Rake
The Carneys Book One: A Dark Boston Irish Mafia Romance
Sophie Austin
Contents
Where To Find Sophie Austin
Author’s Note
1. Sasha
2. Finn
3. Sasha
4. Finn
5. Sasha
6. Finn
7. Sasha
8. Finn
9. Sasha
10. Finn
11. Sasha
12. Finn
13. Sasha
14. Finn
15. Sasha
16. Finn
17. Sasha
18. Finn
19. Sasha
20. Sasha
21. Finn
22. Sasha
Epilogue – Sasha
Epilogue Two – Finn
Rake: The Carneys (A Dark Irish Boston Mafia Romance)
The Carneys: Book 1
Copyright @ 2020 Sophie Austin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All brands, proprietary terms, and trademarks are the property of their owners.
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Where To Find Sophie Austin
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I’m a Boston Irish brawler. A boxer. A soldier. An ex-con.
Kathleen is sweet, beautiful, perfect. And she’s my dead best friend’s little sister. Too good for me.
But I'll show her how much I care, what I can give her.
Because in the end, she's going to be mine.
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Author’s Note
Thank you so much for reading Rake, the first in a new series of standalone novels about Boston’s richest, darkest, most twisted mafia family: The Carneys.
If you loved the heart and action of the Doyles but want stories that are darker and have more edge, the Carneys are for you. And if you just love big HEAs, every one of these heroes and heroines gets to an unforgettable one – and they really earn them!
The hero of this book is a familiar face if you’ve read The Doyles. Finn Carney throws his weight around in Hustle, Seamus and Evi’s story. There were a ton of a letters and requests from fabulous readers asking for more of Finn in particular and the Carneys in general. Who could say no to that?
Just in case you’re curious here are just a few details to help you get the lay of their twisted land: there are seven Carney siblings. Their parents, James and Rose Carney, are wealthy Irish Bostonians that recently opened the highly controversial, big money, big drama Trinity Casino.
In addition to meeting Finn in Hustle, you might also remember Siobhan, the sweet violinist whose summer fling with Kieran Doyle turns into a lifelong love affair. You can get her story in The Doyles’ book, Thug, where you’ll also learn some gossip about a love triangle between Murphy Doyle, his beloved Kathleen, and James Carney.
Rake is Finn’s story. Stay tuned for the stories of each of the Carneys meeting their matches in the coming months.
Thanks again for reading. Buckle up for bad boys, big drama, bold steamy scenes, and much more. Can’t wait to hear what you think – take a moment to leave a review or drop me an email at [email protected].
Xoxoxo
Sophie
1
Sasha
July
The Mystic River does not smell good this time of year.
The Carneys promised to clean it up as part of their negotiations for the state’s only casino license. Given the ripe trash smell rolling off the river in waves this balmy July night, it’s clear that dredging it is just one of the many promises they failed to keep.
The Trinity Casino looms large behind me, its bright triskelion sign casting a garish green glow over Terminal Street, lighting my way as I walk to my bus stop.
I try not to be in this part of town so late at night, but it can’t really be helped. The casino hasn’t been open very long, but its staff have already been exploited. No wonder they want to unionize. After five years with Service Workers United, it’s my first time acting as the lead organizer and it’s equal parts thrilling and daunting.
At twenty-six, I’m the youngest organizer, and the Carneys are an extremely powerful and connected family. Let’s just say they won’t be happy when they find out their staff plan to form a union.
Come to think of it, that’s probably why I was assigned to the effort in the first place.
No one else wants to do it.
After weeks of meetings with staff leaders, we’re close to having enough people interested to submit an application for representation to the National Labor Relations Board.
We’ve managed to keep the efforts quiet so far. I haven’t stepped on the property itself, not once. Our group meets at a dive bar just down the street.
Organizing on-site is a recipe for disaster.
Getting justice for these workers is going to be a victory for our union and for myself if I can pull it off.
I’m completely lost in that thought when I pass Doherty Park, which turns out to be a huge mistake.
Charlestown isn’t as bad as it used to be, but it’s still not exactly safe.
Especially not after dark.
Especially not when you’re a woman walking alone.
Especially not if you’re going up against the most powerful mob family in town.
The fine hairs on my arms rise despite the heat, terror spiking through me before I even know what’s happening.
Someone grabs me by my ponytail, jerking me backwards with a sharp stab of pain. I lose my balance and a large hand wraps around my throat, thick fingers squeezing and choking out any possibility of a scream. Desperately I grab at my assailant, clawing his arms, digging my nails into his flesh as raw animal fear courses through me.
He grunts in pain but drags me easily from the sidewalk into dark shadows of the poorly lit park.
Struggling with everything I have, I dig my heels into the chalky soil of the scrubby park to hopefully slow him down. This man is enormous—larger than me by far—but I won’t go without a fight.
At the very least they’ll have ribbons of his flesh to extract from under my nails.
I don’t want to die.
Not here.
Not in this ugly park with its half-dead pine trees, broken swing sets, and a basketball court that hasn’t had hoops in over a decade.
No.
My attacker stumbles over something—I can’t see what in the dark—and I wrench out of his grasp. One second his fingers sear into my skin, and the next I’m free, running like hell and screaming with as much air as I can summon because my life depends on it. He gives chase, footfalls thundering behind me.
He’s huge, but he’s moving fast. Still, I might get away.
My adrenaline spikes as the street comes back into view. I’m so close. One of my shoes flies off but I keep going. I’m going to make it.
But I don’t.
Another set of hands grabs me. I scream as much in raw frustration as from the terror flooding my veins this time.
<
br /> “She’s smaller than I imagined,” this second man says, huffing a laugh as he squeezes me around the waist, his beefy hand clamped over my mouth. “From the description I was expecting some six-foot-tall Amazon.”
My breaths come in shuddering gasps as I try to suck in air, my lungs tight from running.
“Yeah,” the first man says, “she’s not so big but she’s quick. Take her over to the chain-link fence.” I can sense a hint of admiration in his gruff tone. What kind of sociopath am I dealing with here?
I’m trying not to whimper. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction, but my pride loses out to my fear. Salty tears make fresh tracks through the sweat already drying on my cheeks. When they get me to the fence, a vision of my little brother opening the door up to police officers there to share the news of my death flashes through my mind. I’d promised my mother I’d take care of him. Get him away from our loser of a father.
If you can hear me, Mom, help me. Please.
“Tie her up,” the first man orders.
“You lost a shoe, Cinderella,” the second man says jovially. If I do survive this, I’ll never forget his laugh. Never forget his cavalier humor as he watches me shaking and crying, terror compressing my chest even as my heart tries to pound through my ribs.
I almost wish my eyes didn’t adjust to the darkness. Seeing him laugh at his own joke as he secures my arms and legs to the rusty fence with nylon rope makes me so nauseous I’m on the edge of vomiting.
Pressure immediately builds in the joints of my shoulders and ankles. My feet dangle, searching in vain for ground that’s not there. The disgusting man takes a step back to admire his work of hoisting and securing me at least a foot off the ground to this rusty wreckage of a fence.
The first man claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks, P.J.”
“No problem, boss.”
“Miss Saunders,” the first man says, approaching me.
How the fuck does he know who I am? I thought I’d reached the edges of my fear, but the still calmness of his voice and the way he says my name, cool and clinical, lets me know the worst is yet to come. I pull against the ropes, struggling, thrashing, the nylon tearing into my wrists and ankles.
“I apologize for this. I promise you it’s not personal, but you’ve been sticking your nose in places you shouldn’t, and unfortunately there are consequences.” He tips my chin up.
I desperately try to swallow my fear, but my mouth is too dry. My body vibrates with the terror of it, rattling the fence slightly, and doing nothing for the pain in my arms.
“I hate doing this to women especially,” he continues, searching my face. He doesn’t have a mask on. Neither man does. They couldn’t be bothered hiding their identities from me.
The consequences are all mine, then. They’re not planning to leave me alive to be a witness against their crime.
The man directly in front of me is tall and has a dark goatee. His hands are surprisingly cool on my skin.
“When you enter a predominantly male occupation like union organizing, Miss Saunders, these things are bound to happen. And if you stay in this field after this, well, unpleasantness, I think you’ll find that your colleagues will have a new level of respect for you. But I will have to ask that you stay away from organizing around casinos.”
So James Carney does know.
That disgusting son of a bitch. My fear bleeds into rage. If by some miracle I do survive this, I’m going to make him pay.
It was clear that he wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t expect this. And who’s our leak? How did Carney find out that his people planned to organize?
Carney’s goon reaches a hand back to the heavy-set man he addressed as P.J.
“Normally I let P.J. do this part, but as a courtesy to your youth and your gender I’ll be handling it tonight.”
What the fuck?
P.J. chuckles again, handing an object to his boss.
A breeze blows off the Mystic River and I shiver. The smell is atrocious.
“I’ll knock you out first,” the man says.
“Please,” I manage, finally. “Don’t do this.”
The man sighs, and I see he’s holding a metal baton. “I’m sorry, Miss Saunders. I wish there was another way. Like I said, it’s just business.”
Before I can say anything else, he smashes the baton into my temple. My head snaps against the fence with a sickening crack.
The strike doesn’t knock me out. Instead, I’m unable to react as pain explodes into a thousand embers of misery with each blow that rains down on me. Again and again, the pipe crashes into my flesh, bruising, smashing, and wrecking what’s beneath.
The intensity of the pain rips the breath from my lungs, and my mouth is frozen in a silent scream. I dangle from that awful fence, paralyzed as my body is beaten from top to bottom. When the bone snaps in my shin, a scream finally tears its way out of my lungs.
“Shit. We gotta go, boss.” P.J. says, panic lacing his voice. “They probably heard that all the way back at the casino.”
“I thought she was out. Goddamnit.” My assailant smashes the baton into my head again.
I welcome the darkness.
2
Finn
Six Months Later – January
“Patrick, I’ve had quite the night. You got a minute?”
The look on my brother’s face tells me that he does not.
“Is there a place we can talk in private? I’ve got news.”
I’ve run into my brother while en route to my father’s office at our family’s casino. I’d closed out some important business for him.
Patrick’s my Irish twin—twelve months older than I am, nearly to the day. Not enough distance to engender any kind of big brother protectiveness.
He sighs and motions to the security office. We tell the man monitoring the cameras to take a walk.
“Did you just wake up?” Patrick asks. “It’s fucking two in the afternoon, Finn.”
“I got the liquor licenses sorted.”
Patrick drops like a sack of bricks into the chair and lets out a sigh.
“How the fuck did you manage that? I thought we’d have to bankrupt ourselves with bribes or some shit.”
Massachusetts does not give out liquor licenses easily. The puritanical roots of the state go deep, and it was only very recently that you could buy alcohol on Sundays. You still can’t buy it in most grocery stores. Restaurants regularly go out of business even in Boston due to fights over licensing, and every city or town only has a limited number available.
Our father thought he bribed the right people to get his in order for the bars and restaurants in the casino, but it turns out he’d been granted limited licenses for beer and wine, but nothing harder.
And we’ve been selling the hard stuff since we opened.
We could be shut down for something like this.
I grin at Patrick and sit in the chair next to him.
“I made the acquaintance of the head of the Alcoholic Licensing Commission.”
“Did you now?”
“I did. He’s a middle-aged gentleman in what I’d say is a sexless marriage, and I thought the neighborly thing to do would be to invite him out.”
Patrick shakes his head. “You’re something else, Finn. Only you could manage to get the ALC head out to party.”
“I’m a people person,” I say, smirking. “Anyway, it turns out he has quite the appetite for working girls and blow, and I got him to sign our licenses. I also have this for insurance.” I show him my phone: Picture after picture of the Commission official snorting cocaine off of the naked breasts of strippers.
Patrick laughs. “Oh Christ. I’ll never be able to unsee that.”
“No, and neither will his wife or the governor if he tries to renege on our deal.”
“Impressive,” Patrick says. “Horrible but impressive.”
He sighs. “Anyway, I’m glad you took care of that. Dad wants to see you.”
My s
tomach drops. Aside from our, let’s say “precocious” younger sister Catriona, I’m easily my father’s least favorite child. I was hoping this victory would ease that tension.
“Oh?” I say. “Did he mention why?”
“No. He just said ‘tell your lazy fucking brother to come to my office when he manages to drag his sorry ass here’.” He shakes his head to give the effect of jowls he doesn’t have.
Patrick does probably the best imitation of our father, though he’s known him the longest and has a distinct advantage.
Also, I’m not lazy. I just have different goals than my father and more efficient, fun ways of achieving them.
We’re quiet for a minute. I watch the security footage. It’s quiet this time of day, and even if I saw something, I wouldn’t do anything about it.
If someone is clever enough to steal from a casino, they probably deserve to keep what they’ve acquired.
Not good for business, though, and we’ve got a bottom line to maintain—at least that’s always what James Carney says.
My father leveraged nearly all of our family’s personal and business assets to get the casino license and build this place from the ground up. The cost of realizing his dream makes his mood even more foul. The payoff will be worth it, pushing our family from wealthy and powerful to obscenely wealthy and powerful.
But if things don’t go right? Well, it’ll be impossible to recover from. There are far too many people who’d love to see my father fail and lose everything. He’s certainly left a trail of enemies in his wake over the years.
Rake: A Dark Boston Irish Mafia Romance (The Carneys Book 1) Page 1