Tough Love (The Shakedown Series Book 3)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Jesus, why was she thinking about any of that at all?

  Cherry fluffed one of the tulle swags on the skirt. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t take out anyone sitting too close to the aisle.”

  A laugh burst from Luna’s throat, followed by a little choked, happy emotion. Starr had not only found the love of her life but would get to start a family and have a little house someday, and everything would be perfect, perfect, perfect.

  “Oh, baby girl.” Cherry smooshed Luna to her bosom. After a long hug, she sniffed and then pulled Luna back. “Are you alright? How are you holding up? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You saw him today, didn’t you?”

  Her heart did a little jig. “Who?”

  “You may be able to play that innocent little Luna with others, but Momma Cherry sees all.” Her face softened. “Carragh MacKenna. There, I said his name—and your eyes did what they always do when that name is uttered out loud.”

  Luna shook her head. Her eyes hadn’t done anything.

  “We are standing in a church.” She snapped her fingers and wiggled them. “Confess.”

  Technically, they stood in the fellowship hall, but once Cherry wanted something, that want was eventually fulfilled. “If Carragh keeps showing up, it has nothing to do with me.”

  Only it did—and she knew it.

  “Ah, so you admit you saw him, probably in that throwback-to-the-90s stretch limo. Such a cliché, on top of the fact he always has some chick in there, getting his rocks lubricated—”

  “He’s not like that.”

  Cherry pursed her lips and eyed her. “And how would you know, Miss Luna Belle O’Malley?”

  How did she know? She just did.

  Despite her desire to stay away from him, Carragh wasn’t the monster everyone said. He wasn’t like the other MacKenna family members.

  His father, Tomas, was the head of a mafia rattlesnake—boastful and prideful. Carragh’s one surviving, younger brother, Ruark, was the rattling tail, all bluster and hardness. But Carragh, the eldest son—and the one likely to inherit the legacy—was thoughtful. Also, despite his arrogance, he seemed kind, especially at the most unexpected times.

  However, he was still a MacKenna.

  Cherry grasped her chin, a motherly gesture. “That car hasn’t been idling around the corner of Shakedown every night for just anyone. Oh, yes, I know when you sneak out looking for him.”

  That was the problem. She didn’t look for him. She didn’t even need to see his car to know when he was there. She could feel him, like ice on the back of her neck but a contrasting heat crawling up her thighs. She’d turn and there he’d be, like last week on Baker Street when she was returning some shoes to that little vintage shop for her sister Phee.

  Or the other day when she picked up today’s bridesmaids’ dresses from the tailor.

  Or sometimes he showed up at Shakedown where she danced. His eyes, like two sapphires, would cut through the dark that hid most of the audience. Sometimes he’d grow closer, take a seat by the stage—before Max ushered him to the door. He’d had orders to stay away, repeatedly. He didn’t—and showed no remorse for showing up as he was led to the exit.

  “Just make sure you don't let Declan or your sisters know about your little tête-a-têtes with that man.”

  “Of course not.” No one could ever know she’d let him within five feet of her. Plus, she’d ended their little flirtation today. “I have to get dressed.”

  Both of her sisters were happy, and if she had anything to do with it, they’d stay that way. It was her turn to ensure it.

  Luna unzipped the garment bag holding her bridesmaid dress. “I just love the colors Starr chose.” She ran her hand over the marine blue silk.

  “Well, it certainly solves the ‘something blue’ thing.” Cherry waved her hand.

  Both she and Phee would walk up the aisle in two-tone cocktail dresses reflecting the bridal colors—a lighter turquoise and a darker marine blue. The bodices were fitted with a large V cut down to their navels, the edges and trim lined with silver sparkles. Luna especially loved the skirt’s silk Fortuny pleats that moved like waves when they walked.

  Cherry, however? Starr had given her free rein on the design of her matron-of-honor dress, which was all Cherry had to hear to reserve every turquoise and blue Swarovski crystal in all of Baltimore for her custom-made, form-fitting gown. She was spectacular in the dress. “A fountain of Caribbean waters,” Starr had called it.

  A huge gasp came from Cherry, who then slapped both hands to her sternum.

  Luna turned to find Starr swishing the hem of her dress in front a three-paneled mirror.

  It didn’t matter what any of them wore. All eyes would be on Starr in her wedding gown. Light reflected in waves over the chiffon, and later, when she walked down the aisle, the cathedral train would float above the voluminous skirt, the sparkles catching the lights like stars.

  But it was her hair, like fire and copper, flowing down her back and bare shoulders with thin strands of crystals intertwined in her curls, that made her otherworldly like a mermaid come to life.

  Starr’s eyes caught hers in the mirror. “What do you think?”

  Luna’s throat squeezed and she nodded. Starr didn’t need the mermaid silhouette after all. “You’re a princess.”

  “Don’t you dare cry,” she choked. “You’ll smear your make-up.”

  Phee, who had sidled up next to Luna, slipped her fingers into her hand. “You’re perfect.”

  In a rustle of tulle, Starr flounced over to them and grasped both of her sisters’ wrists. “Sisters forever, friends always.”

  “Amen,” Phoenix said.

  Luna just nodded, her throat oddly closing more by the second.

  “Oh, baby girl…” Cherry just tsked. “Nathan is one lucky stud.”

  Starr cocked a hip. “Don’t I know it.” She then gazed over at Phoenix. “Next time it will be you.”

  Phee just rolled her eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” As if the six years it took for her to admit her love for Declan was rushing things?

  “And you too, L.” Starr bumped her with her shoulder. “We’re all going to live on the same street someday. I just know it.”

  Yes, they would. Because she’d find a man who wasn’t about to become the head of a crime family. Even if Carragh’s face never fully left her mind or the warmth of his fingers around hers still seemed alive in her skin even now when holding her sisters’ hands.

  3

  “So, if you lay down a little stronger incentive…”

  Carragh silenced the man with his hand. Sean let a sigh rumble in this throat. He’d been after Carragh to get engaged in the pending deal with his family and the Monroe family for the last hour. “It can wait.”

  Sean glanced out the window and gave a tight nod. “Want me to get out with you?”

  A heaviness filled Carragh’s chest. “No.”

  From his window, Carragh stared across the cemetery’s expanse of brown winter grass. Dirty white concrete lumps and spires pointed upward. He didn’t really see any of them except one, a tall, granite angel whose robes, expertly carved, draped down the pedestal on which she stood.

  Such utter crap since his mother had never been treated like an angel—rather more like a pawn by two warring families who sought to create an alliance only to have the partnership tumble like children’s building blocks. His father was a child, always wanting more, throwing his toys—even his late wife—away if he might lose.

  He had hoped his father would evolve. Their new partners, like the Monroes, wouldn’t take kindly to his legendary temper tantrums.

  Sean cleared his throat.

  “Something else?” He glanced at his cousin and watchdog over Tomas MacKenna’s only remaining son. Technically, the “only” part wasn’t true, but Ruark landed his ass in a mental institution to avoid jail. It marred his standing with their father. Namely, removed him from the family
crest.

  “I’m a little worried about you.” Sean raised his hand. “There, I said it.”

  “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “But the dancer…”

  Every muscle, tendon, and joint in his body seized. “What dancer?”

  Sean rolled his head to one side in a come-on gesture. “The redhead we’ve been not so conveniently driving by for weeks. It was why you were late picking me up, wasn’t it? That Starr chick got married today. You went by?”

  He wasn’t about to share squat with Sean. He’d only get a lecture, which would be rich given he’d had to yank the guy out of Shakedown, where the girls danced, more than once.

  “That what you’ve been reporting in to my father?” Tomas MacKenna often knew where his son was. Frankly, he knew quite too much these days.

  “No, man, I wouldn’t—”

  “No?”

  The man’s nostrils flared. “No.”

  Carragh stared at the man for one long minute. His cousin could lie with the best of them—but not as well as Carragh. He’d been doing it his whole life.

  Truth told, he probably shouldn’t keep seeking out Luna Belle, but she reeled him in with the most lethal bait. Every fiber of her body said she wanted him, but her pretty lips kept saying “no.”

  No one said “no” to him, and certainly no one of the female variety.

  Then there was her mouth. Sure, her eyes, her body, would make most men drop to their knees. But the way she twisted those pink lips when he stared at her. His gut twisted with the knowledge she wanted him to kiss her—hard. But her strength of will proved far greater than her desire, another of her qualities he fucking loved. The woman had standards.

  He had to stop thinking of her or he’d grow hard. Given he was in the car with only men, it would prove… awkward. “I’m getting some air. Stay here.”

  Before Carragh could even reach for the door handle, his driver cracked his door and moved to get out to start the drill: open Carragh’s door, hold an umbrella over him. Carragh would grasp the umbrella handle to signal he didn’t need an escort. As usual, Petra would voice stuttered protests, but Carragh would win his independence. It was an irrational daily ritual he’d been doing every Sunday since his mother died—at least when he was in town.

  If their enemies wanted him dead, they could have taken their shot at him—a man standing alone over a mother’s grave—long ago.

  Carragh lifted himself out of the back before Petra could even open the umbrella. He grasped it from the man’s hand. “I’ve got it.”

  “But sir—”

  “Petra.”

  The man nodded once and clasped his hands before him. He’d watch him stride up the walkway, make a right thirteen grave makers in, and walk the forty-three steps to the granite angel.

  Carragh stood on the soggy grass, his shoes sinking so far into the soil his socks grew wet. He and Sean would be striding into his father’s office later. With any luck, he’d leave a little of the mud on the man’s precious Oriental, a reminder of where Tomas damned well already knew he’d be today—and where he, the man who was once married to her, couldn’t bother to show up.

  The telltale click of keys jangled behind him. Sean would never learn, would he? Sounds like that could get a man killed if he was trying to stay hidden.

  The sky continued to spit water down on them, the tiny tings of heavy drops striking their umbrellas.

  Sean finally spoke. “My mother’s coming by later. Asked her to wait a bit.”

  “Thanks.” The guy would know Carragh wanted to be the first to visit his mother’s grave before the wailing would start from Sean’s mother, his aunt.

  Twenty years ago today, Catherine Elizabeth MacKenna was laid in this grave. Her maiden name, Flynn, wasn’t part of her marker. Another of his father’s decrees. Once a MacKenna only a MacKenna.

  Carragh began his ritual. First, take in each letter of her name. Then recall her warm smile, a touch of her hand. The memories were growing hazier every year. He scrubbed his face. Shit, did it have to rain today?

  “It’s Petra.”

  The two words made Carragh’s head swivel to Sean.

  What was the man talking about? “Talk.”

  “Ever wonder why he suddenly wanted to start driving you all the time? Instead of me? Caught him in your father’s office a few weeks ago. Didn’t think anything of it until… ya know, your dad getting on you about the dancer.” He shielded his face with the umbrella from the limo behind him, though it was far enough away lip-reading was out of the question by a 70-year-old man.

  “So what?”

  Really, so what if he reported Carragh couldn’t seem to shake an obsession with a certain redhead with legs for miles—legs he’d fight ten men to get the chance to have wrapped around him.

  “Yeah, but then the cash. Hand to hand delivery.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything,” he lied. It meant everything. Cash was handed over for only very good reasons, like vital information that might put someone six feet under. If he was being paid to report in, he’d want more than a name of who Carragh wanted to fuck.

  “Maybe not. Maybe so.” Sean eyed him, his face taking on an eerie bluish tint from the sky’s glom and navy umbrella.

  Carragh ripped his gaze away from the man back to the grave marker.

  Petra. It was one betrayal he couldn’t fathom. The man had been with the family for a generation, been Carragh’s first driver, taking him to school starting when he was ten years old, and things finally had turned ugly. Then he’d stepped up, offered to drive him during the week, not just the weekends, something about needing to feel useful again.

  Perhaps his father had something on him. A late-night to Maxim’s for a prostitute? Medical bills for his wife, a sweet, round woman who snuck Carragh cookies after school when his father declared the house off-limits due to some particularly hostile meeting? Did it really matter?

  If Petra was feeding his father scraps about his sex life, big fucking deal. If his father got wind of other meetings, however…

  Sean squared himself to the grave. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “Not a hair.” Until he had hard evidence, the man wouldn’t be touched.

  In his periphery, Sean nodded once.

  “That goes for everyone at Shakedown, too. We’re staying away.” Though he couldn’t seem to do that himself. Just to check to make sure his father wasn’t seeking to remove another family thorn in his side—namely, long-lost cousin Declan Phillips, Shakedown’s owner. He’d ordered Carragh to send some messages, which he refused to do. It was petty bullshit, and he had better things to do.

  “Understood there was a truce of sorts.”

  “Of sorts.” His father hadn’t yet managed to keep one intact, however.

  Carragh glanced at his watch and turned away. He and Sean had a “late lunch” with dear old Dad. In reality, it was likely a strategy session to lay out the response to the latest pressures from some external forces the man didn’t like. He was so fucking sick of getting orders from his father.

  Sean didn’t budge, so he paused his exit. “Something else?”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  Carragh arched an eyebrow, and out of habit used his umbrella as a shield between him and the car.

  “When you make your move,” he continued.

  The rain on nylon pinged in his ears. He stared up at the gray sky, contemplating the best reaction he could make.

  This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Sean right now. The man had been his friend and confidante his whole life, but loyalty to the MacKennas meant loyalty to only one man—Tomas, his father. At least to date.

  “Where’d you hear I’m moving?”

  Sean shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

  Perhaps. “You overhear something?”

  “No.”

  Sean’s words unsettled him. Only two people knew of his desires—to finally take his rightful place on the MacKenna throne,
not to the left of it. They were Petra—because he overheard things—and Declan Phillips, who he’d unwisely revealed his plans to some time ago. He doubted Declan had truly understood Carragh’s words that day when the words slipped free from him.

  If Sean guessed his plans, people around them also had—and were talking. His father’s retirement was long overdue, but it’d be on Carragh’s time. Things were just… complicated.

  Then there was the matter of a certain burlesque dancer. He wasn’t yet sure if he wanted to keep her away from him or get her under him. But he knew this: once he got a taste of her, he’d shoot his own father to protect her if needed. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d shot one of his own.

  So, yeah, timing was critical.

  “We’ll be late.” Carragh turned away.

  4

  “We’re maaaaried.” Starr swayed a little on the stage, her dress swaying in time with her.

  Nathan caught her from falling off her heels. “We are, baby.” He sported the largest grin Luna had ever seen on the man. In fact, she’d not seen either of them so… light. Much of Starr’s exuberance was probably from the three glasses of champagne, but then she’d always been the most vocal of the three of them.

  “To us!” Starr raised her glass high and the sixty guests on Shakedown’s main floor raised flutes, tumblers, and in Luna’s case, a glass of sparkling water spiked with lemon and lime.

  Cherry Noir entered stage left because no stage was complete without her, according to the performer herself. “May the happy couple reign and rule over their days so long as time exists.”

  “So be it,” Luna said under her breath and took a sip.

  Pop. Another champagne bottle opened, and a loud cheer went up as Jackie, who stood on a chair, poured the bubbly into the top glass of the champagne fountain, built by Declan himself. The crystal tinged and chimed as the champagne overflowed from glass to glass.