Dark Mafia BWWM Romance | Mafia Playmate (Boston Irish Mafia Romance Book #1)
My first new series of 2023 is here! This has been a labor of love and I have smutty smutty plans for this entire series. 😋
Well… almost. This is just the first chapter, but this is the first preview and the earliest look at my dark and spicy interracial romance story. I teased the Murray family in my previous series, especially towards the end. Each of the books in this series will be about one of the Murray brothers.
This book, Mafia Playmate, is Aiden’s story. Aiden returns to Boston from Long Island to find his family in shambles, torn apart by prison sentences, missing children, and failed business ventures. Like that isn’t bad enough, when he finally arrives at his large colonial mansion, he finds an unusual present waiting on his front door step.
Okay, I can’t say more without spoiling it. I want to give you a little content warning before you begin. This material may disturb some readers. You have my permission to click away any time you want to stop reading.
If you’re ready to dive into a new seedy mafia underworld… proceed.
If you know what you’re getting into, scroll forth…
Mafia Playmate | Chapter #1
Chapter #1
AIDEN
You have one job in the Murray family. You grow up, you get your marks, you listen to Pa, you marry a nice Irish girl, preferably a blond or a redhead with lighter features.
You do what Padraig Murray asks.
You pray everyday and you keep your rosary wrapped in your pocket. You stay loyal. You keep our bloodline strong.
Pa demands a meeting with me now that I’m back in the city. He claims it’s important, but it can’t be that important if he wants to meet me during the Red Sox game. It feels good to be home. There’s something special about Boston, but maybe that’s just it – paradise is wherever our family is.
After Pa, I’ll go home and see Roscoe, my Rottweiler.Then get my shit together and call my younger brother Darragh to check in on his training and find out if Rian’s around. Over the weekend, I’ll head to Leominster to visit Callum and then Sunday after church, stop by to see Ma and Odhran. I brought a gift home with me for Tegan, Rian’s daughter, and I can’t wait to see my niece’s face light up when I give it to her.
If there’s one thing I don’t miss about being home, it’s a never ending list of shit to do.
I meet my father at our usual casual meeting spot, Mulligan’s, a place where we aren’t afraid to celebrate Irish pride. A place where you can catch the Red Sox game and no one can catch your conversation. It’s as much home as anywhere else.
I spot my father hunched over the bar from the street, his face illuminated by a warm orange bulb as he watches the pre-game announcer talk. I prefer football to baseball, but Pa bets on all their games, so he likes to keep his eye on the Red Sox each season.
When Pa calls, you answer, and he’s desperate to know about the affair with the Italians – what the fuck happened, have I found the renegade cousins who pissed off the Italians, and whether I’ve killed them yet. I haven’t.
It’s all bad news and my ass is on the line if I don’t find a way to sort out all the shit that happened in Long Island. At least we’re guaranteed peace with the vicious Italians. Those greaseballs aren’t any better than the blacks. ‘Trust ‘em as far as you can throw them’, Pa told me. But for now, we have peace and that’s what matters. At least to me.
I enter Mulligan’s and the conversations fall to a hush. Aiden Murray’s back. I clear my throat and the conversations continue. But there are more phones pulled out than before and two guys sitting in the back leave. I don’t hate the reputation I have. Most of the bar fights I earned this cutthroat reputation in were Darragh’s fault, but that doesn’t change what people say about me.
Darragh, my younger brother, can still throw his weight around in the ring, but he got his practice here, in this fucking place. Our last fight here was over a girl. Darragh kicked some Puerto Rican’s ass and a few of our boys jumped him outside… I don’t know what happened to the guy after.
My father slides a twenty-dollar bill across the bar to the bartender, Finnegan O’Malley, a one-eared ex-hitman, who in turn fills up two glass pints of amber Sam Adams. Pa’s already several drinks ahead of me. Great. The news can’t be that bad then.
I pull out a bar stool next to my father, who barely acknowledges me, although he must’ve caught me entering the bar through the reflection on the glass behind the bartender. He shoves one of the pints across the bar towards me. He knows I prefer Guinness, but I don’t mind starting with this. I can see my dad’s reflection in the glass. He looks older than I remember. He’s pushing 70, so I shouldn’t be surprised by the large streaks of gray through his slick hair which was once blond, but changed color throughout his life, settling on a dark chocolate brown, like Rian’s.
I glance at the television to check the score, but the game hasn’t even started yet. I can smell the alcohol coming off of him already.
“You can have a Guinness after you drink this,” he says. “I heard you did good work with the Italians.”
He sounds raspy, but calm. My tension dissipates. This is just a normal, father-son meeting. Nothing to worry about.
“I didn’t find Eoin or Robert. Haven’t heard fuck since they all screwed with Vicari,” I say as I take a sip of my beer.
“Maybe the Italians killed them,” he says. “They’re a violent, vicious group of people.”
“Yeah.”
Like we’re ones to talk. Pa’s done with his Sam Adams already and waits patiently for me to catch up, as if I could catch up to a man who’s been drinking for an hour. At forty, it’s not so easy for me to keep up with long nights of drinking. I don’t know how he does it.
He waits for me to have a few more sips, his eyes glued to the television. Chris Sale throws the first pitch. It doesn’t go so well. My father glances down at his glass and sighs. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“That bad this season?” I grunt, glancing up at the Detroit batter sliding into second.
I’ve been too busy to keep up with baseball. My father grunts. Yeah, it has been that bad.
“Any other news?” I ask him, finishing off the Sam Adams. Dad grunts and snaps his fingers for the bartender, Finnegan. The buff, tattooed bartender hustles over as dad orders two Guinnesses without opening his mouth. Bad news if he’s drinking Guinness.
“Cops got Rian last week. They’re charging him with manslaughter.”
Manslaughter?
“What did he do?”
“What the fuck do you think he did?” Dad responds calmly. “He killed somebody, they caught him. That boy’s not careful enough and I have to pay to get his ass out of trouble. Maybe some prison time would do him good.”
“That’s what you said the first three times,” I grunt. Sale throws a good pitch and my father’s face visibly brightens.
“If it weren’t for Tegan, I’d let him spend a few extra years behind bars,” Dad confesses. “I can’t do that to his daughter.”
“What’s going to happen to her?”
“I don’t know,” my father says. “No one has seen the kid in a week.”
“What?” I growl, sipping at my beer and hoping this is my father’s idea of a joke since he sounds dangerously unconcerned.
“What do you mean no one’s seen her? Is she with her ma?”
My father shrugs.
Rian’s notoriously bad taste in women landed him with a child he should have never brought into the world. She’s a sweet girl, but doomed by a mobster father and a whore mother.
Her ma doesn’t live in Boston anymore. She wants nothing to do with Rian.
“Where does he say she is?”
“Last time he saw her was the night he got arrested,” Pa says before taking a sip of his beer.
“What about the cops? Did they give her to his lawyer or something?”
I don’t have a single paternal instinct in my body, but my mind courses with worry over Tegan, despite my father’s calmness.
“She’ll turn up,” he says, pouring more alcohol down his throat.
Fuck, Rian. My brother must be an even worse parent than our father. His daughter’s missing and he’s behind bars and there’s no one else to look for her except…
“I can find out where she is. Once I get Roscoe and take care of–
“It would serve him right if something happened to her,” my father says coldly. “Her mother isn’t Irish. He keeps fucking up. I’m tired of cleaning up his messes. Now drink. This is not why I asked you here.”
I bristle at his comment, but it’s just Padraig Murray. This is who he’s always been and my brother should have had the good sense to keep his dick in his pants. I made it to forty without fathering bastards all over Boston. Rian should have been more careful. I drink a few more sips, but I can’t let this go. Who else will worry about the fucking kid if not me?
“How the hell did Rian let this happen? Can I talk to him?”
“Best that none of us talk to him. The cops listen to everything. I can get messages into the prison and messages out, but I don’t want you talking to him.”
“Fine,” I grunt, finishing off my first round of Guinness and ordering us another. I try to pay, but my father stops me and then finally answers my other question.
“Your idiot brother trusted a woman,” he says. “He wants a mother for that little girl so badly, that he’s willing to do anything. He’s willing to kill for a woman who doesn’t deserve him.”
“I didn’t know he had a woman,” I grumble.
“Had is correct,” Pa says. “She’s dead.”
I wish I could tell you a chill ran through me, or I had some other human response to my father’s announcement. I don’t need a university degree to understand what he’s implying. Rian had a woman, she got him locked up, so my father had her killed.
“Will that affect his case?”
“No,” Pa says. “It was very clean.”
“Who?”
“None of your business, Aiden. You worry about your shit, I’ll worry about your brother.”
I want to feel sorry for Rian, but he deserves it for crossing our father. This is what happens when he pisses off Padraig Murray. More problems for all of us.
“How much time is he facing?”
“Three years since he’s been in jail before. I tried to get that stupid motherfucker to get his life together, but your brother just wants to be a fuck up.”
“Who’s the lawyer?”
“Someone from Nigel & Bancroft.”
At least he isn’t cheaping out like he did for Rian’s first case. I don’t want to push my father’s buttons, and despite his outward calm, he must be furious at Rian for drawing more attention to us, but Rian has his uses.
“It’s Rian,” I remind him. “Crazy fucking Rian. We need him out soon. There are some jobs only Rian has the balls to handle.”
Padraig snorts. “He takes after my father. Too proud and too violent for his own good.”
We created the monster Rian Murray is. He’s our responsibility.
“He needs another woman.”
“He needs a woman who isn’t a fucking spic,” my father spits. “At least the child looks white.”
“What about this previous woman? What’d she look like?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he grunts. “She’s dead. Now drink. We have more important things to talk about than your idiot brother and his shitty taste in women.”
I drink because Pa commands it. I do everything he commands and have since I was a child. I have the burns and scars to remind me of what happens when you disobey my father. At first, I hated him for what he did to me, but to keep an organization like ours together, you need to inspire fear.
You have to be cruel to survive – that’s just how the world works. I can’t let Tegan go. The second I see Darragh, I’ll ask about her and track her down.
I drink so I don’t lose my temper. He doesn’t give a fuck about Tegan. No one does. Maybe he’s wrong and one of my sisters took her in. But who would do that? Evie’s saddled with her drunkard husband and two unruly kids of her own – Katie and Patrick. Kiara’s off at university and Maeve’s sixteen, too young to have any involvement.
“I need to tell you something important,” my father says somberly, as if there could be something more important than my missing niece right now. I’m burning with desire to leave, but if I get up without my father’s dismissal, he’ll hurt me. Or someone I care about. Not like there are many of those people yet. It’s foolish to get close to people in this life.
“Then tell me.”
If he notices my tightening tone, my father doesn’t acknowledge it.
“There’s a plot against my life. I don’t know who. I don’t know why but… there’s someone out there trying to kill me,” my father says, the faded tattoos on his knuckles even more wrinkled than I last remember. He’s getting older, but aside from his physical appearance, he shows no signs of slowing down. If anything, he’s desperate to prove himself more. If he wasn’t ordering more killings than necessary, maybe Rian wouldn’t be locked up.
I don’t want to dismiss his concerns as paranoid, but he’s the leader of our family. There’s always a plot against his life. It comes with the territory. My father doesn’t have to worry because he has us. Family.
“Fuck that,” I grunt. “No one would be stupid enough to try to kill you. April 2013, four days after the bombing. An entire decade ago. That’s the last time anyone tried.”
I was thirty back then, old enough to be the one who ended that war before it started. Back then, we only killed when necessary. I got five tattoos that year, one for each kill. Each a painful release, each representing a necessary act to keep my family safe.
My father smirks and keeps drinking. He shrugs. “That’s what I thought. But I’m serious. This time is different. This time the bastards might just get me. I’m getting old, Aiden. Most guys in our line of work don’t make it this far.”
“What happened?” I grunt, urging my increasingly drunken father to get to the point. His cheeks blaze tomato red with alcohol and his blue eyes swim with tears, again brought on by drinking rather than any emotion. He grunts and knocks his biggest gold ring against the bar’s surface contemplatively.
If anyone tried to kill him, surely Darragh would have mentioned it. He’s responsible for keeping our father alive.
“I feel it in my bones,” Pa replies. “Someone wants to destroy our family.”
“Yes,” I grumble. “Our cousins. But they’re gone and if they were anywhere near this city, we would have heard about it.”
“I don’t know. Something big is coming for us. I feel it.”
“We can make decisions based on feelings now?”
“Cut the shit, kid. You know my instincts are good because you’re like me. You can smell shit before it hits the toilet bowl.”
“I’m home. If anyone tries to kill you, they’ll have to get through me, Darragh, and Callum.”
My father smirks. “My boys. I’m proud of all of you. Except Rian. He’s a piece of shit.”
Ah, Padraig. Honest as fuck, especially when he’s drunk.
He might not be proud of Rian, but he still loves my brother enough to spring for decent lawyers and to make sure Tegan goes to the best day school in Boston. Once she’s old enough, she’ll go to Milton or Dana Hall, or another nice private school where she can meet someone to untarnish her sullied blood, that is as long as I can find her. If Rian’s behind bars, she could be anywhere. Hopefully not with her mom’s people.
She belongs with us, even if Rian made mistakes. She looks like us and that’s good enough to cover up his shameful behavior. I don’t know what Rian was thinking with that Puerto Rican chick. Tegan’s mother was low class.
Let’s hope my brother’s behavior doesn’t come back to haunt all of us. Let’s hope his daughter is safe, sound asleep somewhere and protected.
“Thanks, Pa,” I mutter, uncomfortable with even this much emotional closeness between us. I love my father, but trusting him too much is dangerous. Rian found out the hard way that it isn’t worth it to defy our family beliefs, and it definitely isn’t fucking worth it to screw around with the wrong women.
“And Aiden? I need you to hurry the fuck up and find a wife. I’m getting old and I want to retire, but I need a family man to lead this family. You’re the oldest. Why the fuck can’t you keep a woman? Do I have to send you back to Galway?”
He wants a real answer.
“Not interested in chasing after girls, dad. All they want to do is take your money and ask where the fuck you’re going. I’ve had enough.”
“That old dog won’t take care of you when you get old.”
“Neither will some Boston snob who could take my ass to the cleaners in a divorce.”
He laughs, which is the best reaction I can hope for. He quickly moves along to talking about the game and his plans for the business, and then asks me questions about Long Island. They’re a mess out there, but doing better under John Vicari’s leadership. We’re developing a few buildings together and are prepared to make a lot of money in the real estate game. John does cleaner business than his father. Too bad the old man died of a heart attack… that’s the word anyway.
“I need you to find a nice girl,” my father reminds me once he’s almost blackout drunk. He can barely keep his head up. Great. I’m not dragging his ass outta here tonight. If he wants to get so wasted he can’t sit up straight, I’ll leave him for Finnegan.
“We have this conversation every time we talk.”
“This time, I’m serious. I want to retire. I don’t want you bringing home no spics either like the Duffy boys.”
“Fuck’s sake, Pa. You can’t talk like that around here anymore.”
“I can say whatever the fuck I want. I want Irish children. Irish fucking children and I need you to have a wife so I can retire.”
“Retire any old fucking day you want,” I growl. “It’ll be good for you to stop worrying about who I fuck or marry or the fate of the fucking family.”
“The fate of the family matters,” he says, taking another sip of his newest glass of beer before rubbing condensation off the sides with his napkin.
“I’m too old to have kids,” I growl. “I’m too old to get tied down. You and mom were lucky you even found each other.”
That’s bullshit and we both know it. They stay together because they’re Catholic, because back in the eighties, my dad killed someone for her father and won my mother like a prize. He also put a baby in her quickly and then kept her pregnant. There’s nothing romantic about their love story or marriage in the Murray family.
“If you can’t find a girl, I’ll find one.”
“The last girl you found me was a crazy fucking redhead who wanted to bring Roscoe Jr. into the bedroom. No thanks.”
My father shrugs. “She was white. Do you know how hard it is to find a white girl around here who hasn’t been fucking ruined by some fucking puerto rican or black guy?”
“What do you want from me, Pa?”
I know what I want. I want an end to this conversation, and I want my father to give me a fucking break about women and dating. All the Irish and Catholic women in Boston know to stay away from us, and the ones who don’t learn their lesson pretty fucking quickly.
“Find a nice white girl with big tits and blond hair and get her pregnant so I know you’re fucking serious about family. That’s what I want.”
“Give me time.”
He continues, getting to what I suspect was the original point he wanted to make before the liquor got to him. “And get your ass to the site in Back Bay tomorrow bright and early.”
“Why?”
This is the first I’m hearing about something wrong at the Back Bay construction site. I know something’s wrong because my father doesn’t do anything bright and early unless there’s a problem to solve.
“You’ll find out tomorrow. You just got back. Go home. Pet the dog. Your mom’s tired of walking that big fuck. He nearly knocked her over near Harvard Square.”
“How is mom?”
“Pissed off.”
“Why?”
“Eh. Upset about another woman. It’s nothing.”
It’s nothing. Dad just got his second mistress pregnant and even if we all know about it, we’re all supposed to pretend it’s no big deal that our elderly father knocked up a Ukrainian teenager who he supposedly hired to clean the construction company office.
I hate how he treats our mother. What’s the point of having a family or a woman if you hurt her? There’s no getting through to him, but I have to try for my mother’s sake.
“You treat her better, pa. Seriously. She needs you.”
He grunts. “Get your ass home kid and get a white girl pregnant.”
“Thanks, dad.”
“If you can’t find one, I’ll find a good Irish girl who needs a green card and bring her over to you!”
My father is the last person I want picking my romantic partners. I mutter something to him about cutting back on liquor, then I pat my father on the back and leave the bar. This is the closest we’ve felt in years, but there’s still a wall between us and there always will be. I felt closer to him when I was younger, when it was easier for me to justify the life I led. I know I’m a screw up, I know I don’t belong anywhere near a woman or a family or any of the fucking things my father wants from me.
He knows it’s wrong to bring a kid into this life, but he did it anyway. He knows that we’re villains, but he doesn’t care. Fuck, I don’t care either, I suppose. I’d just rather not ruin a perfectly good woman.
I drive out of the city listening to rock classics on the radio. Just as I turn down my street – I live at the end of a cul-de-sac – I notice the large box on my front step. There are only five large houses at the end of this cul-de-sac, all of us with wide open well-maintained lawns around traditional New England colonial houses.
The box on my front step is fucking enormous – and I don’t remember ordering anything for delivery. My hand moves swiftly to the pistol under my seat. I feel no fear as I reach for the gun and slip a mag out of my pocket. I feel ready.
Leaving the city for any amount of time always carries a risk, especially since I didn’t exactly leave the place with a house sitter. The last time my teen brother Odhran house-sat, he trashed the place and had a threesome in my bed. I hop out of my black GMC Sierra with the gun under my coat and approach the box slowly, glancing furtively over my shoulder for anyone who might have eyes on me.
The box has holes in it. It’s large. Pink. Wrapped in a bow. I reach for the bottom of the box and try to lift it. Fuck. It’s heavy. I drop the box and I swear I hear a sound coming from inside it. Is that possible? I try to peek through the holes but it’s too fucking dark and something’s telling me opening this box will be a shitshow. It has to weigh about a hundred pounds. Maybe more. I’m no weakling, but it still takes a measure of back strength to lift a box that fucking heavy.
I open my front door and greet Roscoe Jr., my rottweiler, as he bounds towards the door to greet me. His coat looks shiny, the nub of his docked tail wags back and forth. Pa’s choice, not mine.
“Roscoe, go lie down.”
Once he heads off to his bed, I throw my doors open wider and eye the giant box to decide how to carry the fuckin’ thing. I would call Rian if his stupid ass wasn’t in jail. I could call Callum, but he’s still hung up on some fucking girl and won’t answer my calls because I won’t sugarcoat my opinion of him. Then there’s Darragh… He’s probably twice as drunk as Padraig. Not a good option either.
I’ll have to carry the box myself. I stretch a little and then grab the edges of the box and grunt as I carry it a few feet inside my doorway. I set the box down more gently. Is there something alive in there? If it were an animal, I suspect Roscoe would be barking from his spot in the house, but he’s laying down as I commanded, gazing at me curiously and wagging his tail.
He’s probably wondering why I’m not taking him for a walk since I’m back. At least he didn’t bite the sitter this time. I close my front doors and then search for an opening on the giant pink box. Finding none, I start with the ribbon and peel it away. The box comes up to my waist. It’s enormous.
If it didn’t weigh a hundred fucking pounds, I would assume it’s a novelty gift or something extra special from one of my brothers. Which of my piece of shit brothers would get me a welcome home gift? It’s not like either of them are here with a six pack of Guinness right now…
I peel the top of the box open and there’s another box inside it, also pink. I open the second box and stumble backwards as I expose the contents. I don’t mean to act like a fucking idiot, but I nearly fall over, because this is the last thing I expected to find on my doorstep. I just got back to Boston… How long has that box been out there?
Holy fuck, why isn’t she screaming?
I gain control of myself and approach the box again, heart pounding because my second assumption is that the human female in the box might be dead and that’s the reason she hasn’t made a sound. The sick thought twists my stomach into an unyielding knot.
I slowly approach the box again, ignoring my heavy breathing, focusing instead on taking in as much information as possible about the situation. I move the flaps of the box open and stare at the woman’s face.. Suddenly, her eyes snap open before swiveling around and looking me directly in the eye..
Holy fuck, this woman is alive.
“What the fuck is this?” I grunt to myself. Not to myself. I’m not alone. I dry swallow and run my fingers through my hair. She’s black. Someone tied up a black woman in a pink ribbon, wrapped her up like a gift and put her in a box on my doorstep. This has to be a sick joke.
I’m almost too scared to reach into the box and touch her, but I have to touch her to get her out of the fucking box. Whoever this woman is, she ran into the wrong fucking people and ended up in the wrong living room.
I have tattoos and vows of loyalty to prove how I feel about people like her. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of there.”
I don’t know why I’m bothering with comfort. I reach into the box and grab her at the base of her spine before hoisting her out of the box and gently setting her on the ground. My stomach lurches. This is some sick, twisted shit. Whoever did this to her stripped this woman naked, bared every inch of her dark skin, the color of Arabica coffee, and wrapped her in a pink ribbon, contorting her limbs and running the ribbon over her bare breasts, between her thighs and in loops around her body so she’s wrapped up like a chocolate present.
My body has an unconscious, primal reaction. I could unwrap her like the present she’s been wrapped up to be, but I need answers quickly.
She has a gag in her mouth, a round white ball that keeps her lips spread open and hooks at the back. Her eyes roam around the room in terror as I reach into my pocket for my knife. I’ve killed people with this knife and now I’m using it to save someone.
Her skin prickles with goosebumps as I touch her. I apologize, but I need to brace myself against her to get her free. I press the serrated edge to the ribbon and make the first cut.
I cut her legs free. She groans as her legs fall in a curled heap. She cries out and tries to jerk them again, but however long she’s been in that position was far too long for her to have full control of her legs and hips.
“Don’t move,” I remind her. I touch her skin again and my stomach lurches. Fuck, her skin is so dark. I look pale as fuck touching her and even putting my hands on her drives guilt through me. She’s black. She’s the wrong kind of person. I run my tongue piercing over my lower lip as I focus on all the parts of the ribbon I have to cut free.
When I have her limbs mostly free, she rolls onto her side, groaning in pain as her arms and legs curl in an awkward and splayed mess next to her. Even her wrists bend at an unnatural angle. I know she’s alive, but the woman still looks dead.
I swallow slowly. What the absolute fuck is this?
“I’ll take the gag out, but you can’t spit or bite or do anything of that nature. Do you understand?”
She stares at me, but she can’t say anything. I approach her mouth slowly and reach around her to find the clasp of her ball gag. I unhook it and take it out of her mouth. She groans again and winces in visible pain as she attempts to close her jaw. She slowly moves her hand to her face and rubs her cheek, groaning.
I crouch next to her, staring at her in awe, knowing that I shouldn’t but am completely incapable of taking my eyes off the naked woman in front of me. If her nudity makes her uncomfortable, that hasn’t sunk in yet. My cock stiffens inappropriately in my pants and I clasp my hands in front of my dick, refusing to take my eyes off her.
Her breasts are small, but they protrude forward in tiny, dark orbs with nipples that are even darker than her extremely dark skin. Holy fuck, I didn’t know nipples came that dark. My eyes widen inappropriately and I pray she doesn’t notice my leering. Who sent this woman to me and what exactly did they send her for?
Christ, Aiden. Get a grip. You’re staring at her crotch now and it’s obvious.
She’s waxed completely and my gaze snaps to the bare, dark brown lips. I wonder what this strange woman conceals between those lower lips and what color her flesh is between those thin, toned legs. I clear my throat.
“Who are you?”
“Read the card with the gift,” she manages to say, with a raspy voice and an accent I can’t place.
“I asked you a question.”
“Read the card with the gift,” she repeats.
I raise an eyebrow and walk towards the box. There’s a large card at the bottom, about 8 x 10 inches, printed on thick paper. I pull it out of the box and read the note, muttering it out loud to myself. What the fuck is this?
Dear Mr. Murray,
We hope you enjoy your object. Your task is simple.
Use the object wisely. Have unprotected sex with the object and film a 4K quality video.
Compress the video file and send it to the email address below.
The object may be initially unwilling but both of you will face strong motivation to comply. The object understands that documentation of her existence belongs to us and if she fails to comply enthusiastically, we will destroy her identity.
If we do not receive the video within one week of today’s date, you will both lose what’s most important to you.
Tegan Murray counts on you to succeed. We have possession of the girl and you would be wise to listen to our orders if you or your family want to see her safe.
Do not call Padraig Murray. Do not call anyone else, or you will both suffer.
It takes less than a second to fire a bullet.
You must comply. When you’re finished with said object, it is yours to keep.
Sincerely,
Your Benefactors
OA
“What is this sick shit?” I growl, throwing the card back into the box, causing the woman still kneeling on the ground to flinch. My heart thuds. These people have Tegan and this woman might know where she is and who they are. I won’t be a part of this sick fucking game.
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