A Silent Threat

By Amelie Vesper

She was born into the mafia. She escaped it. Now it wants her back.

Alannah spent her childhood surrounded by criminals, secrets, and bloodstained loyalties—until her father's arrest shattered everything. Determined to escape the life that nearly destroyed her family, she built a new future far from organized crime, juggling college, waitressing, and the fragile illusion of normalcy.

But the past never forgets.

When British intelligence offers her a brutal deal—freedom for her imprisoned, tortured father in exchange for betrayal—Alannah is forced to return to the world she swore she'd never touch again. Her mission is clear: infiltrate the Irish mafia and spy on the most dangerous man in the United Kingdom.

Seamus is a legend. A ruthless Don with an iron grip on London's underworld, he rules through fear, strategy, and absolute control. A widower, a father, and a man surrounded by enemies, he trusts no one—especially not the girl who once roamed the halls of his mansion and now stands before him asking for a job.

She fears him.
He suspects her.
Neither is prepared for the slow-burning desire that turns every glance into a risk and every touch into a potential death sentence.

As lies tighten and loyalties blur, Alannah must choose between love and survival, truth and deception—because in the mafia, hesitation is fatal, and desire can be the most dangerous weapon of all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amelie Vesper
• Release date: Jan 30, 2026
• ISBN: 9798233828546

Amelie Vesper

Amelie Vesper crafts dark romance, suspense, and thrillers that explore obsession, danger, and forbidden desires. Her gripping stories pull readers into shadowy worlds where passion burns, secrets unravel, and nothing is ever as it seems—perfect for those who crave the darker side of love.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Alannah Fitzpatrick

Five Years Earlier

IT’S LATE AFTERNOON. My father and I are at Seamus Flanagan’s house to pick up my mother, who has just finished another day’s work. She’s worked here as a housemaid for as long as I can remember, while my father works as a driver.

Not Seamus’s driver. The Don of the Irish mob has his own personal driver, a well-trained soldier, as dangerous and lethal as Seamus himself and all the members of the security team that accompany him wherever he goes.

My father transports goods. Small packages sent and received by the Don and some of his advisors.

Seamus’s property is in the Virginia Water area of Wentworth Estate, an exclusive enclave for London’s billionaire elite. It’s the largest, most luxurious home I’ve ever been in.

There are countless acres of land, divided between the sumptuous mansion, a vast golf course, immaculate gardens, and even a private stable where the boss keeps his million-pound horses.

My mother used to bring me to spend the day with her when I was a child, and in a way, I spent practically my entire childhood within these walls.

But when I reached my teens, my parents decided I was old enough to look after our own house, and now, at sixteen, I devote myself entirely to my studies and the responsibilities of our home, a modest house in Tottenham Hale.

Still, I make a point of coming with my father whenever he comes to collect my mother. I like being here, where I can look at the Don if I’m lucky enough to bump into him in the hallways.

Despite the fear he inspires in me with his ice-cold killer’s eyes and his perpetually hardened expression, Seamus is, without a doubt, the most beautiful man who has ever existed.

It’s impossible not to want to watch him every day, even if it’s only from afar, even if he never looks back, and even though he has never spoken a word to me. After all, he’s a busy man, always in a hurry.

We don’t talk much about it—it’s considered a forbidden subject—but we know Seamus Flanagan is the head of the largest mafia organization in Europe, running illicit businesses that stretch across the region where we live and also into the United States, where he travels frequently.

Where’s the Don? Traveling again? I ask Maeve, one of the housemaids, a friend of mine since I was a child.

We’re in the fireplace room. I’m helping her meticulously polish a set of silver cutlery, just to try and stave off the boredom while I wait for my father to finish talking with one of the Don’s advisors, locked in the office.

Conversations in the office, behind closed doors, are never quick, and while we wait, my mother uses the time to get a head start on some of tomorrow’s lunch garnishes.

She won’t let me help her, worried I’ll ruin something, since I’m not very good in the kitchen and, in this house, everything must be absolutely perfect.

Looking for something to pass the time and fight the boredom, I leave the house and head towards the back garden. The sun is already beginning to set, staining the horizon with a yellow band that softly lights the sky.

Here, everything is impeccable and orderly, with human intervention visible in every detail, from the perfectly tended plants to the stone path, bordered by a white edging, that snakes through the vast space.

I go down the hill where the house is situated, cross the orchard, and before I know it, my feet are carrying me towards the stables, following paths I know well, ones I used to run freely along as a child.

I’m sure the Don is at the stables as soon as I see Bran and Robert, his personal bodyguards, standing near the entrance, chatting idly. They follow him everywhere, like shadows.

They’re so absorbed in their conversation that I manage to skirt the entrance, hiding in the bushes, and enter the stables unseen, heading towards the stalls through the thick vegetation, always staying well hidden.

It’s not the first time I’ve come to the stables just to see Seamus riding, for the simple pleasure of watching him on his horse, always imposing, haughty, and absurdly handsome. I don’t do it expecting him to look back, especially since I always keep myself very well hidden.

Even if he weren’t married, the mafia Don would never look at a housemaid’s daughter. Before his marriage, the women he was involved with were internationally famous actresses and models, all rich and dazzling.

I approach the stables in silence, my steps light on the soft grass. The trees around sway gently in the chilly evening breeze, the air heavy with the smell of freshly cut grass and the sweet perfume of the flowers surrounding the property.

Soon I spot the two horses tied to the trunk of a sturdy tree, near the stalls. The reins are loose, the animals still wearing their dark leather bridles and saddles.

I recognize the horses immediately: the black stallion is Seamus’s favorite, and the chestnut mare is the one Maura, his wife, usually rides.

I’m still watching the animals when I hear a moan. A low, muffled, husky sound, laden with something I can’t define, but which makes me shiver.

Reflexively, I crouch lower, shrinking further into my hiding spot among the thick bushes, my body pressed against the vegetation.

The moan repeats, followed by a muffled whisper and the sound of movement on dry leaves. I risk a peek, slipping between the bushes just enough to see what’s happening further ahead.

The impact hits me like a punch to the stomach.

Seamus is there, completely naked, kneeling on a dark blanket spread on the ground. His broad, muscular, lightly sweaty back gleams under the orange evening light.

The tattoos scattered across his shoulders and arms stand out, with black lines that contrast with his pale skin and stretch over his defined, precisely sculpted muscles. He holds his wife’s hips firmly, pulling her against him.

She’s on all fours, supported on her knees and elbows, her head turned to the side, her brown hair fanned out over the blanket’s fabric. Her body rocks with each of his thrusts, her heavy breasts moving, her mouth slightly open releasing low, broken moans.

The wet, rhythmic sound of the act mixes with their ragged breathing. My eyes, no matter how I fight it, slide to the point where their bodies join.

That’s when I see his member, thick, rigid, slick, sliding in and out of her cunt with vigorous, deep movements, as if he wanted to wring from her not just pleasure, but her entire soul.

I feel my face catch fire. A strange, unknown heat ignites low in my belly and rises through my body like an uncontrollable wave. My breath falters. My chest rises and falls irregularly.

I know I shouldn’t be peeking, it’s outrageous and immoral. I try to look away, but I simply can’t. The scene is hypnotic.

Seamus’s body is the most splendid, irresistible sight I’ve ever seen in my life. His thighs are thick, hairy, and tense with effort. His back is defined, the muscles in his arms contracting as he holds her waist.

His round, firm ass moves in a calculated, possessive rhythm. His moans are rough, low, full of dominance. Hers, muffled, submissive.

They are completely lost in each other, oblivious to anything around them, while I remain paralyzed, fascinated, aroused in a way I can’t explain.

The unknown, aching heat spreads even between my legs, my whole body tingles, my thoughts become a tangled mess of confusion and curiosity.

I continue to watch them, while the insane, depraved desire to be in that woman’s place takes hold of me, shamelessly.

Seamus thrusts harder, the sound of their pelvises colliding mixing with stifled moans. Maura’s body trembles beneath his, and then she lets out a sharp sound of pleasure, arching her back.

He leans over her, his body pressed against hers, his hips still moving, slower now, until he finally stops.

They remain like that for a few seconds, panting, sweaty, glued to each other, oblivious to the eyes watching them.

After a long moment, he lies down beside her, pulling her against his chest. They kiss. A calm, almost tender kiss that seems completely at odds with the brutality and possession of moments before.

And then, the impossible happens.

Seamus ends the kiss and fixes his cold, empty eyes on his wife’s face. Without any warning, without saying a single word, he fits his large, strong hands on either side of her head and, in a quick, precise, and ruthless movement, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, twists her neck, breaking it with a dry, brutal crack.

My entire body locks up.

The sound of the crack echoes through the clearing before Maura’s eyes close forever, her body going completely still, lifeless, her neck twisted at an impossible angle.

My hand flies to my mouth, stifling the scream rising in my throat. My stomach churns. My legs tremble so much I can barely stay crouched.

I feel terror swallowing me from the inside out. I can’t move. I can’t even breathe properly. Then, Seamus turns his face and looks directly in my direction.

The whole world seems to freeze.

His eyes, icy and impenetrable as always, sweep over the bushes where I’m hiding. I don’t know if he actually sees me or if he’s just staring into the dark of the early night. But my entire body understands the danger before my mind can process it, a cold shiver running down my spine.

I need to get out of here.

I force myself to move. My body heavy, my legs wobbly, but I manage to drag myself backward, my breath caught in my throat, careful not to make any noise that might betray my presence.

Once I’ve gained enough distance, I stand up, turn, and run. I run as if death itself is chasing me. I run through the orchard, through the garden, across the lawn without looking back.

By the time I finally reach the house, the sky is completely dark.

My chest burns, the air tearing into my lungs. The terror still pulses in me, leaving me dizzy and trembling from head to toe.

I don’t know if Seamus saw me. I don’t know what will happen now. But one thing is certain: if he did see me, I’ll be the next one with my neck broken by his hands.

I don’t say anything to anyone. I walk to the kitchen, where my mother is still preparing something on the stove, and sit in a corner, trying to make myself invisible, fearing someone will notice the terror gripping me and decide to ask what happened.

The whole time, only one thought hammers insistently in my mind: if I get out of this house alive, I will never, ever set foot here again.

What remains for me to know is whether I will get out.

Time drags with torturous slowness, with no sign of my parents finishing their tasks soon and getting me out of there.

I’m still sitting in the kitchen, paralyzed, almost in shock, when the commotion begins—alarmed voices, people running back and forth, hurried footsteps echoing through the house.

From my spot, I look out of the kitchen and see Seamus passing by, carrying his wife’s body in his arms. His face, already naturally hardened, seems even more terrifying at that moment.

The explanation he gives to the people around him is simple and cold: Maura fell from her horse and broke her neck.

It’s then that I understand, with suffocating clarity, that my life is in even greater danger than I imagined.

Because if I so much as dream of telling anyone that Seamus Flanagan, the leader of the Irish mob, murdered his own wife, the mother of his six-month-old baby, I know I will be silenced forever.

CHAPTER 1

Alannah Fitzpatrick

Present Day

I WAKE TO THE CRASH of something hitting the floor and shattering. I’m out of bed in a leap, completely disoriented, my mind still sluggish from too few hours of sleep, my body exhausted by the lack of them.

It was past one in the morning when I got home, after another shift at the bar where I work as a waitress. And it’s still early.

I can’t have slept more than five hours. A routine that’s been repeating itself since I started university three years ago.

Since my classes are almost always in the morning, I have to work afternoons and evenings to cover all the household expenses, and even then, the money is never enough for everything.

Mainly because my mother needs expensive medications, which she takes daily, ever since she had a stroke.

Still dazed by the abrupt interruption of sleep, I rush through the house trying to pinpoint where the noise came from and end up in the kitchen, where I find my mother unsuccessfully trying to gather the shards of the glass bowl she just dropped.

When she had the stroke, about two years ago, she lost some movement on the right side of her body and has needed a cane to get around ever since, along with having some difficulty speaking.

I’ll clean that up, Mum, I offer, taking the dustpan and brush from her hands.

Don’t need to. I can manage. I’m not an invalid, she retorts, her words slurred by the after-effects.

I know you’re not. But I can do it faster. Sit down, I’ll make us some coffee.

She doesn’t like it, but she obeys, walking with the aid of her cane to the table and settling in.

I was going to make some pancakes, but these glass bowls are too heavy, I ended up dropping it and it broke. Next time, buy plastic ones. They’re cheaper and safer.

I didn’t buy it. You did, a long time ago. But I’ll bring a lighter one when I go to the market.

Bring some cleaning supplies, too. We’re out of bathroom disinfectant. And I think the pancake mix is finished as well.

I know, Mum. I’ll buy everything as soon as I get paid.

I finish gathering the glass shards, use the bathroom quickly, and return to the kitchen looking for something to make for breakfast.

It’s still over a week until my payday from the bar and practically all the food is gone.

It’s like this every month. The money barely covers the basics, sometimes we hardly have anything to eat. A torment that’s repeated itself since my father was arrested.

It happened not long after I got a scholarship to study journalism at the University of London. He was delivering a small shipment of drugs when the police surprised him.

After resisting arrest, he ended up killing one of the officers and, due to the severity of the crime, was taken to HMP Belmarsh, London’s most feared maximum-security prison, known for housing some of the UK’s most dangerous criminals, including terrorists.

In the mob, when a member gets arrested, two outcomes are certain: either he’s killed by the organization itself to prevent him from talking, or he’s sprung. With my father, neither happened.

According to my mother, Seamus claimed, in a tone of someone granting a great favor, that he wouldn’t have him killed because he trusted him and was sure he wouldn’t open his mouth about the mob, even under torture.

On the other hand, he also said he couldn’t get him released, as not even his allies in the government could secure the freedom of a criminal who’d murdered a police officer.

As for helping him escape, that would be impossible, due to the highly complex security of the prison institution where he’s held.

Since he was imprisoned, my father has been constantly tortured by agents trying to extract information about the mob. The last time I visited him, two weeks ago, he was all beaten up, his face swollen and the marks of violence scattered across his body, as visible as they were infuriating.

I just wish I had the power to get him out of that hell, but it’s impossible. Even if we had the money to hire a good lawyer, no one could secure the freedom of a mobster who killed a cop, except the Don of the mob himself. But he doesn’t seem the least bit interested.

When you’re part of a criminal organization like the mob, there’s no way out alive. Still, faced with Seamus’s disinterest in freeing my father, my mother and I decided to cut ties.

She quit her job as a housemaid and started working for herself, selling cakes and sweets.

However, just a few months later, she had the stroke and was unable to work, which forced me to split my time between my university course and my job as a waitress to support the household.

It’s not working, not by a long shot. The money I earn barely covers the basics, mostly because of the high cost of my mother’s medications. On top of that, I’m constantly exhausted, with no time for absolutely anything besides studying and waiting tables.

I’ve thought about quitting university and getting a full-time job many times. But I persist, because I know how hard it was to get my scholarship and I’m sure this is my only chance to make something of myself and not end up like my parents.

CHAPTER 2

Alannah Fitzpatrick

AFTER TURNING THE LAST slices of bread in the fridge into toast for our breakfast, I leave the house almost at a run, late for my first class.

I catch the Victoria Line and ride it to King’s Cross St. Pancras, where I walk the rest of the way to campus.

The stifling heat of that London summer makes my blouse stick to my back, and the air feels heavy as I stride down the busy pavement, weaving through the hurried crowds on the walk from the tube to campus.

My eyes burn, my body aches, but I keep going, forcing my legs to maintain the pace, my mind already fixed on the lecture I’m about to miss.

I round the corner near Euston Road and head toward King’s Cross St. Pancras, where the campus isn’t far.

It’s a route I know blindfolded, almost automatic, so much so that at first I don’t even notice the dark car pulling up to the curb, slowing to match my pace.

I only notice when the rear door swings open abruptly and a man steps onto the pavement, hurried but without the aggressive air I’d expect from someone about to mug me.

Still, my stomach clenches and the survival instinct screams inside me.

I take two steps back, my hand already going to the pocket where I usually keep my phone, but the man raises his hands, as if trying to calm a skittish animal.

Easy. I’m not going to hurt you, he says, his voice firm but controlled. I just need to talk to you, Alannah.

The fact that he knows my name makes my chest tighten. My eyes scan his face, searching for any trace of familiarity.

He’s tall, in his mid-thirties, dark hair swept back, stubbled, with a serious expression, and he’s wearing a discreet black suit.

He’s not mob. I’m sure of that. Mob guys don’t approach like this, in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, and they never, ever, come alone.

I take another step back, feeling my palms grow damp.

Who are you? What do you want with me? My voice comes out shaky, but loud enough to draw attention if I need to.

He pulls something from the inside pocket of his jacket and shows me, quickly, a badge bearing the British government crest, his face stamped on the official ID, alongside the name: Jonathan Hale, MI5.

I swallow hard, the name landing like a punch to the gut. MI5. British intelligence.

It’s not safe to talk here. Please, get in the car. I’ll explain everything. He gestures to the vehicle parked beside us, a black sedan with tinted windows, discreet but not overt.

I shake my head, refusing.

You could be anyone, but I don’t get into cars with strangers. You showed a badge, great, but I have nothing to say to you.

He takes a deep breath, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he assesses my face.

I understand. It’s smart to be wary. But if I wanted to kidnap you, you’d already be in the car. I’m not a thug. I’m with the intelligence service, and I can get your father out of Belmarsh.

The world seems to stop for a second. I feel the blood drain from my face, my legs going weak, the sound of cars, of voices, everything fading behind that sentence.

What? My voice comes out a whisper. You said you can get my father out of prison?

He nods, his expression grave.

Yes. But I need you to hear me out first. And honestly, this isn’t the place. You don’t want the whole world knowing who you are, much less what we can do for you. So please, Alannah. Get in the car. Just listen. Afterward, if you want to walk away, no one will stop you.

I stand there, my brain spinning so fast I can almost feel a headache coming on. He knows my name. He knows about my father. He’s MI5. He showed ID. Of course it could be fake, it could be a setup, but mobsters don’t do this. And he doesn’t look like a mobster.

I look into the car. The black leather seats, the driver in dark glasses, impassive at the wheel. No other passengers. It’s risky, but my curiosity, the stupid, desperate hope blooming in my chest, speaks louder. It can’t hurt to listen.

I take one hesitant step, then another, and get into the car. The door closes with a muted click and soon the vehicle is moving again through the busy streets.

Jonathan settles into the seat beside me, watching me in silence for a few seconds before he begins to speak.

First of all, I want to be clear this isn’t blackmail. It’s an opportunity. And honestly, you’re the only person who can help us with this.

I cross my arms, my gaze fixed on him.

And what exactly is ‘this’?

He adjusts his tie, as if weighing his words.

We know you and your family are part of the Irish mob.

We’re not part of that world anymore. That’s in the past.

But you know it well, and that’s what matters. He pauses, as if choosing his words. Your leader, Seamus Flanagan, is involved in arms trafficking, money laundering, maybe even terrorism, but we can’t get concrete evidence against him. His businesses are perfect fronts, and infiltrating someone is almost impossible. Almost. He pauses again, staring at me. Except if that person was born and raised in that world. Like you.

My stomach sinks, already understanding where this is going.

You want me to infiltrate the mob?

Not just infiltrate. Work for us. Feed us information on Seamus’s operations.

That’s insane.

It’s not insane. You know their world. You’re considered trustworthy among those people. Plus, you have a reason to want to go back to work for the family. Just let them know you’re having financial difficulties.

How do you know I’m struggling? How do you know so much about me?

We’ve had eyes on you for a while. We didn’t decide to recruit you overnight. You’re our only chance to put those criminals behind bars.

No one puts mob bosses behind bars. They have contacts everywhere. You should know that.

That’s why we need you inside, feeding us information. We can’t arrest them immediately, but we can sabotage their operations bit by bit, seize shipments, shut down front companies, weaken them until they have no allies left. Think of how many lives we could save if we pull this off.

I’m not interested. First, because Seamus would never take back someone who turned their back on the mob. Second, because he’d kill me without blinking if I got caught.

Then don’t get caught. And he wouldn’t turn his back on the family of a man whose life he so ‘generously’ spared. The sarcasm in the last word is evident.

This guy must be out of his mind if he really thinks I’ll agree to betray the mob, knowing it would be like signing my own death warrant.

Seamus is a monster. A cold, merciless killer. A man capable of taking the life of the woman who bore his own son. Of murdering, with his own hands and without a shred of remorse, the mother of a six-month-old baby.

It’s precisely because I know the monstrosity this man is capable of that, in the five years since I saw him coldly kill his wife, I’ve never dared open my mouth about what I witnessed that