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  Not trusting that Dom couldn’t have bugged my car or had Warren do it while I was upstairs in the club, I stay quiet for another twenty minutes until I slow in front of a construction entrance. When we turn in, Memphis shrinks against the door of the car.

  “Jesus Christ. Really?”

  When I look over, she’s grabbing the door handle, ready to jump out and run for her life.

  Good to know she trusts me too. The fact that she’s shaking pisses me off even more. She thinks I’m just going to bring her to a construction site and bury her fucking body? Really? Is that who she thinks I am?

  A second round of anger ignites deep in my soul.

  “Not a goddamned word until we get out.”

  I felt it and she didn’t. It was all a fucking job to her.

  I don’t know what’s worse—knowing that Dom will want retribution, or knowing that I was so fucking wrong about her.

  After I throw the Chevelle into park, I get the fuck out and stalk toward the metal skeleton of framework waiting for crews to come put on the roof and walls. Seagulls scream overhead, dipping and circling until they’re practically screeching in my ear.

  A crunch in the gravel comes from behind me but I keep my back to her, half wondering if she’s packing and going to put a bullet in my back.

  Then I remember I’m the offspring of a mobster, not her.

  The footsteps stop, and I jam my hands into my pockets before turning around to face her, taking in the wig and the contacts and the blank mask on her face.

  It’s almost possible to make myself forget how I feel about Memphis Lockwood when she’s masquerading as Drew Carson. Almost.

  I swallow all the things I want to say in favor of one question to start off the last discussion I ever wanted to have with her. I yank her phone out of my pocket and hold it between two fingers.

  “Do you have a fucking death wish?”

  48

  Memphis

  My entire body shakes as tremors of fear rip through me. The son of New York’s most infamous mobster brought me to an abandoned construction site in Jersey. If that’s not the start of a story that ends in getting offed by the mob, I don’t know what is. I flex my palms, trying to pretend they’re not clammy, wishing they were gripping a weapon, and that the man in front of me is someone I could actually shoot if I had one.

  God, I really fucked this up. I could blame my mother, but it’s not her fault that I’m here. She was just a variable I didn’t count on screwing me over this morning.

  I try to think of something to say in reply. Anything. But the deception that comes so easily to me in any other situation is absent. Because I can’t lie to Cannon. Not anymore.

  “I just want to know who killed my father for investigating the Casso family.”

  Cannon glances skyward, and the only witnesses to him trying to control his temper are the seagulls hovering around us, waiting for scraps or to crap on our heads. Given how my day’s going, the latter is more likely.

  Would that be considered gallows humor?

  Cannon rakes his gaze over my face before jamming a hand into his hair, mussing it completely. “Crazy fucking woman. Do you know what the fuck you’ve done? Do you have any goddamned idea?”

  My first urge is to curl into myself, but I refuse to cower. “Is it stupid to want vengeance for the death of the only person who ever loved you? Is it really?” My voice shakes as I continue. “You watched your mother be gunned down. So tell me, Cannon Freeman, could you walk away from that without wanting justice?”

  “Don’t fucking talk about my mother. She doesn’t have a single fucking thing to do with this. Other than the fact that her getting involved with Dom got her killed. Just like you sniffing around him is going to get you killed.” His hands flex before curling into fists as he paces the gravel.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, but I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew that what I was doing carried more risk than any investigation I’ve undertaken before.

  “Did he do it? If I’m going to die, just fucking tell me the truth. Did he order my father’s death?” I wrap an arm around my middle, as if bracing for the blow that will end me.

  Cannon, the man who I let get closer to me than any man in my life, spins around and stomps away from me before pausing to let loose a roar of rage.

  When he stalks back, his nostrils flaring, I stand my ground, even though I want to run. But my father didn’t raise a deserter. I put these wheels of fate into motion, and I’ll see it through. For better or for worse. No matter how stupid that is.

  “Are you fucking serious? You think I know about every single goddamned hit? You think we keep a record book? A list of names, all neatly printed, just in case some snooping reporter wants to come in and find evidence to bring down the whole organization? Jesus Christ, woman. That’s not how it fucking works. What the fuck were you even thinking? You were never gonna find evidence of something like that. Ever.”

  Now probably isn’t the best time to mention that I didn’t care what kind of evidence I found. I just wanted whoever was responsible in prison.

  “So you don’t know?” I ask, holding tight to the reason I started this.

  Gravel crunches beneath Cannon’s loafers as he closes the distance between us once more. He shoves my phone into my hand and then reaches up to grip both of my shoulders.

  “If you had any fucking clue how badly I want to shake the shit out of you right now for being so goddamned stupid and reckless, you’d be running in the other direction.”

  I refuse to shrink. I refuse to back down. I hold his stare with my own.

  “What other choice did I have? The cops refused to listen to me. They treated me like a teenager with a conspiracy theory. I know my father didn’t shoot himself. I don’t give a fuck what they said. Someone killed him, and I want justice.”

  Cannon squeezes his eyes closed for a second, and then his fingers dig into my jacket and his hazel eyes blaze.

  “Justice. Like that’s even real. It won’t fucking bring him back. Nothing will. Trust me, I wanted to burn down the world when my mother was murdered. Not a goddamned thing took away any of the pain. You understand me? This is a losing battle. All you did is the one thing your father never would’ve wanted you to do—put yourself in danger. And then you went and dragged me into it.”

  I bite down on my lip, hard. “I’m sorry, Cannon. I’m sorry for lying to you. For dragging you into this. You didn’t deserve it. I knew, almost immediately, that you couldn’t have had anything to do with this at all. I used you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  At first, my apology falls on deaf ears. Nothing changes in Cannon’s expression when I say those words. As I open my mouth to repeat I’m sorry over and over again until he finally believes me, he releases his hold on my shoulders, and his hands lift to cradle my face. I can’t tell if he wants to rip my head off or kiss me.

  “I’m a stupid fucking prick for even asking this question, but I have to know. Was any of it fucking real?”

  Before I can answer, the sound of an engine revving comes from behind us, and Cannon lets go of my face and shoves me behind him. I peek around his shoulder to see a black sedan roll into the construction site.

  “Fuck,” Cannon whispers.

  The back door opens as soon as it parks, and out steps Dominic Casso.

  “This isn’t my fucking office, Cannon.” He walks toward us, the gravel crunching beneath his feet sounding like a death knell.

  “I’m handling it.”

  Dom’s chin lifts. “Handling what exactly?”

  “Go back to your office, Dom. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Terror, unlike anything I’ve ever known, rushes through my system. But not for me. For Cannon. The way Dom glares at him is enough to freeze my blood.

  “What the fuck did you just say to me, boy? You did not just tell me to go, did you?” Dom’s head tilts like he’s truly never heard those words spoken to him before.

&nb
sp; “With all due respect, sir, I’m busy right now.” Cannon’s tone turns deadly.

  With a humorless laugh, Dom reaches inside his jacket. Cannon tenses, pushing me farther behind him.

  Jesus Christ. Even after everything I’ve done to him, he’s still protecting me, and I definitely don’t deserve it. But if there’s any way I can get us out of this alive, I will.

  I glance around at the ground, looking for any kind of weapon to fight back. Wait, maybe Cannon has one—

  My thought is cut off when Dom pulls out a pistol and transfers it to his other hand, his fingers wrapped around the barrel and the grip facing Cannon.

  “It’s time to prove yourself, kid. You take care of her, or I will.”

  * * *

  Cannon and Memphis’s story will be complete in White Knight, the second book of the Dirty Mafia Duet available for preorder now by tapping on the title. Keep reading because I've included an extra special surprise for you—a first look at my newest deliciously dangerous alpha, Gabriel Legend, in The Fall of Legend.

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  Preview of The Fall of Legend

  About The Fall of Legend

  From New York Times bestselling author Meghan March comes a new deliciously dangerous alpha hero in The Fall of Legend, the first book in the brand new and utterly addictive Legend trilogy.

  * * *

  We come from two different worlds.

  I’m from the streets. She might as well live in an ivory tower.

  I made my living with my fists. I doubt she could even throw a punch.

  Our paths never should have crossed.

  We never should have met.

  That doesn’t change the facts.

  I would sell my soul to taste those red lips.

  Fight the devil himself to hear her laugh.

  Burn in hell to have a single night.

  Scarlett Priest shouldn’t even know men like me exist, but sometimes temptation is stronger than will.

  If this is how I go down, it’ll be worth every second of the fall.

  The Fall of Legend is available for preorder by tapping on the title.

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  Scarlett

  * * *

  My body hits the ground with a thump. When my eyes flick open, darkness greets me.

  What the hell?

  Wait. No. There’s some gray mixed with the pitch black. Maybe even a glow coming from above my head?

  Did I fall asleep? Roll off my bed?

  I try to sit up, but I can’t move. Why can’t I move? Fear creeps down my spine because I’m 99.99% sure I didn’t fall asleep. I don’t take naps. I don’t have time.

  Plus, if I’d been taking a nap, the sound of the Proclaimers’ “500 Miles” wouldn’t be blasting in my earbuds.

  Wait. I was running. Not napping. So, why the hell can’t I move? I wiggle, but something that feels like carpet nap rubs against my bare arms.

  What in the actual fuck is going on?

  The Proclaimers go quiet for a moment before the song starts again. In that precious beat of silence, puzzle pieces snap together, and the blood chugging through my body slows like icy water in a nearly frozen river.

  Oh. No. No. Just . . . No. This isn’t happening. The threats weren’t real. They didn’t get me. Even as I try to deny it, my inner voice pops into my head, contradicting everything I want to believe.

  They got me. The threats were real. They’re going to kill me. I should have listened to Ryan and Christine. Why didn’t I listen?

  That’s right, because I never take stuff like that seriously. And now . . . I flex my hands with my heart thundering, and my fingertips brush against what feels like . . . a rug?

  My stomach plummets as reality crashes through my confusion.

  I’m rolled up in a rug. Oh. My. Fucking. God. This can’t be happening.

  As the Proclaimers wail in my ear, vibrations shiver across my skin. What was that? A door shutting? Are those footsteps?

  Then the murmur of voices comes next. I try to listen, but I can’t make out the words over the music, until . . .

  Something knocks into my side, and thankfully, the rug blunts the impact. Did someone just freaking kick me?

  I’m a smart woman. Savvy. I’ve lived in Manhattan my whole life and survived three mugging attempts. I’m not a shrinking violet, but neither of the two women’s self-defense seminars I’ve attended covered what to do when you wake up rolled in a rug after being kidnapped by someone who has probably made repeated death threats.

  The song’s volume dips for more chanting about all the things the Proclaimers would do for the woman they loved, and that’s when I hear the roar.

  “You did what?” a man bellows loud enough to suck the breath out of my lungs. He sounds furious—and powerful.

  Fear unleashes a cold sweat over my skin.

  “You said she could fix it!” Another voice, this one higher pitched, breaks through the Proclaimers’ voices before the song picks up intensity again, drowning them out.

  Who said I could fix something? Fix what? Where? My brain races, but it’s more sluggish than normal, given the fact its weighted down with a billion tons of dread and the urge to shrink and run.

  More murmuring. More confusion rioting in my head.

  Fix what? For whom? Does this mean they’re not going to kill me? Because I would really like not to be killed today. Or tomorrow. Or really ever.

  Then I start rolling. Literally. Like a rock thumping over on its side when kicked.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God! Think! Think!

  My body tumbles until I’m discombobulated and the earbuds fall from my ears. Bright light blinds me as I’m freed from the rug and land on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

  The scents of leather and carpet cleaner hit my nostrils as I bolt to my feet, tilting to one side like I’ve had too much to drink. I spin around, searching for an exit, but a big hand lands on the bare skin of my shoulder.

  His palm is hot, like it was just yanked from a pocket or clenched in a fist. His touch sends tingles racing down to my fingertips.

  Whoa. That’s never happened before.

  I jerk away, stumbling forward to catch myself on the arm of a leather chair. “Please don’t kill me. Whatever you need me to fix, I’ll fix it.”

  My head bowed, I say the words to the ripped-jean-covered legs of a man standing a few feet from me, even though I have no idea when I decided trying to reason with him was a good idea. With self-preservation running the show right now, all bets are off on me behaving rationally.

  Although I brace for a blow or some form of verbal assault, none comes. Other than the faint sound of the Proclaimers drifting up from my earbuds on the floor, a heavy silence blankets the room.

  I wait for the ripped jeans to move. To come toward me. To kill me. But they don’t.

  “Fuck.” It comes out softly, like he’s speaking under his breath and doesn’t mean for me to hear it.

  “Please,” I whisper, finally finding the courage to look up at the rest of the body connected to the pair of massive denim-clad legs. “Please don’t hurt—”

  My voice goes silent as I stare into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He could make a fortune off those eyes alone. Mostly because they’re set in a ridiculously attractive face that shouldn’t be attractive at all due to a slight crook in the nose and the faint white line of a scar stretching across one of his sharp cheekbones. Shaggy dirty-blond hair hangs in his face as his lips press into a harsh line.

  This beast, albeit a gorgeous one, is going to kill me.

  The voice in my head delivers the final verdict, a conclusion it reached because somehow, to the bottom of my soul, I know this man isn’t afraid to cause pain
to another person. Raw, savage energy flows off his body in waves, and my teeth threaten to chatter at its intensity.

  Beautiful and brutal. That’s what I’d caption the shot I’m mentally taking right now of the last face I may ever see.

  This is it. I should have listened. But I didn’t. This is all my own damned fault.

  I bite down on my quivering lip and straighten my shoulders as tears well in my eyes, tears I won’t allow to fall.

  Not yet.

  First, I’m going to bargain with the grim reaper.

  * * *

  This book has taken over my life. Scarlett and Legend are EVERYTHING. I'm over the moon excited about this addictive story, and I cannot wait to share it with you! Make sure to preorder The Fall of Legend now by tapping HERE. Legend and Scarlett will be unleashed on November 12, 2019, and you do NOT want to miss them!

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  About the Author

  Making the jump from corporate lawyer to romance author was a leap of faith that New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Meghan March will never regret. With over thirty titles published, she has sold millions of books in nearly a dozen languages to fellow romance-lovers around the world. A nomad at heart, she can currently be found in the woods of the Pacific Northwest, living her happily ever after with her real-life alpha hero.

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