Chasing Liberty: An Irish Mafia Romance, page 1
Chasing Liberty
A Mafia Romance
Danielle Gillis
Sassa Daniels
Copyright © 2021 by Danielle Gillis, Sassa Daniels
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Author
One
LIBBY
Although the wood-paneled walls are unremarkable and there’s nothing familiar about the brown leather sofa or oak coffee table, I can’t shake the feeling I’ve been here before. I vaguely recognize the bronze Art Deco statue of a dancing girl that sits in the corner and the large stone fireplace strikes a chord as well. However, what convinces me this isn’t the first time I’ve sat in this room is the painting that hangs above the fireplace.
There must be a thousand other landscapes just like it but this one sparks a particular recollection. It’s not the rolling hills or the red brick mansion on the horizon that give me a sense of déjà vu. It’s the dark, oppressive sky done in shades of gray and black. The sense of doom and gloom it creates chills me to the bone. I’ve seen it before and had the same reaction. I’d put money on it.
Taking a sip of the tea the housekeeper insisted on making despite my polite refusals, I try to recall when I might have been here before.
Vague memories of a party flit into my mind. I visualize an enormous Christmas tree decorated with hundreds of glistening baubles and topped with a huge gold star.
In the image I conjure up there are lots of people talking and laughing. Everyone’s having a nice time. It should be a pleasant memory but for some reason it sparks a sense of dread in me. I struggle to remember more but, unfortunately, what I’m starting to recall is distant, tenuous and it easily slips away.
The woman who invited me here today is Cassie Brannigan. The name doesn’t ring a bell but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve never been in her home. Before my father brought the world crashing down around us with his dodgy financial dealings with the Russian Mafia, he dragged me and my mother to a lot of parties hosted by the cream of London society.
My mother was born Lady Olivia Hamilton, daughter of the Earl of Westford. Having her by his side gave my father a certain cachet.
I hate that he insisted on parading us in front of his business associates the way he did. He wanted to show off his perfect, docile wife and daughter.
It pains me to think we were part of his con, that he used us to portray the image of the respectable family man. It was far removed from the reality of life at home where he showed no interest in either my mother or me.
Just thinking about my father, the now notorious Edward Preston, makes my stomach hurt, so I try to direct my attention elsewhere.
I put my cup back on its saucer and place it carefully down on the table. Casting a quick glance at my cellphone, I see a full forty minutes have elapsed since I was asked to wait in here for five. I’m almost tempted to get up and leave. There was a time when I would have flounced out of here in a fit of pique at being expected to hang around like this but these days I can’t afford to stand on my pride. I need this sale.
For months now, I’ve been selling off the designer dresses and jewelry my mother left me when she died, in an attempt to keep my head above water. Every penny that hasn’t been spent on food, rent or paying off some of the smaller debts my father left me with has been squirreled away but, despite all the scrimping, my savings don’t amount to much.
Though it breaks my heart to sell a dress my mother wore to meet British royalty, this vintage gown will bring me ten thousand pounds, enough to help me start over in New Zealand if I budget right.
My Aunt Joanna, who’s a friend of my mother rather than a blood relative, is willing to let me stay in her cottage in Whangarei free of charge.
From the photos I’ve seen, it’s a far cry from the Georgian mansion in Hampshire where I grew up but anything’s an improvement on the crappy apartment I’m living in now. I glance at my phone again, hoping the buyer is serious about wanting the dress. A couple of times, I’ve had people backing out on me because the garments I have to sell are not quite what they were looking for. I hope I haven’t come all the way here for nothing.
Just as doubt starts to take hold, a woman comes into the room. My annoyance at being kept waiting is immediately swept away as she bestows a war, genuine smile upon me.
Tall and elegant, with strawberry blonde hair hanging in soft waves around her shoulders, she has to be one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. She practically glides across the room towards me.
Suddenly self-conscious, I rise to greet her as she holds out a hand for me to shake. I’m wearing a nice black wrap dress and four-inch heels while she has on jeans, t-shirt and ballet flats yet, somehow, I feel frumpy next to this gorgeous woman.
“Cassie Brannigan?” I ask.
“Cassie’s an employee.” She speaks with a soft, Irish accent, drawing out each syllable. “I’m Sorcha Donovan.”
My stomach flips in recognition of the name. Sorcha is the widow of Ciaran Donovan, former head of the Irish mob. Now I know why I recognize this place – it belongs to the family. I came here once with my father when I was about ten, I think. I recall being spooked by the painting.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Donovan,” I say, snapping out of my reverie. “I’m Libby Hamilton.”
Using my mother’s maiden name feels odd but when dealing with customers, I’ve tried to remain anonymous. After all the publicity surrounding my mother’s murder and my father’s flight from the country, I’m sure some people have recognized me. Thankfully, nobody has challenged me.
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
“What?” I don’t mean for the word to explode from my lips like that but the mention of my mother takes me by surprise. Does Sorcha know who I really am?
“She died recently, didn’t she?” A little crease appears at the bridge of Sorcha’s nose as she frowns. “That’s why you’re selling the dress, isn’t it?”
“Oh, right, yes.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I remember mentioning that in one of my emails to Cassie Brannigan.
“It’s hard to lose a loved one.” Sorcha gives me a look loaded with empathy. She’s probably thinking of her husband.
“Yes it is.” It seems ironic that my mother, who never harmed another living soul should be gunned down in the street while Sorcha’s gangster husband slipped away peacefully in his bed.
If the newspapers were correct he died of an aneurysm that was completely unexpected. If he suffered at all, it would have been brief. The unfairness of it isn’t something I want to dwell on. Needing to shift focus, I glance at the garment bag I draped over the arm of the sofa and plaster on my best customer services smile.
“Shall we take a look at the dress?”
“Please,” Sorcha says. “I’m excited to see it.”
I’m glad to get down to business. Now I know who this woman is, I want to conclude the sale as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here. My father’s entanglements with organized crime have caused me enough pain to last a lifetime.
While Sorcha and I have never met before, I have encountered all of the Donovan brothers at some point and I’d hate to run into one of them. They’re bound to recognize me and I have no desire to renew my acquaintance with any of those thugs, especially Andrew, who I had a ridiculous crush on when I was too young to know any better.
All I saw was an incredible body and a handsome face. I didn’t understand the danger a pair of gorgeous blue eyes could conceal.
Carefully, I unzip the black plastic bag and lift the dress out. It’s the most exquisite gown my mother owned and the one I’ve been most reluctant to part with. That’s why I’ve saved it for last.
I had hoped some miracle would happen and I’d be able to keep it, to wear it myself to some fancy event. But, sadly, I’ve not had an unexpected windfall and I have to let it go.
I lay the dress down on the sofa and step aside. Sorcha gasps as she reaches out to touch the dress, her fingertips whispering over the boned bodice. A deep, midnight blue, it’s crafted from a delicate silk and embellished with tiny pearls that were painstakingly sewn on by hand. In the right light, it looks like a shimmering night sky.
Sorcha’s obvious appreciation as she studies every detail makes me feel better about selling the gown to her.
I have to admit, when she introduced herself as a Donovan, I had second thoughts bu
The money from this sale will set me free. No more fear about the Bratva coming for me, no more questions from the police who want to know where my father’s disappeared to, no more gossip sites crowing about my family’s fall from grace. The money from this sale will set me free.
Nothing can get in the way of that.
“It’s beautiful,” Sorcha says. “Can I try it on?”
As much as I’d like to say no because I don’t want to be in this house a moment longer than necessary, I can’t refuse. She is the customer and I don’t want to jeopardize this sale.
In any case, before I can respond, she’s already stripping off her clothes, completely unabashed. When she gets down to her underwear, I can see why she’s so confident. She has long, lean limbs and a perfect hourglass figure. I help her step into the gown and she turns so I can zip it up for her.
Despite having had babies — two, if memory serves — she has not an ounce of fat on her belly. The gown is an amazing fit, cinching in at the waist and flaring out over her hips, but it needs a bit taken off the length. Sorcha is tall, like me, but my mother had a good two inches on us both.
“I feel like a princess.” She does a twirl that whips up her skirts.
It’s impossible not to smile at her gleeful expression. She must have closets full of designer clothing yet she seems genuinely thrilled by this pre-owned piece.
“You look stunning.” Truly, the dress could have been made for her. The color is a perfect match for her deep blue eyes.
It makes her look, not like a mere mortal princess, but a goddess. She twists this way and that, admiring the way the fabric swishes around her ankles.
“Where are you planning to wear it?”
“My brother-in-law’s opening a new club at the West 55.”
My heart sinks. A dress of this quality and craftsmanship deserves to be worn to a high-class, gala event. I’d pictured someone walking down the red carpet in it at a prestigious charity ball.
It doesn’t seem like the sort of dress you’d wear for a club opening, even if it is at one of the most exclusive hotels in the city.
“A nightclub?” I check in case I somehow got that wrong.
“Yes, it’ll be a big event. We’re raising money for a children’s cancer charity.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” It’s harder to complain about her plans for the dress, knowing it will be for a good cause.
“I can get you an invitation if you like.”
“Oh, no thanks.” I hope she didn’t think I was angling for an invite.
Even if I wanted to go, I haven’t got anything suitable to wear or money to waste on a cab fare to get there.
The hotel belongs to the Donovan family. They bought it and refurbished it, making a big splash in the newspapers about how they were going to restore it to its former glory. A lot of people were skeptical considering their reputation but, by all accounts, they’ve done a good job.
I’d love to see what they’ve done with the place but, despite my curiosity I’m not going to wander into Donovan territory again. That way lies trouble. I don’t want to come across as ungrateful, though. “It’s a nice offer, but I’m not really into clubs.”
“Me neither,” Sorcha admits. “I haven’t been to anything like this since my husband passed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s been two years.” Sorcha sighs heavily and I realize the passage of time hasn’t made it any easier for her to bear his loss.
I met Ciaran only once and found him as terrifying as the rest of the family. Although I was a child back then and not used to being in the company of brawny Irishmen, I doubt I’d have found him any less intimidating once I was a bit older.
It’s clear, though, from the sadness in her eyes that Sorcha adored her husband. “I’d cry off but Aidan’s insisting I be there.”
“It’s his club?”
As second oldest son of the late Tommy and Aoife Donovan, Aidan is now head of the family. If rumor is to be believed, he’s even more ruthless than his brother and father were before him.
“No, but Aidan wants us all there to support the new venture. It’s actually his youngest brother’s club.”
There are three other brothers but she said youngest so there’s only one man she could be referring to.
“It’s Andrew’s club?” I ask.
“It is.” She gives me a quizzical look. “You know him?”
“Not really. He worked in our stables one summer.”
Sorcha throws her head back and laughs, no doubt because it’s the last thing she expected to hear me say. The notion of an Irish mob princeling shoveling horseshit for someone else does seem far-fetched.
“Andrew worked in your stables?” She shakes her head. “How the hell did that come about?”
“His father sent him to stay with us when he was about twenty-two, I think. He was supposed to be learning how we ran things.”
“Supposed to be?” Sorcha, clearly razor-sharp picks up on my doubts. She lifts her skirts and sinks down onto the arm of the sofa. “You think it was a ruse?”
“Well…..” I pause, wondering whether it’s safe to confide in this woman who is, after all, a Donovan. She gives me an encouraging nod and I decide to share my suspicions. I have no idea why, since I’ve only just met this woman, but I feel I can trust her. “There were times when I felt he was there for me.”
“For you?”
The note of surprise in her voice makes me think I’m being silly. I shake my head and grimace.
“It’s nothing.”
“No, go on,” she says. “What made you think that?”
“Well, he spent more time hanging around me than the horses. Everywhere I went, he was there, watching me. My father wanted me to be on my best behavior all the time and my mother made me dress up. I wasn’t allowed to wear jeans or any casual clothing, really. I felt like a prize pony he’d come to inspect.”
I know that feeling.” Sorcha frowns and I wonder what personal experience she’s recalling. “That must have made you pretty uncomfortable.”
“Sometimes, but I also liked the attention. I developed a bit of a crush on him.”
I don’t tell her how I tried to kiss him and found myself on the receiving end of a stern lecture. I was only sixteen at the time, so I can see why Andrew was horrified by my advances but he went way over the top, yelling at me for what he deemed my inappropriate behavior.
He told me never to act that way around a man I barely knew again. When he left the estate later that day, my father tore another strip off me. He actually called me a slut. He told me I was a complete embarrassment, that I’d wrecked everything.
It was the first time he spoke to me like that, but it wasn’t the last. Our relationship went downhill fast after that day.
“It’s strange he didn’t mention knowing you,” Sorcha says.
“Why would he?” Unless she told him she was buying a dress from me, my name isn’t likely to have come up in conversation. I’m a mere acquaintance of the family and they might not even remember me. Besides, I called myself Libby Hamilton in all my communication with Cassie Brannigan.
“He’s the one who arranged our meeting. He found the dress online and his assistant contacted you.”
Okay, that surprises me and not in a good way. Why would a man like Andrew Donovan be trawling the internet looking for secondhand ballgowns? An unpleasant knot twists my stomach as a sense of dread creeps up on me. I don’t think my being here is a coincidence.
“Does he do that often?” I ask. “Pick out clothes for you?”
“No, it’s never happened before.” Her eyebrows pull down into a deep V as she tilts her head to one side and studies my face once more. “What did you say your name was?”
“Libby Hamilton.” I can’t help grimacing as I speak. It’s a dead giveaway I’m not being entirely truthful.
