Iron & Ink (Brooklyn Brothers #5)

By Melanie Munton

We are the Rossetti’s.
The exiled “sixth family” of the New York mafia. We’re the good guys.
People don’t fear us...much. They respect us.
The five of us? We’re the Brooklyn Brothers.
And we protect what's ours.

After a gunshot wound to the chest, I died on an operating table. Then I came back to life. Yet the thing that’s going to take me down is a redheaded Irish bartender who has a pension for trouble and drinking me under the table. Ash Donahue is brave, beautiful, and scarily street wise. In fact, she’s the only woman I’ve ever met who seems remotely capable of handling the kind of baggage a man like me comes with.

Not to mention, she has secrets that could very well rival my own.

I’m a soldier, a warrior. That’s all I’ll ever be. No woman wants to be strapped with that for the rest of her life. But every time we remind ourselves why we’re completely wrong for each other, we end up tangled together in the stock room. Or on top of the bar. Or against a wall.

That all changes when I find out what brought her to my city. How could she not tell me her uncle is the Irish mob boss? And how am I supposed to protect her from him and my family from our countless enemies, all at the same time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Munton
• Release date: Mar 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005687571

Melanie Munton

Traveler. Reader. Beach-goer. St. Louis Cardinals fan. Pasta-obsessed. North Carolina resident. Sarcastic. Bit of a nerd.Author of the Cruz Brothers, Possession and Politics, and Timid Souls series, Melanie loves all things romance, comedies and suspense in particular because it's boring to only stick to one sub-genre! From light-hearted comedies to sexy thrillers, she likes to mix it up, but loves her some strong alpha males and sassy heroines.Go visit Melanie's website and sign up for her newsletter to stay updated on release dates, teasers, and other details for all of her projects!http://www.melaniemunton.com/You can also follow Melanie on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram, and Goodreads.

Book preview

I swear, if it wasn’t one thing after a-fucking-nother.

Once again, my four brothers and I had been summoned to our father’s den in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park for unknown reasons, leaving our minds to speculate wildly on what new shit storm was barreling down on our family.

Though in this case, not even our father could answer that question. We’d been called here by our NYPD detective friend and unofficial brother, Bryce Connelly. And if he was calling us in this time, instead of the other way around, his news was undoubtedly something that was going to blow our already tumultuous lives apart. Of course, this all had to happen right when things were actually going well in mine.

I had a woman.

Goddamn, that felt good to say.

And all I wanted to do in this moment was get back to her.

The energy in the room was already tense as hell. We all knew the gravity of the situation—whatever it was—which left little room for idle conversation. But the sudden sharp rap on the door only thickened the unbearable tension.

Come in, our father called out.

The narrow double doors opened with a creak, adding to the ominous atmosphere. Bryce entered, an expression on his face that could only be described as foreboding. My shoulders stiffened as he led another person inside the room. A man’s jacket was placed over the individual’s head, obscuring their face. Though judging by the slight frame, it was clearly a woman.

Nausea crept up my esophagus when Bryce shifted his regretful gaze…to me. Those few seconds we held eye contact served as a warning from him. He was trying to prepare me. There may have even been an apology in there.

Shit, what has he done?

He slipped the jacket off the woman’s head, revealing a mass of fire red hair—

Bryce, what the fuck! I shot to my feet, stomping in his direction, outrage charging my movements. Get those fucking handcuffs off her!

Bryce stopped me with a hand on my chest, just as I reached for her. She stays in the cuffs while she’s in my custody.

My head reared back, eyes widening. "Custody? What are you talking about?"

She seemed to shrink in on herself, gaze lowering to the floor, as Bryce delivered the kill shot. She’s under arrest, Rome.

"FOR WHAT?"

I saw her wince out of the corner of my eye, but my focus was locked squarely on my longtime friend.

Aiding and abetting a criminal organization, he answered robotically, like a cop. Suspicion of money laundering. Taking illegal bets.

What. The. Fuuuuck.

I fell back a step, my knees threatening to buckle. None of what he just said made any goddamn sense. She was a bartender, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t have connections with any criminal organizations. Taking bets? This was what he called police work? Bryce didn’t even know her. I did.

And my so-called friend was lying through his fucking teeth.

What the hell is going on? I demanded. She’s not a criminal.

He looked me directly in the eyes in the no-bullshit way that cops do. She’s working for the Flanagans.

It took many seconds for those words to even reach my ears, let alone register with my brain. There was absolutely no fucking way that was true. She was not working for the same people who were helping our family’s greatest enemy declare war on us. She couldn’t have been lying to me this entire time without me even suspecting it. This couldn’t be happening mere hours after the best night I’d ever had.

I couldn’t be betrayed a second time in my life.

And never, ever by her.

The only person I’d ever opened up to in my life besides my twin. The only woman I’d ever carved out a piece of my soul for, given it to her willingly, gratefully. I was both amazed and thankful she’d even wanted anything to do with one so scarred and tattered. I could not have trusted the wrong person. Because my trust was already fragile and guarded behind fortress walls so thick they’d never been breached before her.

If what Bryce said turned out to be true, it wasn’t just my trust that wouldn’t survive this.

I’d already predicted this woman was going to be the death of me.

But this time, I meant it literally.

Six weeks earlier

Inhale. One, two, three, four…

Exhale. Four, three, two, one.

And repeat.

It was pathetic that I had to call on the old breathing techniques I learned in therapy in order to calm my rising anxiety…over the prospect of talking to a woman. It wasn’t that I was afraid of engaging with the opposite sex. I just didn’t like putting myself in situations where I felt exposed or put on the spot. As an ex-sniper with the Army Rangers, my job had always been to be the exact opposite of that.

Hidden. Stealth. Deadly.

Exposure equals vulnerability.

In this case, I didn’t like having all these faces turned in my direction. All attention trained on me. Every pair of eyes in this goddamn bar had been focused on me and my fraternal twin brother Luka as they sang Happy Birthday to us. Thirty minutes later and it still felt like the top layer of my skin was being rubbed raw. It had been like that for years. Ever since my special ops days. Therapists had later diagnosed me with PTSD and had each recommended his and her own remedies for dealing with the pain. One had stuck to the belief that just talking things through would magically solve all my problems. That all the fucked up shit in my head would miraculously disappear after emotionally unburdening myself.

Obviously, that doctor had never taken a human life before.

Another had prescribed anti-depressants and a slew of other medication to ease my anxiety. But I didn’t like being drugged. Didn’t like feeling that my brain had checked out. One pill, in particular, had made me feel like a walking zombie most hours of the day. Maybe some guys who came back from their tours liked that, needed that. Maybe feeling numb was preferable to being pulled under by whatever darker feelings they were battling. And to that, I say go with whatever the hell works for you.

It was the third therapist who had taught me various exercises to practice when the anxiety crept in and threatened to take over. This particular breathing technique had been the most effective in alleviating the insufferable pounding in my skull.

Inhale. One, two, three, four…

Exhale. Four, three, two, one.

And repeat.

Because I had been watching the new bartender at O’Malley’s Irish Pub and Grill in my hometown of Brooklyn for the last few weeks—as everyone in my family annoyingly liked to frequently point out—I knew the bubbly redhead was quite possibly my polar opposite. She was smiley and spunky. Though she never had a cross or unkind word to say to anyone, she liked to give her boss lip and tease rowdy patrons. She was boisterous and fun-loving, always seeming to play games and joke with her customers.

She was the life of the damn party.

While I, on the other hand, couldn’t manage to eek out a smile at my own damn party.

Yeah, I didn’t have a flying chance in hell with this woman. I was the man women avoided in bars. Even with the tattoos, beard, and dark eyes, I couldn’t exactly pull off that bad boy image. Luka could, with his charming personality and cocky smirk. But I’d been told that I was too…dangerous looking…to be approachable. Brooding didn’t really cover it. That implied one who was a little more in tune with their emotions than I was.

But tonight, something was compelling me to finally talk to the redheaded bartender anyway. Maybe it was the fact that I’d been shot in the chest two months ago, had technically died, then woken up with a brand new attitude that was now shooting me up with an extra dose of why-the-fuck-not? Being officially dead on a cold hospital bed for two whole minutes tended to put things into perspective.

Like…what the fuck had I been doing with my life?

I hadn’t been on those prescription meds for years, but you wouldn’t have known it from the undead state I’d been walking around in for too fucking long. And this willowy redhead behind the bar could very well be the answer to bringing me back to life.

Aw, come on, honey, a man crooned at her in a thick Brooklyn accent as I approached the bar. Leaning over it, he stuck out his bottom lip like a putz. I promise to only drink in your bar from now on if you give me your number.

You would really deprive all the female bartenders of Brooklyn the pleasure of your flattery? she teased in her foreign brogue. Surely, you’re not that cruel. Gobshites like you should be shared with the world.

To top it off, she was Irish.

I never realized how sexy Irish accents could be until she started strutting her fine ass up and down this bar, purring that husky voice in every male sap’s ears. Every night she worked there was a line of them at the bar, drooling all over the place, just waiting to hear that voice.

Wait.

Wasn’t gobshite an insult in Ireland?

I propped my elbows on the scratched wooden surface, watching their interlude with amusement, fascination, and yeah, palpable irritation.

Her drunken customer was clearly oblivious to the slang. He just laughed and slapped down some bills. You make a good point, honey. I guess I’ll get back to spreading the wealth.

Saluting him, she swiped up the cash. You do that. Good luck to all womankind.

Her eyebrows went skyward as she glanced down at the money. When her gaze lifted, it instantly connected with mine. If he knew what ‘gobshite’ actually meant, he probably wouldn’t have tipped so well. Then she winked at me.

With that one gesture, I was completely hooked.

She’d just reeled me in, whether she meant to or not.

God help her.

Her attention now focused in my direction, her blue-green eyes swept over me in a quick assessment. For once, I didn’t mind someone’s gaze running all over me. With this woman, I fucking welcomed it. Because when she looked at me—to my utter shock—my skin didn’t itch, my chest didn’t burn, and I didn’t feel paranoid that I was about to get knifed from behind.

Then those eyes—no fucking way—darkened with interest. She actually liked what she saw? The surly, unsmiling, bearded bastard who was covered nearly head to toe with tattoos and a permanent scowl?

Maybe she’s the highest functioning blind person on the planet.

How ya getting on, love? she asked me, propping both hands on the bar. Get you more of the black stuff?

My lips parted. And I frowned. Pardon?

Grin forming, she nodded down at my empty beer glass. More Guinness?

Feeling like a complete idiot, I scooted the glass toward her. Yeah, sure.

I winced at the rusty quality of my voice. Jesus, it sounded like I hadn’t spoken to another human being in years.

She grabbed a clean mug from under the bar and pulled the lever on the Guinness tap. As she slid the glass over to me, she suddenly stopped halfway. Wait, didn’t I see you blowing out the candles on a cake a few minutes ago?

Ducking my head, I waved her off. Please, no more of that. Yeah, it’s just a fun way my brothers and I like to pass the time.

She narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?

Nope.

She pointed her finger at me. "Ah-ha, it so is. This calls for shots."

I felt a look of horror take over my face. I’d dive over this bar and tackle her if she so much as reached for the damn bell above the shelves of liquor bottles to get the bar’s attention.

Frankly, tackling this woman didn’t sound half bad. Getting her beneath me was a fucking fantastic idea. With her svelte frame, milk white skin, lustrous long red hair, and fresh face that reminded me of some kind of fantasy earth goddess, she’d look glorious writhing underneath my body. Soft curves, perky tits that clearly didn’t require a bra to be held up in her green halter top uniform, and flaring hips that were made for cradling a man’s thighs.

No, no, I blurted out. I’m good with the Guinness, really.

She shook her head and spun toward the liquor bottles. Sorry, love. Bartender code. Birthday shots are obligatory. They cover that on day one of orientation.

Two thoughts fought for dominance in that precise moment.

One, my dick was already obsessed with the way love rolled off her tongue. At least, when she was addressing me in that term. She said it to any other man, he could fuck right off.

Two, she had hands-down the hottest tattoo I’d ever seen on a woman. It stretched across her left shoulder blade, that was completely exposed in her halter top, and wrapped around her upper arm. I squinted to get a better look at the details because the ink was top notch. At first glance, it looked like a bunch of artistic flowers intricately tangled together. But looking closer, I saw the Celtic cross and other Celtic symbols woven into the stems and petals of the flowers. I was so transfixed by the unique design, I wasn’t prepared when she whirled back around.

I’m not really an Irish car bomb kind of guy, I said warily.

Her face contorted in disgust, like I’d insulted her. Fuck that. You Americans and your weird shots that you assume Irish people drink all the time. I wouldn’t ruin your birthday like that. She placed two shot glasses down on the bar and toasted me with one. Nothing beats straight Irish whisky. Belly up, American.

The corner of my mouth actually twitched in what was certainly another rusty gesture. Smiling was not something I did on the norm. The reaction was partly because of her sharp wit and partly because she hadn’t involved anyone else in this bartender code ritual.

This moment was just between us.

Without looking away from her, I clinked my glass against hers. Cheers, Irish.

I was rewarded with a smile.

Best birthday gift ever.

"Sláinte."

Our hands moved simultaneously as we knocked back the shots. Neither of us even blinked when the smooth whisky slid down our throats. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, so I noticed exactly how her throat muscles bobbed when she swallowed. Christ, I wanted to get my tongue on that throat and lick it from collarbone to jaw.

The hard ridge under my zipper ensured I wouldn’t be standing up for a while.

I’m Ashling, by the way. I swear her husky voice had dropped a few degrees. But you can call me Ash.

Damn, I loved her name.

It would be slipping from my lips as I stroked my dick to the image of her face later tonight.

Rome.

Nice to meet— Her words were cut off when someone from the other end of the bar started calling out his order.

She raised her hand in acknowledgment that she’d heard. Turning back to me, she said, Happy birthday, Rome.

The long, sensuous look she left me with before sauntering off nearly knocked me off my barstool. The meaning behind those eyes held me hostage. I couldn’t stop staring as she served her other customers, leaning slightly over the bar to hear them over the noise of the crowd, thus exposing a sliver of creamy pale skin between her top and low-riding black jeans.

My decision was made.

As soon as I could get her attention back on me, I was going to ask if she wanted to grab a drink after her shift. That was simple enough, right? I mean, we’d already had one drink together. Taking her somewhere for more, by ourselves, that was no big deal.

Inhale. One, two, three, four…

Exhale. Four, three, two, one.

And repe—

You’re not going to fucking believe this.

My head jerked sideways at the furiously hissed words to find Detective Bryce Connelly of the NYPD standing beside me, scowling up at the news reel on the TV over the bar. Bryce grew up in the same Crown Heights neighborhood as me and my four brothers. He was the only cop in all of New York any of us trusted, and thus, we tended to involve him in our family’s business. The guy was practically the sixth Rossetti brother.

What happened? I demanded, senses going on high alert.

I followed his gaze, but only saw a reporter talking about some education bill Congress was voting on.

Dominic Gabbiano was just murdered in prison.

The nephew of the Sicilian mafia boss was dead? A man my brothers and I had put in prison and who had been awaiting trial the past several months? The same man whose uncle, Santi The Slayer Gabbiano, was also about to go on trial for murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, and a slew of other violent crimes?

Dead? This was huge.

Another inmate?

That’s not all, Connelly added gravely without answering my question. There was also an attempt on Santi Gabbiano’s life. He’s in the prison infirmary with multiple stab wounds. Alive for now. And… He blew out a weary breath, hanging his head.

What, man?

Someone broke into Carmen LaMacchia’s home.

The lead prosecutor on Santi’s case?

And the woman Connelly had a major thing for?

Is she okay?

He answered with a curt nod. We’re hearing whispers that Raphael Esposito ordered the hits. And if he ordered the hits, chances are he’s the one threatening Carmen.

Fuck me.

Raphael was the long-time boss of the New York mafia. The same man who had surreptitiously tried to take out several members of my family over the past year and a half. The man who had shrouded the city in fear for decades, and who had recently escaped from police custody and was now in hiding.

And it seemed the man was taking things up a notch.

It was one thing to order hits on prisoners, and definitely ballsy to order them on members of the Sicilian mafia. But it was a whole other matter to take out a contract on a state prosecutor. No one in this city took that shit lightly. Especially the heated detective standing next to me with murderous retribution blazing in his eyes.

He has to be stopped, Rome.

I had never seen such untapped wrath emanating from Connelly’s body.

We have to end Raphael Esposito.

I agreed, although I had to admit it was jarring to hear those words coming from the straight-shooting Connelly, who had always honored the badge he wore and the oath he’d taken. For him to make that statement…

But I guess whenever a man’s woman was threatened, he tended to lose his grip on reality. And if I’d learned anything from my four lovesick brothers over these many months, it was that. Love trumped the ethical code of even the most noble and honorable of men. My brothers would and had done anything to protect their women from any enemy. It was my duty to help see that happen, even if I didn’t have a woman of my own to keep safe.

I would do whatever it took to keep my family alive.

I’ve done a lot more for a lot less.

The boss of the New York mafia needed to be killed, once and for fucking all.

You said someone broke into Carmen LaMacchia’s house…

Connelly quirked an eyebrow, his expression still lethal. Yeah?

But she’s working to put Santi Gabbiano away for life, I pointed out. Santi tried to steal Raphael’s boss seat out from under him while he was in prison. Why would Raphael try to stop Carmen from locking Santi up?

Connelly’s eyes narrowed in contemplation. You’re right. That doesn’t make sense.

Taking hits out on Dominic and Santi, I understand. Raphael wants both of them out of the picture, in case they spill secrets Raphael doesn’t want to come out in trial. But going after Carmen doesn’t fit. Besides, she’s not in prison. It would be far easier to take her out than either of them, and you said someone just broke into her house. No one went after her with a knife.

You think it was someone else that went after Carmen, Connelly surmised, tapping his finger against the bar. Who? The Gabbianos?

Possibly. They have the biggest motive for wanting revenge on her.

Connelly scrubbed a hand down his harried face. Jesus Christ. This whole situation is fucked.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ash on the opposite end of the bar speaking to a customer who was noticeably angry. At her, apparently. Red faced and tight-mouthed, he was jabbing his finger in her face and using disrespectful language, if the expressions of the people around them were any indication.

I bristled.

I was no expert in human behavior, but my considerable military training taught me how to read body language and assess confrontation. Whatever this guy’s problem with Ash was, it appeared to be almost personal. Even drunk off his ass, this was an overreaction for getting his drink order wrong or rejecting his advances.

Knowing security would take care of the situation if it got out of hand, I still kept one eye on their interaction as I focused back on Connelly. Taking long pulls of my beer, I attempted to work out the direction of my thoughts and, quite frankly, the rationale behind them.

We need to take out Raphael. In order to do that, maybe we should start cracking down on his allies.

Connelly’s eyes darted to mine. Go after the other families?

I inclined my head. He’s not as strong without a mafia army behind him.

Of the original five New York crime families—barring the D’Angelos, who had recently left the organization—only one really had a personal vendetta against my family. The Espositos. My family, the Rossettis, were actually the sixth family that came over from Sicily in the early twentieth century. But my ancestors had quickly separated themselves from the other five after seeing the corruption and violence they were beginning to wield in pursuit of their so-called American dreams. The Rossettis had voluntarily exiled themselves to Brooklyn because they had discernable moral compasses, while the Espositos, Mancinis, Ferraros, Rinaldis, and D’Angelos set up shop in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan. The Espositos, by far, were the worst of the worst.

Over the generations, the Rossettis had taken it upon ourselves to interfere in mafia business whenever it stretched beyond the bounds of their sacred territory in Hell’s Kitchen. Or when it put too many innocent peoples’ lives at risk. We considered it our familial duty. The responsibility of our bloodline. And it had sure gotten us into some shit over the last year and a half.

We’d sent Raphael Esposito to prison. Had killed his only son and heir, Stefano, whenever he’d kidnapped my sister-in-law, Jasmine.

We’d gotten both Santi and Dominic Gabbiano arrested.

And we continued to foil Raphael’s plans to ally with other criminal organizations like the Russian mafia and the Mexican Garcia cartel. He not only wanted to wipe out my entire family—he wanted to take over the whole damn city.

The Organized Crime Unit and the DA have been building cases against the families for years, Connelly said. Maybe I can talk to them about taking a different angle. Any charges we can bring up that might drive wedges between the other families and Raphael are better than none.

We all know the Rinaldis have never liked Raphael as leader.

It took Connelly a minute to catch on before his laughter rang out, flat and mirthless. You think Carmine Rinaldi can be flipped? He shook his head. He’d never turn rat.

I’m not talking about turning rat to the cops. I’m talking about leading a coup against Raphael to get the boss seat out of the Esposito family.

Connelly’s face turned grim. The boss seat shifted families in the 80s and there was bloodshed for months.

Esposito is in hiding, though, I argued. His authority isn’t what it used to be. If there was a time for someone else to take over, it’s now. Carmine may not be a saint, but we both know he’s not as fucking evil as Raphael. He’s more about keeping everything in the family. There would be more containment if he were in charge.

And who’s going to be the one to convince him to make a move? Connelly asked pointedly.

I shrugged. "An enemy of our enemy could be our friend. At least temporarily.