House of Scarlett Read online

  “Then we better get Bump and Roux and get the fuck out of here before we cause a scene.”

  With Scarlett’s hand in mine, I reach for the knob on my office door and push it open.

  What waits inside is a scene straight out of my nightmares.

  No. Fuck. No.

  “How long did you really think you could run, Gabe? Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

  Bump is on his knees as Moses Buford Gaspard sits at my desk with the barrel of his gun pressed against Bump’s temple.

  “Don’t,” I whisper as Moses’s finger curls around the trigger.

  “Ah, boy. You’ve forgotten how things work. You don’t call the shots. I do. Now get on your motherfucking knees.”

  Gabriel and Scarlett’s story concludes in The Fight for Forever, the final book of the Legend Trilogy, available now for preorder by tapping on the title. You don't want to miss the epic conclusion! Keep reading for a sneak peek of Cannon Freeman’s story in Black Sheep. You don’t want to miss this delicious alpha. The complete Dirty Mafia Duet is available now. It’s the perfect time to binge read while you’re waiting for The Fight for Forever.

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  * * *

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  Sneak Peek of Black Sheep

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  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.

  * * *

  Black Sheep is available for purchase by tapping on the title.

  Chapter One

  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.

  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.

  * * *

  Purchase Black Sheep by tapping here. You don’t want to miss the rest of Cannon and Drew’s story.

  Also by Meghan March

  Magnolia Duet

  Creole Kingpin

  (March 2020)

  Madam Temptress

  (April 2020)

  * * *

  Legend Trilogy

  The Fall of Legend

  House of Scarlett

  The Fight for Forever

  (January 2020)

  * * *

  Dirty Mafia Duet:

  Black Sheep

  White Knight

  * * *

  Forge Trilogy:

  Deal with the Devil

  Luck of the Devil

  Heart of the Devil

  * * *

  Sin Trilogy:

  Richer Than Sin

  Guilty as Sin

  Reveling in Sin

  * * *

  Mount Trilogy:

  Ruthless King

  Defiant Queen

  Sinful Empire

  * * *

  Savage Trilogy:

  Savage Prince

  Iron Princess

  Rogue Royalty

  Beneath Series:

  Beneath This Mask

  Beneath This Ink

  Beneath These Chains

  Beneath These Scars

  Beneath These Lies

  Beneath These Shadows

  Beneath The Truth

  * * *

  Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:

  Dirty Billionaire

  Dirty Pleasures

  Dirty Together

  * * *

  Dirty Girl Duet:

  Dirty Girl

  Dirty Love

  * * *

  Real Duet:

  Real Good Man

  Real Good Love

  * * *

  Real Dirty Duet:

  Real Dirty

  Real Sexy

  * * *

  Flash Bang Series:

  Flash Bang

  Hard Charger

  * * *

  Standalones:

  Take Me Back

  Bad Judgment

  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.

  She loves hearing from her readers at [email protected].