Black Sheep Read online

  Black Sheep

  Meghan March

  Contents

  Black Sheep

  About Black Sheep

  1. Drew

  2. Cannon

  3. Drew

  4. Drew

  5. Drew

  6. Drew

  7. Drew

  8. Drew

  9. Drew

  10. Drew

  11. Cannon

  12. Drew

  13. Cannon

  14. Cannon

  15. Drew

  16. Drew

  17. Cannon

  18. Drew

  19. Cannon

  20. Drew

  21. Cannon

  22. Drew

  23. Cannon

  24. Drew

  25. Cannon

  26. Drew

  27. Cannon

  28. Drew

  29. Drew

  30. Cannon

  31. Drew

  32. Cannon

  33. Drew

  34. Cannon

  35. Drew

  36. Cannon

  37. Drew

  38. Cannon

  39. Drew

  40. Drew

  41. Cannon

  42. Drew

  43. Cannon

  44. Drew

  45. Cannon

  46. Drew

  47. Cannon

  48. Memphis

  Preview of The Fall of Legend

  About the Author

  Also by Meghan March

  Black Sheep

  Book One of the Dirty Mafia Duet

  * * *

  Meghan March

  Copyright © 2019 by Meghan March LLC

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing,

  www.bulletproofediting.com

  * * *

  Cover Design: Letitia Hassar, R.B.A. Designs, www.rbadesigns.com

  * * *

  Cover photo: Regina Wamba, Mae I Design,

  www.exclusivebookstock.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  * * *

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.

  About Black Sheep

  From New York Times bestselling author Meghan March comes a story of untold truths and one man’s redemption in the Dirty Mafia Duet.

  * * *

  Every family has a black sheep.

  In the infamous Casso crime family, that black sheep is me—Cannon Freeman.

  Except I’m not a free man. I’ve never been free. Not since the day I was born.

  I owe my loyalty to my father, Dominic Casso, even if he won’t publicly acknowledge me as his blood.

  I’ve never had a reason to go against his wishes . . . until I met her.

  Drew Carson turned my world upside down when she walked into my club looking for a job.

  Now, my honor and my life are on the line.

  Going against my father’s wishes might buy me a bullet straight from his gun, but black sheep or not, it’s time to make my stand.

  She’s worth the fallout.

  In addition to Black Sheep, I’ve also included a special sneak peek of my newest deliciously dangerous alpha hero, Gabriel Legend. The Fall of Legend is coming November 12, 2019, and you won’t want to miss it!

  1

  Drew

  I walk into the most important job interview of my life knowing every word out of my mouth will be a lie. The résumé and references in my bag are all fake, but thanks to one of my close friends, a white-hat hacker, no one will ever know.

  I will get this job. I will get my answers. There’s no other acceptable alternative.

  I repeat those vows to myself as I leave my security escort behind with a smile and push open the heavy carved wooden door to the Upper Ten, the most exclusive cigar club in Manhattan. Instead of smoke hanging in the air, the luxurious interior reeks of money and secrets.

  Perfect. Secrets are exactly why I’m here.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  A man with no neck in a tailored suit approaches me as soon as the door leading to the club foyer slips shut behind me with a whoosh of air that blows my skirt into a flutter around my legs. His bald head shines under the recessed lighting of the impressive room.

  Through the thick glass wall to my left, I can see what brings some of the richest men in the world into this insanely expensive, members-only club—a massive humidor containing row after row of wooden boxes filled with fat cigars. From my research, I know that sources estimate the value of the stock in that large humidity-controlled room at millions of dollars.

  Hefting my bag and swinging the tresses of my long blond wig over my shoulder, I give him a sweet smile. “I’m here for an interview, actually, with Mr.—”

  “She’s with me.” A voice, deep and smooth like the thousand-dollar-a-glass cognac they no doubt serve here, comes from behind the bull guarding the door.

  My gaze darts around the doorman and catches on an imposing figure in a bespoke suit with subtle navy pinstripes. The lines hang perfectly on his tall, rangy frame.

  It’s him. My target . . . and hopefully my new boss.

  Except the man in person is worlds apart from the man on paper. I thought I was prepared to come face-to-face with him, but mere ink on a page can’t convey his powerful presence. In the high-ceilinged antechamber, his authoritative posture commands more attention than the bulk and muscle of the doorman beside him, and with nothing more than the sound of his voice.

  A voice I recognize.

  Not because we’ve ever been in the same room before, but because I went through dozens of hours of audio and video before applying for this job at the Upper Ten. I’ve read article after article and unearthed every available public record that hasn’t been erased on this man and his family.

  As I tense, I force myself to visualize him behind bars, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The exercise helps me regain my calm.

  I can do this. I’ve done it dozens of times. Deception isn’t new to me. It’s my job.

  As soon as I’m centered, I look up, pinning an eager, yet slightly nervous smile to my face. It’s a mask, but he’ll never know.

  There’s only one problem. When his rich hazel eyes, a mix of whiskey and bright green, collide with mine, an unwelcome bolt of heat slams into me in pure female appreciation.

  No. No. No. That’s not supposed to happen. Truly, this is the opposite of what’s supposed to happen. I’m supposed to be cold and indomitable, because I knew he’d be intimidating as hell. I promised myself I’d be immune. Unaffected. It doesn’t matter to me that he’s the bastard son of the most infamous mob boss in the city. But my denial doesn’t help, because I dismissed a seriously important fact when I was prepping for this day.

  Cannon Freeman is a god among men. Shit. How is that even possible? Especially knowing what he has to be involved in?

  I try to shove the annoying awareness of him aside, but it’s nearly impossible while he’s standing there, staring at me with those enthralling eyes.

&nb
sp; His suit jacket clings to the sleek, strong lines of his broad shoulders and nips in to accentuate a slim waist, before his slacks hang perfectly off his hips.

  Goddammit. Not fair.

  Randi warned me I was underestimating him. My across-the-hall apartment neighbor told me that looking at Cannon would make my nipples peak, my thighs clench, and my brain fill with images of him bending me over the nearest flat surface or pinning me up against the closest wall. I chalked that up to Randi being . . . well, Randi. A.k.a. Everyone’s Slept with Downtown Randi Brown. She’s the kind of woman who gets men drunk so she can fuck them. She says her guy friends call her a dude with tits, and I can’t disagree, even though she’s one hundred percent female.

  But the last thing I expected was for her to be absolutely right about this.

  Cannon tilts his head to the side and waits for me to reply. “Unless you’re not Drew Carson?” he asks with a lilt of humor underlying the question.

  His rising eyebrow and questioning smirk nearly put me over the edge. He’s supposed to be a villain. A monster. How can he look like he’s trying not to laugh at me in my stunned silence?

  Snapping myself out of my temporary stupor, I widen my smile and force everything aside except my goal.

  Stay cool. Act cool. Be cool. That’s my mantra whenever I’m undercover and things are dicey. Repeating it silently helps me pull myself together.

  “I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Freeman,” I say, stepping forward to shake his hand like the professional I am.

  Except there’s another problem. I should have braced. I don’t know why I didn’t brace.

  As soon as the ridges of his calluses slide across my skin and his fingers tighten on mine, another shiver of awareness shoots through me. Why does he have calluses? He works at a desk. He’s not supposed to be the definition of physical male perfection. And yet, here we are.

  “Cannon,” he says, correcting me with that voice of his, which should be registered as sex in audible format. “We’re informal among the staff. Patrons are another story. Treat them all like they’re wearing crowns and holding scepters that can destroy your world in a heartbeat. Got it?”

  While his statement is part curious and part foreboding, his sharpened gaze takes in every inch of me, the same way I surveyed him.

  “Duly noted, sir. I mean . . . Cannon.” I correct myself and tug my fingers free of his, but he’s watching me like he’s waiting for me to spill all my secrets.

  I won’t, I promise myself. Because I never have before, and there’s more at stake now than ever.

  “Good. Come on. Time for your trial by fire.” He lifts his chin to the bull beside him, spins around, and pushes open the next massive door.

  I force myself not to grin and pump a fist in the air. I’m in.

  My personal victory party lasts only as long as it takes to cross the threshold, and I set foot on the thick green and gold stripes of the plush carpet that so many monied, famed, and evil feet have tread.

  Cannon rattles off rapid-fire orders. “I need you behind the bar. Two G&Ts, one martini—extra dirty with three olives, an old-fashioned, a Moscow mule, one Bass Ale in a chilled glass, six Perriers, and two black coffees. You have ten minutes. Don’t fuck it up.”

  I blink several times as my brain commits the list to memory, but the question still slips from my lips. “I thought I was here to interview as a server, not a bartender?”

  One eyebrow quirks as he surveys me with a tilt of his chiseled jaw. Sharp cheekbones stand out like blades in the brighter light of the club. “If you want to work here, you do what I say. If you want the job, get behind the bar. If you don’t, you know where the door is. Understood?”

  “Yes. Of course,” I say with a chipper smile. “I understand perfectly.” Silently, I add to myself, You’re a douchebag who’s too attractive for his own good, and you want to see me sweat. Not going to happen.

  He doesn’t know I’ve spent time embedded with troops rushing headlong toward enemy lines. If mortar rounds exploding around me didn’t shake my composure, neither will an order from the heir presumptive of the most powerful mafia family in New York. Just the heir himself . . . No. That was a fluke. Totally not happening again.

  “I’ll have those drinks for you right away, Cannon.”

  His hazel eyes flash brighter green with something I can’t identify, but without another word, he strides away toward the long table of men inside a glass-walled room ahead of us. I’m left alone, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag as I stare after him, because Lord Almighty, that ass should be a crime itself.

  Wait. Stop. Why the hell am I looking at his ass?

  Randi was right. I need to check myself before I get caught up in his “superior ability to render a girl dick-struck.” At least, that’s how she described him. I brushed off the warnings, but they’re all coming back, and fast. Duly noted, Randi. Duly noted.

  Turning on the stacked heel of my black knee-high boots, I weave through expensive wooden four-tops and high-tops on plush handwoven carpet. I smooth my skirt over my thighs and slip behind the forty-foot-long bar that was supposedly shipped over from an establishment in Sicily that catered to only the highest-level members of a famous mafia family. Around me, the elegant brass fixtures cast a warm glow on the rich paneled walls. If I tried to imagine an enclave for the wealthiest, most famous, and exceptionally notorious men of New York City, the Upper Ten would be exactly the picture in my head.

  I tuck my bag into a corner, wash my hands, and mentally prepare myself for the job to come. From inside the glass-walled room about thirty feet away from me, Cannon’s head tilts back as his Adam’s apple bobs with laughter. He shoots a glance over his right shoulder, and it collides with mine.

  All I read in it is challenge. All I hope to convey with mine is that I’m not scared of the big bad wolf. No. He should fear me.

  “Don’t fuck up,” he told me, and I won’t.

  Securing this job is all I care about right now. After glancing at my watch, I collect the necessary glassware to make the orders that will impress the man who is going to be my new boss. What a coincidence he’s also the man I’m going to take down, any way I can.

  You have no idea what’s coming, Cannon Freeman. Not a fucking clue.

  2

  Cannon

  In exactly nine minutes and fifty-four seconds, I excuse myself from the group of senators gathered for lunch and head for the bar.

  After sliding a metal toothpick through the last of three olives, Drew Carson sets the martini glass on the tray beside the Bass Ale, bubbling ever so slightly in its frosted glass.

  I do a quick mental tally.

  Two G&Ts, one martini—extra dirty with three olives, an old-fashioned, a Moscow mule, one Bass Ale in a chilled glass, six Perriers, and two black coffees.

  My gaze lifts to her heart-shaped face and those deep brown eyes that seem like they’re trying to peer inside me. Normally, when I meet someone who knows only my reputation, whether man or woman, they avoid direct eye contact. But not Drew Carson.

  Whatever she’s looking for, her intensity ignites a flare of fascination within me. Women rarely interest me enough for a second glance, but I have to fight to tear my attention away from Drew’s blush-colored lips and focus on the drinks.

  There’s just something about her, and it’s got nothing to do with the way her blond locks curl perfectly over the shoulders of her feminine black suit jacket, or how much I wish I could see what’s beneath those layers of makeup she wears like war paint.

  When was the last time I cared about seeing a woman without makeup? Maybe never.

  “I thought you weren’t a bartender.”

  Her confident smile never falters. “I didn’t say that. I just said I didn’t think I was here to interview for that particular job.”

  And she’s intelligent too. I step forward and pluck the copper mug off the tray and lift it to my lips.

  “What are you—”

&nbs
p; Before she can get her question out, I take a sip, letting the ginger flavor roll over my tongue. Sweet, tart, and perfect. Probably not much different from the woman who made it.

  Whoa, Cannon. Stop that train of thought. You’ve known her for less than ten minutes.

  Drew stays silent as I lift one glass off the tray after another, sampling everything but the coffee. I return the martini to its place with a nod.

  “Come with me,” I tell her, snagging both untouched mugs. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  “What about the drinks?” she asks.

  “They’ve already been served. I just wanted to see how you’d perform under pressure. It’s time to talk about the job.”

  3

  Drew

  I follow Cannon Freeman through the Upper Ten, named for the Upper Ten Thousand, the term used to describe the ten thousand wealthiest people in New York society back in the days of John Jacob Astor and the robber barons. For this club, it’s completely appropriate, although I doubt they’d even let the richest ten thousand people in the city through the door. From all my research, the exclusivity of the Upper Ten is about more than just money now.