Liam: An Enemies to Lovers Mafia Romance: Dublin Kings, #2

By LK Shaw

Dublin is mine for the taking.

So is Imogen.

She's become an obsession. A distraction. All I want is a taste to satisfy my craving.

But the minx escapes before I'm done with her. When I find out where she's hiding, she'll think twice about running from the next Dublin King.

 

Author's note: Please see my website for CW

• Language: English
• Publisher: LK Shaw
• Release date: Jun 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223931973

LK Shaw

LK Shaw is the bestselling author of sexy, sinful suspense. She resides in South Carolina with her high maintenance beagle mix dog, Miss P. An avid reader since childhood, she became hooked on historical romance novels in high school. She now reads, and loves, all romance sub-genres, with dark romance and romantic suspense being her favorite. LK enjoys traveling and chocolate. Her books feature hot alpha heroes and the strong women they love. Want a FREE short story? Be sure to sign up for her newsletter and download your copy of A Birthday Spanking, a short story set in the Doms of Club Eden world! http://bit.ly/LKShawNewsletter

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Imogen

If Stalkers Anonymous were a real organization, I’d be standing at the front of the room staring out over the assembly as they reply to my confession with, Hi, Imogen. 

Although maybe stalker is too strong a word. I like to consider myself more of an observer. A student, really, of life. Or, more specifically, of other people’s lives. Just because they have no idea I’m watching them is beside the point. I lean back in my gaming chair and pluck at the torn leather of the arm rest. I should probably upgrade to something less tattered, but this one has the perfect imprint of my ass and it’s comfortable. It’s a pain breaking in a new one. 

My gaze drifts to the giant computer monitor on my desk. One of many that fill my small inner sanctum I keep cut off from the outside world. On the screen are four video feeds separated into quadrants. Each square displays different angles of two different locations. And four different people I might have developed an unhealthy obsession with. I’ve tried breaking myself of it, but it doesn’t last more than two or three days before I’m logging back in and stalk—observing—them again. 

Jesus, Imogen, you really need to get a life. I shake my head and force myself to turn off the feed.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since—I tap my phone screen to check the time—late last night. Since a significant number of my clients are American, my work hours are fucked. I grab my messenger bag, shove my laptop in it, snatch up my keys, and head for the door. Once I secure the lock and engage the security system, I gallop down the stairs at the end of the hall and slam open the exit. 

Dawn hangs over the city, the sky a palette of pinks, purples, and blues. I breathe in the scent of fresh-baked scones and the citrus fragrance of my favorite tea from the bakery two storefronts down. The footpath is empty and only a delivery van is parked on the street. The brisk air sends a cold shiver across the back of my neck and down my spine. I should have snagged my scarf off the hook before I left. 

Picking up my pace, I hurry toward the bakery and tug on the door handle. Warmth and delicious smells bombard me. 

Morning, Imogen, James calls out. 

Morning. 

The usual? 

I get to my regular table and plop down onto the seat. You know it. 

While he’s making my tea and warming my scone, I bring out my laptop and set the bag on the chair next to me. I open the computer, unlock it with my fingerprint, and log in to check any messages left in my encrypted inbox. There’s one from a client in Dubai. This young and reckless prince I’ve done a couple things for needs video wiped of him at a club with a woman who’s not his wife. There’s another from a spoiled heiress who wants a virus planted in her cheating boyfriend’s computer. All boring stuff that, while the pay is decent, takes less than two minutes of my time. I’m in a rut and have been for a few months.

Ever since Mum died, and I discovered she’s been lying to me for twenty-seven years. 

Order’s ready, Imogen. 

After closing my computer, I grab my breakfast with a thanks and return to my seat. For a moment, I savor my tea, the warmth of the cup heating my palms wrapped around it. I slather the jam and clotted cream onto my scone and take a few bites before brushing the crumbs from my shirt and hands, and opening my laptop back up. 

The bakery door opens, bringing with it a gust of cold air that quickly dissipates as the door closes again, locking in the warmth, but I don’t bother looking up. My focus is on my screen. I quickly take care of the two tasks waiting for me and have another bite of scone. With that done, I need to search for something else that will occupy my time. A few keystrokes later, I’m scouring the dark web for jobs. 

A chair scrapes the floor, far too close, and finally, I glance up and blink. Then stare. Well, more like glare. 

Can I help you? It comes out a bit snippy, but how else should I react to finding some bloke—albeit a fucking gorgeous one—sitting in the chair directly across from me, when there are ten other tables where he could have sat? 

Perhaps. That single word is a deep rumble that makes my lady parts suddenly pay attention. His full lips—the kind that would make any woman envious—curl up almost cruelly and then quickly flatten. There’s a hardness in his bright blue eyes that sears into me.  

I’ve never quite gotten rid of the toxic trait of being attracted to men who radiate danger. This man is screaming it. But I also hate men who play games—no matter how breathtaking they are—and there’s a little voice whispering inside me that says he’s most definitely playing one. I’m just not sure what the rules are. Considering I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours, I don’t have the time or energy to find out, either.

Well, get on with it. I’m kind of busy here. 

His gaze drops to my laptop, no doubt judging my F*ck the Patriarchy and death metal stickers. He raises his eyes to meet mine again. Yes, I see that.

I keep my mouth shut and continue staring, my fingers tapping an impatient beat on the table top. That cruel smirk comes to those lips again, and my belly flutters. He takes a drink from the cup in front of him, sets it back on the table, and stands. He buttons his perfectly tailored, pin-striped suit jacket, while his gaze never leaves mine. I try not to squirm under the intensity of those sapphire eyes. 

Enjoy your scone. He turns and strides toward the exit, his steps confident and measured. The broad shoulders that fill out his jacket perfectly block some of the light coming through the glass as he stops in front of it. His hand is on the door, and he pivots to glance back at me. I’ll see you again soon, Imogen. 

It takes far too long for his words to register. By the time they do and I make it to my feet and across the length of the bakery, he’s gone. I head to the counter. 

Hey, have you ever seen that guy before? I ask James. The one that just left. 

Yeah, over the last couple months he’s been in a few times in the mornings. Usually comes in right after you do. 

Creepy, much?

Do you know his name? It will make searching for him that much easier. 

James shakes his head. Sorry. I’ve tried making conversation once or twice, but he’s the strong, silent type. I gave up. 

I blow out a harsh breath. Thanks, anyway. 

Hadn’t I just said I’m in a rut?

I have some digging to do. I pull up the security feed from the camera mounted outside the window of my workroom and start going through it.

There you are. 

My mystery man gets out of the backseat of a fancy black town car. I zoom in and get a good view of the registration. The feed still plays after I’ve memorized the number. I reverse it to try and capture anything else, but there’s nothing. The windows are tinted so dark I can’t even tell who the driver is. Having gotten what I needed, though, I run some more code while I wait. I finish off my scone and grimace at the tea gone cold. 

Finally, there’s a soft beep and I key in the plate number and run the search. Within seconds, I get a hit.

Fuck me.

I open a new tab and run another search just to be sure. This one gives me the same result, just as fast. I stare at the man in the photo, whose angry gaze stares right back at me. It’s no less effective than in person. As though he can see straight into my soul.

Liam Campbell. Aged thirty-seven. Stepson of Dónal Sheehan—not only the head of the second-most powerful family in Dublin, but also the bitter enemy of Carrick Donnelly, head of the Irish mafia. 

Fuck me twice.

CHAPTER 2

Liam

My cock is still semi-hard from my encounter with Imogen. The way she glared at me and her obvious irritation shouldn’t arouse me, but it does. It’s a refreshing change from the women who would suck me off just for a fraction of my attention. They all bore me. Every single one of them, with their tear-streaked faces and my come still drying on their lips as they realize I have no intention of giving them anything except that. They aren’t worth more of my time than a quick fuck or suck before I send them away.

The driver comes to a stop in front of my office building and opens the door for me to step out. I button my suit jacket and tug down my sleeves. The cold Dublin air dances across the back of my neck, but I ignore the chill, glance around briefly, before climbing the three steps and entering through the front. It’s too early for my assistant to be in, so the waiting area is empty and dark. 

I cross the polished hardwood floor and head toward my office. Everything around me is kept clean and shiny. I make sure of it. I like to surround myself with luxury and only the best of things. I want business associates to envy what I have. The door to my office is cracked and the overhead light turned on. I pause before pushing it open the rest of the way. 

Don’t you have your own bed to sleep in? I put away the gun I’d drawn and glare at my cousin.

Declan doesn’t move from his sprawled position on the chaise except to open one eye and then close it again. But then I wouldn’t see your smiling face. Besides, I’d been hoping to catch a glimpse of Ashlynn. 

Normally, I’d let him attempt to seduce any of my assistants he wanted, but she’s the first one I’ve had that I can at least tolerate and who hasn’t quit within a week. "Leave her alone or I will actually shoot you."

He heaves a sigh and finally sits up. It’s not an empty threat and he knows it. Didn’t you just go stalk your little obsession? You should be in a much better mood than you are. 

You’re lucky you’re my cousin. I round my desk and take a seat. The scent of new leather swirls around me. Was there something you needed besides wanting to annoy me?

Declan wipes away his amusement. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands in front of them. "I wasn’t sure if you had heard yet that your dear old stepda went to Anamacha Caillte last night."

Of course he did. I shake my head in disgust but also in annoyance that I hadn’t been informed. How much did he lose this time? 

My cousin shifts in his seat. All of it. 

Fucking bastard. 

There’s more. Declan clears his throat. He couldn’t meet the bet with cash, so he wagered Nessa’s virginity to make up the difference. His opponent took the deal and won. 

Who was it? 

He doesn’t answer.

Declan. It’s a warning. 

Cian Donnelly.

My jaw clenches so hard, it’s a wonder my teeth don’t break. A better man would care that his much younger step-sister had just been used to pay a debt, but that’s not what pisses me off. It’s the fact that Dónal Sheehan lost more of my money to the Donnellys. Whatever pittance my worthless stepda has left is also my money. Just as soon as I take care of him. He has no idea how many of his men have turned their backs on him. Lost respect for him. Their loyalties have switched to someone who has what it takes to gain control of Dublin. Who doesn’t give a fuck about truces.

That someone is me. 

I’ve bided my time. Made more and more money, garnered high-powered business associates, and earned the respect—or perhaps, fear—of those who will soon belong to the most powerful organization in the city. The Donnellys have ruled for too long. It’s time fresh blood reigns. I don’t intend on that being Dónal Sheehan, Carrick Donnelly, or any of his sons either. 

Do you think he’ll marry her? 

Donnelly? I huff out a breath. Not a chance. He has no interest in aligning their families. They hate Sheehan nearly as much as I do. My guess is he’ll fuck her a few times and then send her back to her loving Da disgraced. Virginity is a high commodity when it comes to alliances. Although I’ll never understand why a man would want to deal with an unskilled lover who’ll probably flinch and cry every time he tries to touch them. 

Declan nods. I assume then that this news doesn’t change your plans in any way? 

Why would it? 

"Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to. The man who doesn’t care about anyone. Not even an innocent young woman—his sister—who’s done nothing to him." My cousin sits up and leans back into the couch.

I stare at him, bored with this conversation already. Nessa Sheehan is not my sister, a fact of which you are well aware. You’re also aware that your continued attempts at being my conscience are pointless. Because you’re right. I don’t care about anyone. 

Declan scoffs. Not even me. 

Not even you. 

He stands and studies me. I merely return his stare, not flinching under the disgust he can’t control in his expression. With a small shake of his head, he turns and heads for my office door. He pauses just as he reaches it and glances back at me. 

You know, I used to look up to you when we were growing up. Both Aran and I did. Declan laughs harshly. Not anymore though. I’m not sure when you changed, but this new you? I don’t even know who you are. Best of luck with your little coup. I hope it brings you some measure of happiness. Although I’m not sure you even know what that emotion feels like. 

Declan walks out the door, not even bothering to close it behind him. I continue sitting there while his footsteps fade the farther away he gets until, finally, they—and he—are gone. His contempt stings a little. If I did care about anyone, it would be him and his brother. The three of us had been close once. But that time has passed, and the only person I care about is myself.

I unlock the top right desk drawer, open it, pick up the manila envelope lying on top, and set it in front of me. For a second, it remains unopened.

I’ve memorized its contents. Still, I reach inside and flip through each of the photographs. 

The subject of them is far more vibrant in person than in this flat, two-dimensional rendering. The purple and teal streaks that add color to her shoulder-length black hair. Those bright blue eyes that sparked annoyance at my intrusion of her personal space this morning and made my cock hard. Still makes it hard. I can’t wait to sink deep inside her cunt. And I will, too. No doubt her eyes will spit more than just irritation. I’m actually looking forward to it. 

Setting the pictures down, I glance at the paper with minimal details on it. Imogen Walsh. Twenty-seven years old. Mother: Maire Walsh (deceased). Da: Unknown. An address is also listed. Graduated at the top of her class from University College Dublin with a degree in computer science. Other than that, I haven’t been able to find anything else out about her. Declan isn’t far off, calling her an obsession. From the first moment I laid eyes on her, she’d unknowingly drawn me in. I’ve wanted her ever since. And I always get what I want.

CHAPTER 3

Imogen

The ear-splitting alarm jolts me awake. I grab my phone from the nightstand and shut it off. Not ready to get up yet, I roll onto my back with my eyes closed. Dreams of Liam Campbell plagued my sleep. Some were terrifying. The majority of them, however, elicited a far different reaction. A throbbing heat low in my belly returns as I recall the vivid images of sweat-slicked bodies writhing together. Don’t forget who he is. 

He isn’t classically beautiful. In fact, there’s a harshness to his features that some might find unattractive. His skin isn’t smooth and unblemished. It appears rough and rugged beneath the close-cut beard. Still, he is a striking figure with his full lips, piercing blue eyes, thick brows, and overly-long hair that sticks up just the slightest bit in front. Don’t get me started on the way he filled out his jacket. I may not have the best fashion sense, but I can pick out an expensive suit anywhere. Which makes sense considering who he is. 

What did he mean he’d see me again soon? More importantly, how did he know my name? I still can’t figure that out. My second phone rings. The completely secure one I use for business. Liam will have to wait.

Maddox. The built-in digitizer disguises my voice.

It’s Donnelly. Got a job for you. 

I sit upright on high alert. For nearly ten years I’ve been doing various jobs for Padraig Donnelly. He’s one of my highest paying clients and always hires me for things that utilize some of my best skills. It’s crazy I didn’t connect his relationship to Carrick Donnelly until five or six years ago. Then again, Padraig does live in Brooklyn. 

What do you need? I rush across my bedroom and grab my laptop from where I dumped my bag when I got home from the bakery before I crashed. 

My fingers fly across my keyboard as he gives me the details of the job. Adrenaline pumps through my veins and wipes away any sleep that still remains. Finally a task worth doing. Not just for the money either. Give me a couple hours, and I’ll have something for you. 

Payment is already on its way to your account. 

I end the call and get to work. Of all the jobs I’ve done for him, this is certainly one of the easiest, but still hard enough to let me flex my skills.

Everyone in Dublin is aware of who the Donnellys are. Mostly because they run the largest crime syndicate in the city. They have the Gardaí in their pocket, so the authorities look the other way. They also run the most successful—and exclusive—casino in Dublin. Generally speaking, gambling is illegal. But they’ve gotten around the law through a couple loopholes.

My laptop pings, and I sit forward to analyze the data on my screen. I enter more code and let it run. Hopefully, it doesn’t take too long. There’s nothing I can do until my program finishes, so I hop in the shower, throw on a thermal shirt and my favorite pair of black jeans. The hardwood floor is cold under my feet, so I grab an old pair of wool socks Mum bought me for Christmas one year and sit on the edge of my bed to put them on. 

Tears come to my eyes as I stroke the slightly scratchy material. Grief is weird. I’m still angry at her for keeping secrets from me, but I miss her so much. She’d been all I had, my best friend. Swiping away the tears, I put the socks on and head back into the bathroom to comb through my hair. I stare at myself in the mirror, picking apart my features. Annoyed that I still look like myself, I go out to the kitchenette and boil some water for tea. Just as the timer goes off on my electric kettle, my computer pings. 

I pour