The Irishman: Book 1 (For The Love Of The Irish)

by V Vee

  The Irishman

  For The Love Of The Irish

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  V. Vee

  Blurb

  My name is Andrew McCarthy.

  You may have heard of me.

  Or heard whispers about me.

  I’m the man your nightmares are made of.

  I’m the man who is the source of your fantasies.

  I’m the devil in the darkness.

  I’m the man of your dreams.

  Desire and Darkness.

  Fantasy and Fear.

  I am the head of the McCarthy Mob.

  Anything I want… I get.

  And the first time I see her?

  Kyra Bahmer.

  I know she belongs to me.

  I know I will have her.

  And the men who think they can take her from me?

  I will kill them all.

  Because no one stands in my way.

  No one comes between me and what’s mine.

  No one harms my family.

  Because I’m The Irishman.

  And Kyra Bahmer is going to be my wife.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  *T/W: This book is a DARK romance. The hero is not your typical hero. He is a bad guy. He will not be redeemed from the illegal, violent things that he does. This book contains explicit violence, extremely rough sex, mentions of child abuse and sexual assault, and drug use/abuse which may be triggering for some readers. It is intended for readers 18+. You have been warned. *

  Copyright

  The Irishman © copyright 2019 V. Vee

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Dedication

  For Nugget.

  Thank You

  Sara and Jayne: Thank you for making me come out of the room when I was pushing and writing 10k words a day to get this book down. You kept me fed and watered. Just like I was a plant. I appreciate it!

  Michelle: I know you felt some type of way about being a character in the book, but you know I hooked you up though, right? And thank you for that call and the advice when we were in New Orleans. Love you chica!

  My readers: Thank you for sticking with me through all the pennames and the different genres. You all appreciate the many voices in my head, and I am grateful that all of you not only support me by buying my books, but you promote it, share it, and tell others about it. Thank you!

  BWSL: What an amazing group of women! I’m so happy and so humbled that you all have welcomed me into the group, embraced me, that you love my books, and that you shout me out whenever you get the chance. You’re all amazing. Thank you.

  Phoenix, Twyla, Reana, Kassanna, Sage, LaVerne, Olivia, Kenya, JanJan, Anita, Keta, SK, Siren, Siera, Francesca, Sara A., Areana, and so many others: Thank you. You know why.

  And for you. Yes, you. Person reading this. Person who bought this or got it through Kindle Unlimited or was gifted it… you….

  Thank you. So much.

  Thanks For Buying!

  I so hope you enjoy the first book in the For The Love Of The Irish series. Thank you for purchasing the beginning of Andrew and Kyra’s story, and the beginning of Clan McCarthy. This is a dark romance so there are no knights-in-shining-armor or innocent princesses. Almost everyone in this book gets their hands dirty.

  And they like it.

  This is the beginning of a series, so while the main couple: Andrew and Kyra get an HFN, the story as a whole ends on a cliffhanger.

  Anyway, if you want to sign up for my newsletter and know when I have another book coming out (and to find out what’s going on with my author friends), sign up here (I do giveaways all the time):

  http://bit.ly/VVeesNewsletter

  Playlist For The Irishman

  The playlist for the Irishman is probably my shortest one to date. I mostly wrote the book while listening to the Investigation Discovery© channel. But there were times when I needed either complete silence or music. And even that was determined by what scene I was writing. So, here are the 5 (yes, that’s right, it’s only 5) songs that are on the playlist:

  Going Under-Evanescence

  Bring Me To Life-Evanescence

  Say Yes-Floetry

  Put Your Name On It-Kelly Rowland

  PILLOWTALK-ZAYN

  The Irishman Playlist On Spotify

  Prologue

  Andrew- The Irishman

  I saw her mere minutes before she looked in my direction. She was beautiful. Her skin glowed in the lights of the bar. Even over the roar of the bar, with the patrons laughing, arguing, and singing drunkenly of St. Paddy’s Day, I could hear her laughter. It caused a stir within me. Moved me. It made me scowl.

  I wasn’t a man who felt anything. My life didn’t allow me to feel. The people who moved within my realm didn’t allow me to. For fuck’s sake, my enemies didn’t allow me to. Women like her got men like me killed. So, I stayed away from them. She looked far too innocent. From her big eyes which were filled with innocence to her full lips which were turned up in a wide grin. To her big breasts which were way more than a handful and made my mouth water.

  This woman made my dick hard just looking at her.

  She was a gahtdamn distraction.

  Which meant she needed to get the fuck out of my bar.

  I snapped my fingers to get Mikey’s attention. When he came over to me, I went to point at her but stopped when I saw some skinny little prick approach her, bend down and whisper in her ear.

  Oh. Fuck. No.

  I may not want her in my bar, but that didn’t mean I wanted some other little limp ass motherfucker pushing up on her.

  Ignoring Mikey, I walked directly over to them, pushing myself between the two of them as if I belonged, because I did. It was my bar, and I’d just decided in that moment, she was my woman.

  And with that thought, I pulled back my fist and punched that skinny ass fucker in the mouth.

  He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  Turning around I smiled at the woman who didn’t know she was mine but would soon find out.

  Her eyes were wide, and her full lips were opened on a gasp.

  “My name is Andrew and you are?”

  “K-K-Kyra.”

  “Nice to meet you Kyra. You now belong to me.”

  Chapter One

  Kyra- K-Love

  I stared at the six dozen red roses that had been delivered to my home that morning. They were the same as the six dozen that had been delivered the day before and the day before that. Every day since St. Patrick’s Day when I met him, Andrew, the owner of “McCarthy’s Bar.” I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d done to make the man take an interest in me. Why the big—very big, very muscled, very gorgeous—redhead man had taken an interest me. Why he’d claimed me as his. But I wasn’t interested.

  Okay, that was a lie.

  I was interested.

  But I wouldn’
t tell him that. I couldn’t tell him that.

  “So, what are you going to do, girl?” my best friend, Michele asked me as she took a deep inhale of the blunt she held to her lips. I shrugged as I stared at the roses that surrounded us in our home.

  “You better do something, this nigga doesn’t seem like the type who’s gonna stop anytime soon,” Michele said as she exhaled the smoke she previously held in her lungs.

  I rolled my eyes and waved away the gray smoke that lingered in front of my face. I hated the fact that Michele smoked, but my friend was a Veteran who suffered from extreme PTSD and what she had was medicinal and she smoked to keep away the nightmares that plagued her constantly.

  “Can you not use that word, Chel?” I asked for what felt like the thousandth time.

  “Damn, K. Why are you such a fucking prude?” Michele asked with a snicker.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Am not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yuh-huh.”

  “Nuh uh.”

  “Yep.”

  “Nope.”

  We both fell out into laughter, leaning against one another as we giggled over what was an old argument between the two of us. It was something the two of us had been disagreeing about since we were both six years old and Michele had first heard the word from her older brother. I’d come home and used it in earshot of my mother and had promptly been popped in the mouth by my grandmother who’d then given me a history of the word. I’d never used the word again and hated whenever my friend used it around me. I knew she used it only to piss me off, and she knew that using it would inevitably cause us to argue. It was just how the two of us worked.

  I sighed and flopped down on our old and worn maroon couch which caused the dust and dirt that we could never seem to completely clean from it to fly up into the air. I coughed and waved away the dust particles.

  “What the fuck do you think he wants from me, Chel?” I groaned.

  Michele thrust her hips back and forth cackling when I rolled my eyes again. “What the hell do you think he wants, girl? That white boy probably ain’t never been between a black woman’s thighs before. He wants to try himself some chocolate. See if it tastes as sweet as it looks.”

  I laughed and shook my head. I was not up for being any man’s fetish, or his “black experimental girlfriend.” I’d done that once before in college and it was a monumental failure. My heart still bore the scars of that relationship, though Shay bore the physical scars of fucking with me.

  Punkass bitch.

  I shoved away the thoughts of that weak-ass motherfucker and focused back on the situation at hand. I needed to do something about the current white boy who seemed to have a hard-on for me. The one who couldn’t seem to take “no” for an answer.

  “I’ve already told him no and still he persists.”

  “Yeah, that shit can either be hot as fuck or…”

  “Scary as fuck,” I interrupted Michele.

  She nodded and sat down next to me, putting her feet up on the glass coffee table my grandmother had given us when we’d moved into her old home. My parents had both passed away in a plane crash when I was only four years old and my grandmother had taken me in to raise me when neither of my aunts or uncles saw fit to raise me. There was no money in it for any of them, so they’d passed. Little did they know there actually was money, but my parents were smart, the money would only come to the person who took me in after they’d had me for five years. My parents were both investment bankers, but they also washed money for some shady ass people. So, there was a lot of money. My grandmother was none too pleased about “that dirty ass money” so she put it all into a trust for me to receive when I turned 25. She died on my 20th birthday and I was going to be turning 25 in nine weeks. I was not looking forward to it. Not at all. Not only because it was the first anniversary of my grandmother’s death, but because my aunts and uncles had been hovering and feigning “concern” like the money hungry, greedy ass bitches my grandmother had always called them.

  “Maybe I should send them all back,” I muttered.

  Michele snorted. “You tried that before, remember?” She pointed at the big teddy bear that did not look big and cuddly but instead looked imposing and scary in the corner of our living room. And if I was being honest, I wasn’t entirely sure the eyes didn’t have tiny cameras inside of it.

  I’d asked around about Andrew and more than one person had told me to stay away from him. A few people had told me he was the head of the Irish mob. Some told me he was a billionaire businessman. Some told me he was a murderer. Some told me he fucked women and tossed them aside. Some said he fucked women, got them pregnant, and denied every baby. And even more said he raped women. Now that last one I didn’t believe for even a moment. Andrew was extremely gorgeous. With long red hair that hung to the tops of his shoulders, a red beard, mustache, sideburn combo thing, that had me thinking all sorts of dirty thoughts—things like me sitting on his face and watching as my juices rolled down the juices of his beard. His muscled shoulders and biceps were barely restrained by the dark green button-down shirt he wore, and the black vest he wore on top of that looked comically small over his torso and against his barrel chest and flat abdomen. His black trousers could scarcely contain his trunk like thighs, and his surprisingly round ass, that yes, I found myself drooling over. And while he had the sleeves of his shirt only rolled up to his forearms, I could see that he had tattoos intricately painted over his pale white flesh. Tattoos that I wanted to trace with my fingers and my tongue.

  Andrew did not need to rape women. They no doubt threw themselves, their panties, and their pussies at him on a consistent basis. But the rest of it? I could see all of that being true.

  So why in the hell was he so focused on me?

  It wasn’t that I was boring. I mean, I knew when people looked at me they saw a college student. A woman who was studying to get her degree in fashion and marketing. Someone who worked in the marketing department of a big named fashion company. But they didn’t know the skeletons I had in my closet. They didn’t know the other side of my life. The dark side. The dangerous side.

  They didn’t know that in reality I was actually perfect for Andrew.

  But no one needed to know that. Not Michele. Not my aunts and uncles.

  And especially not Andrew McCarthy.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t send them back. But I have to do something,” I sighed. “I have a feeling he’s not going to be satisfied with simply sending me roses,” I said, just before there was a hard knock at the front door.

  Chapter Two

  Andrew- The Irishman

  I wasn’t satisfied with simply sending roses anymore. Kyra was mine. Which meant she should be in my bed. Taking my cock. Screaming my name. Her pussy juices on my tongue. Standing beside me. Being seen at my side. Sleeping beside me.

  In my home.

  Not living… here.

  I looked around at the neighborhood in disgust. The buildings that surrounded me were not ramshackle houses, that would be too polite and much too complimentary. As a matter of fact, calling them crack houses would be damn near praiseworthy when they didn’t deserve such a thing. They were less than shacks. They all deserved to be torn down, burned, and the earth where they stood salted and burned with acid so that nothing could ever be built there again. There was one home that stood out among the hovel buildings and dregs and it was the one I currently stood in front of. The one which housed the current source of my obsession, agony, and my woman.

  Kyra Bahmer.

  Kyra’s home was freshly painted, as if it had been done within the last month or so. The color a rather amusing shade of dark green. I could almost feel my Irish ancestors giving a nod of appreciation at her color choice. The windows were new; there were peonies planted in the yard, and someone’s attempt at roses surrounded the walkway on either side. On the front porch there stood
a weathered white swing, two white, wicker chairs, all surrounding a small white table where an empty tray sat. No doubt Kyra, and her best friend, Michele, sat there in the mornings and at night to have drinks and discuss their day.

  The day I’d met Kyra I’d instantly had her investigated. Not through any official channels—I mean, c’mon, I was the head of the mob, I didn’t really do legal—but through one of my crew members who just “happened” to work for the FBI. Yeah, that’s right bitches, my father taught me to be smart enough to have connections everywhere. I had members of my “family” in local, district, state, and federal law enforcement. Even had a few members of Congress and the Senate in my back pocket. I’m sure if anyone were to think or probe hard enough, they would be able to find the association, but no one had balls that big. And frankly, everyone was too chicken shit to even attempt such a thing.

  Couldn’t say I blamed them to be honest. I was a bastard of the highest order. Not in the normal “bastard” way, my parents were good Irish-Catholics who were married as soon as they both turned eighteen, but they gave birth to seven boys, only three of which were actually in the “family business” and had, when I was twenty, adopted me a sister, not because they were experiencing Empty Nest Syndrome either.

  Apparently, I’d asked for one when I was only ten.

  I always got what I wanted even if I didn’t get it when I wanted.

  But I always got it. Always.

  And it would be absolutely no exception this time.

  I pulled my cell phone out of the inner pocket of my suit jacket and placed a call.