. There’s no other acceptable alternative.
I repeat those vows to myself as I leave my security escort behind with a smile and push open the heavy carved wooden door to the Upper Ten, the most exclusive cigar club in Manhattan. Instead of smoke hanging in the air, the luxurious interior reeks of money and secrets.
Perfect. Secrets are exactly why I’m here.
“Can I help you, miss?”
A man with no neck in a tailored suit approaches me as soon as the door leading to the club foyer slips shut behind me with a whoosh of air that blows my skirt into a flutter around my legs. His bald head shines under the recessed lighting of the impressive room.
Through the thick glass wall to my left, I can see what brings some of the richest men in the world into this insanely expensive, members-only club—a massive humidor containing row after row of wooden boxes filled with fat cigars. From my research, I know that sources estimate the value of the stock in that large humidity-controlled room at millions of dollars.
Hefting my bag and swinging the tresses of my long blond wig over my shoulder, I give him a sweet smile. “I’m here for an interview, actually, with Mr.—”
“She’s with me.” A voice, deep and smooth like the thousand-dollar-a-glass cognac they no doubt serve here, comes from behind the bull guarding the door.
My gaze darts around the doorman and catches on an imposing figure in a bespoke suit with subtle navy pinstripes. The lines hang perfectly on his tall, rangy frame.
It’s him. My target . . . and hopefully my new boss.
Except the man in person is worlds apart from the man on paper. I thought I was prepared to come face-to-face with him, but mere ink on a page can’t convey his powerful presence. In the high-ceilinged antechamber, his authoritative posture commands more attention than the bulk and muscle of the doorman beside him, and with nothing more than the sound of his voice.
A voice I recognize.
Not because we’ve ever been in the same room before, but because I went through dozens of hours of audio and video before applying for this job at the Upper Ten. I’ve read article after article and unearthed every available public record that hasn’t been erased on this man and his family.
As I tense, I force myself to visualize him behind bars, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The exercise helps me regain my calm.
I can do this. I’ve done it dozens of times. Deception isn’t new to me. It’s my job.
As soon as I’m centered, I look up, pinning an eager, yet slightly nervous smile to my face. It’s a mask, but he’ll never know.
There’s only one problem. When his rich hazel eyes, a mix of whiskey and bright green, collide with mine, an unwelcome bolt of heat slams into me in pure female appreciation.
No. No. No. That’s not supposed to happen. Truly, this is the opposite of what’s supposed to happen. I’m supposed to be cold and indomitable, because I knew he’d be intimidating as hell. I promised myself I’d be immune. Unaffected. It doesn’t matter to me that he’s the bastard son of the most infamous mob boss in the city. But my denial doesn’t help,
because I dismissed a seriously important fact when I was prepping for this day.
Cannon Freeman is a god among men. Shit. How is that even possible? Especially knowing what he has to be involved in?
I try to shove the annoying awareness of him aside, but it’s nearly impossible while he’s standing there, staring at me with those enthralling eyes.
His suit jacket clings to the sleek, strong lines of his broad shoulders and nips in to accentuate a slim waist, before his slacks hang perfectly off his hips.
Goddammit. Not fair.
Randi warned me I was underestimating him. My across-the-hall apartment neighbor told me that looking at Cannon would make my nipples peak, my thighs clench, and my brain fill with images of him bending me over the nearest flat surface or pinning me up against the closest wall. I chalked that up to Randi being . . . well, Randi. A.k.a. Everyone’s Slept with Downtown Randi Brown. She’s the kind of woman who gets men drunk so she can fuck them. She says her guy friends call her a dude with tits, and I can’t disagree, even though she’s one hundred percent female.
But the last thing I expected was for her to be absolutely right about this.
Cannon tilts his head to the side and waits for me to reply. “Unless you’re not Drew Carson?” he asks with a lilt of humor underlying the question.
His rising eyebrow and questioning smirk nearly put me over the edge. He’s supposed to be a villain. A monster. How can he look like he’s trying not to laugh at me in my stunned silence?
Snapping myself out of my temporary stupor, I widen my smile and force everything aside except my goal.
Stay cool. Act cool. Be cool. That’s my mantra whenever I’m undercover and things are dicey. Repeating it silently helps me pull myself together.
“I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Freeman,” I say, stepping forward to shake his hand like the professional I am.
Except there’s another problem. I should have braced. I don’t know why I didn’t brace.
As soon as the ridges of his calluses slide across my skin and his fingers tighten on mine, another shiver of awareness shoots through me. Why does he have calluses? He works at a desk. He’s not supposed to be the definition of physical male perfection. And yet, here we are.
“Cannon,” he says, correcting me with that voice of his, which should be registered as sex in audible format. “We’re informal among the staff. Patrons are another story. Treat them all like they’re wearing crowns and holding scepters that can destroy your world in a heartbeat. Got it?”
While his statement is part curious and part foreboding, his sharpened gaze takes in every inch of me, the same way I surveyed him.
“Duly noted, sir. I mean . . . Cannon.” I correct myself and tug my fingers free of his, but he’s watching me like he’s waiting for me to spill all my secrets.
I won’t, I promise myself. Because I never have before, and there’s more at stake now than ever.
“Good. Come on. Time for your trial by fire.” He lifts his chin to the bull beside him, spins around, and pushes open the next massive door.
I force myself not to grin and pump a fist in the air. I’m in.
My personal victory party lasts only as long as it takes to cross the threshold, and I set foot on the thick green and gold stripes of the plush carpet that so many monied, famed, and evil feet have tread.
Cannon rattles off rapid-fire orders. “I need you behind the bar. Two G&Ts, one martini—extra dirty with three olives, an old-fashioned, a Moscow mule, one Bass Ale in a chilled glass, six Perriers, and two black coffees. You have ten minutes. Don’t fuck it up.”
I blink several times as my brain commits the list to memory, but the question still slips from my lips. “I thought I was here to interview as a server, not a bartender?”
One eyebrow quirks as he surveys me with a tilt of his chiseled jaw. Sharp cheekbones stand out like blades in the brighter light of the club. “If you want to work here, you do what I say. If you want the job, get behind the bar. If you don’t, you know where the door is. Understood?”
“Yes. Of course,” I say with a chipper smile. “I understand perfectly.” Silently, I add to myself, You’re a douchebag who’s too attractive for his own good, and you want to see me sweat. Not going to happen.
He doesn’t know I’ve spent time embedded with troops rushing headlong toward enemy lines. If mortar rounds exploding around me didn’t shake my composure, neither will an order from the heir presumptive of the most powerful mafia family in New York. Just the heir himself . . . No. That was a fluke. Totally not happening again.
“I’ll have those drinks for you right away, Cannon.”
His hazel eyes flash brighter green with something I can’t identify, but without another word, he strides away toward the long table of men inside a glass-walled room ahead of us. I’m left alone, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag as I stare after him, because Lord Almighty, that ass should be a crime itself.
Wait. Stop. Why the hell am I looking at his ass?
Randi was right. I need to check myself before I get caught up in his “superior ability to render a girl dick-struck.” At least, that’s how she described him. I brushed off the warnings, but they’re all coming back, and fast. Duly noted, Randi. Duly noted.
Turning on the stacked heel of my black knee-high boots, I weave through expensive wooden four-tops and high-tops on plush handwoven carpet. I smooth my skirt over my thighs and slip behind the forty-foot-long bar that was supposedly shipped over from an establishment in Sicily that catered to only the highest-level members of a famous mafia family. Around me, the elegant brass fixtures cast a warm glow on the rich paneled walls. If I tried to imagine an enclave for the wealthiest, most famous, and exceptionally notorious men of New York City, the Upper Ten would be exactly the picture in my head.
I tuck my bag into a corner, wash my hands, and mentally prepare myself for the job to come. From inside the glass-walled room about thirty feet away from me, Cannon’s head tilts back as his Adam’s apple bobs with laughter. He shoots a glance over his right shoulder, and it collides with mine.
All I read in it is challenge. All I hope to convey with mine is that I’m not scared of the big bad wolf. No. He should fear me.
“Don’t fuck up,” he told me, and I won’t.
Securing this job is all I care about right now. After glancing at my watch, I collect the necessary glassware to make the orders that will impress the man who is going to be my new boss. What a coincidence he’s also the man I’m going to take down, any way I can.
You have no idea what’s coming, Cannon Freeman. Not a fucking clue.
Black Sheep is the first book in the Dirty Mafia Duet and is available for preorder now by tapping on the title.
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Acknowledgments
To my dearest readers—you will never know how much you have changed my life, and for that, I owe you infinite thanks. I can only hope that I’ve had a tiny positive impact on your life as well. I know what it’s like to need an escape. I know what it’s like to desperately want to lose yourself in someone else’s story to take your mind off your own reality. That is why I write. For YOU. For my dreamers and my runaways who need an escape from the world.
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To my team—Jake, Jamie, Emily, Mo, Pam, Donna, Natasha, Kim, Julie, Anthony, Madelyn, and Ty—I am beyond blessed to work with such positive, incredible people who have helped me every step of the way. My books would not be what they are if not for you. I could write a chapter of thanks for each of you and it still wouldn’t be enough. I’m so grateful to have found my tribe, and I can’t wait to see what awe-inspiring things the future holds for all of us.
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To everyone who spreads the word about my books—I S
EE YOU, and I appreciate the hell out of you. You’re a gift to this amazing book world. Thank you for all that you do.
Also by Meghan March
Dirty Mafia Duet:
Black Sheep
White Knight
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Forge Trilogy:
Deal with the Devil
Luck of the Devil
Heart of the Devil
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Sin Trilogy:
Richer Than Sin
Guilty as Sin
Reveling in Sin
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Mount Trilogy:
Ruthless King
Defiant Queen
Sinful Empire
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Savage Trilogy:
Savage Prince
Iron Princess
Rogue Royalty
Beneath Series:
Beneath This Mask
Beneath This Ink
Beneath These Chains
Beneath These Scars
Beneath These Lies
Beneath These Shadows
Beneath The Truth
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Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:
Dirty Billionaire
Dirty Pleasures
Dirty Together
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Dirty Girl Duet:
Dirty Girl
Dirty Love