The Bodyguard

Ch 1: Someone is trying to kill me.

I'm exhausted.

Mingling with London's most feared crime families is tiring work, not to mention extremely degrading at times. My brother—mafia boss of the Gallagher family—is the most compassionate person I know and even he cannot control how others look at me. Before, women were nothing. Simply there to look pretty, marry for political gain and birth children. Now, things are changing. Women can be mafia bosses. And while some celebrate that, others ridicule the change.

"You look miserable as fuck."

Imogen Murphy approaches, lethal in a red, silk number. It's a good job I consider her a close friend. Not many get away with talking to me like that. In the past year, I've become less lenient on snide comments and backhanded compliments. I'm no longer the easy-going girl I once was. Circumstances have moulded me. Changed me. I like to think I'm the same person, just with less fucks to give. But I know that's not true. I'm different. Both physically and mentally.

"Just tried," I state, bringing the champagne flute to my lips and pretending to drink.

Imogen's security flank her, unprepared to give her too wide a birth. As the only female mafia boss this side of the pond, her biggest challenge is surviving. In the year she's been sworn in, many have questioned her abilities. Those stupid enough to voice them aloud have had to deal with the wrath of her husband, Torin. He's the mafia boss of the O'Brien family and—interestingly enough—my ex-fiancé.

"I'm sure there's more to it than that," she argues, gently placing her hand on my forearm.

My eyes briefly scan the handsome face of Torin's underboss, Reaper Romano. His dark eyes focus on the man he's talking to, expression blank. I bypass his beautiful features to the object he's holding in his right hand, insides twisting as a result. Whiskey always was his drink of choice.

I can't fucking stand the stuff.

"Eva?"

Imogen's concerned eyes are directly in front of mine, searching for answers.

"Have you spoken to Cillian tonight?" I ask. "He had some interesting ideas."

"Let's not talk about work right now," she replies, certainly not subtle in her need to keep attention on me.

"What else is there to talk about?"

"You," she insists. "Your sad, pathetic eyes."

I turn to her, smirk on show. "It's a good job you're surrounded by bodyguards right now."

"Why's that?" she asks, humouring me.

"I'd kick your arse if they weren't here."

Her laugher is loud as she throws her head back, shoulders shaking. I playfully punch her in the arm and join her in giggling, welcoming the relief it offers. We both must look mad right now. These charity events are always the same. Sophisticated with a touch of snobbery. Certainly not the place for two Irish girls to be snort-laughing over their champagne flutes.

"Excuse me, I must ask that you both leave the premises immediately," states a voice I recognise. "Such loud noises will not be tolerated."

Fiona—Imogen's underboss and my friend—offers me a wide smile whilst pressing another glass of champagne into my hands.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" I ask.

"Yes."

I love that she doesn't deny it.

"This party is boring as balls. I need you to do something scandalous to liven things up."

"Want me to flash my boobs?" asks Imogen.