Thief

Owen Mullen

Description

Family first. Family last. The Glass family always...

Charley Glass arrived in her family’s lives like the hurricane she'd escaped. But she hadn't run far enough: the ruthless Giordano family are on her tail and want two things - her life, and the return of the property she stole from them. No matter how many bodies stack up.

After years of hoping, Charley finally has the family she’s always wanted, but now she’s going to have to tell them the real reason she came looking for them. There is only one way she’s going to stay alive, and that is to employ the muscle of the notorious Glass Family.

The head of the family, Luke, isn't sure they're strong enough to take on one of New Orleans' biggest crime gangs. But he'd put his life on the line to protect the empire they've built - even if they’ll have to take on an enemy hurting enough to cross an ocean for revenge.

Page-turning, gritty, and utterly compelling, Thief is Owen Mullen’s best book yet. Perfect for fans of Martina Cole, Kimberley Chambers and Mandasue Heller.

What readers say about Owen Mullen:

'Owen Mullen knows how to ramp up the action just when it’s needed… he never fails to give you hard-hitting thrillers that have moments that will stay with you forever...'

'One of the very best thriller writers I have ever read.'

'Owen Mullen writes a good story, he really brings his characters to life and the endings are hard to guess and never what you expected.'

Sujets

• Mashups
• Psychological
• Thrillers
• Women
• Suspenso
• Contemporary history
• Psychological thriller
• General officer
• Woman
• Psychology
• Organized crime
• Espionage
• The Women
• General
• Contemporary
• Crime
• Family Life
• Romance
• Suspense
• Thriller
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 28 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804154885
• Langue: English

Extrait

THIEF



OWEN MULLEN
CONTENTS



The Players


Prologue


Part I


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9


Part II


Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20


Part III


Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue


Postscript

Acknowledgments

More from Owen Mullen

Also by Owen Mullen

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
In memory of Mary Castles
A wonderful sister and an irreplaceable friend
THE PLAYERS

In London:


Luke Glass – Head of London’s most powerful crime family
Nina Glass – Luke’s sister and managing partner of Glass Houses and Construction
Charley Glass – Luke’s sister, the face of Lucky Bastards Club
George Ritchie – Luke’s right-hand man running the family’s business interests south of the river
Felix Corrigan – Gang boss in east London and George Ritchie’s second in command
Calum Bishop – Nephew of Kenny Bishop, who runs north London
Stevie D – Ambitious drug dealer
Jocelyn Church – Right-wing political figure and establishment hack
Rupert Neville – Officially known as Lord Holland, an influential political insider
In New Orleans :


Madeline Giordano – Matriarch of the Giordano crime family
Beppe Giordano – Madeline’s son
Antoine [Tony] Giordano – Madeline’s grandson
Bruno Mura – Tony’s lieutenant
Roberta Romano – Paid assassin, also known as La Réponse
PROLOGUE
GARDEN DISTRICT, NEW ORLEANS – LOUISIANA

Martha wasn’t a Katrina, but she was still a bitch.
She’d roared off the Gulf like an angry drunk spoiling for trouble and determined to find it, lashing Louisiana with torrential rain leaving lives lost and businesses destroyed in her wake. But in the mansion on St Charles Avenue the naked couple on the bed ignored the 100 mph winds whipping the branches of the live oaks lining the street; they were making their own noise.
The woman straddled the man’s broad thighs, throwing her long hair over her shoulders in a show of pleasure that was entirely fake. His lips parted in a satisfied grin as swollen fingers searched for her breasts. She stared into the bloated face beneath her, bit back her disgust and started to ride him in time with the banging of a shutter that had broken free of its mooring somewhere in the house. He believed he was dominating her . She’d let him: a necessary deception with a monster who’d sanctioned the killing of more people than even he could remember and would send her to the same fate without a moment’s hesitation.
In his youth, Beppe Giordano had been slim and athletic. A life of hard partying had thickened his features and left him obese and unrecognisable.
His partner’s name was Charlene, younger than him by two and a half decades, and by any standards a beauty. On the wall, her silhouette juddered like an old-time movie coming to the end of the reel as she quickened the pace and he moaned deep in his throat. Egyptian cotton sheets and antique stained-glass lamps were inadequate compensation for sex with this grotesque slug. Yet, it wasn’t the worst thing she’d done in her thirty-three years on earth.
The gangster’s motive was lust. Hers was survival.



Giordano’s eyes traced the smooth line of Charlene’s bare back all the way to her rump, silently congratulating himself. He reached for the scarlet robe on the chair, pulled it round him and lurched unsteadily across the floor.
Other men had vices. Beppe Giordano had habits. He’d been smoking since he was eight years old. Lighting a San Cristobal Habana was a reflex, the first thing he did every morning. He poured from a crystal decanter, watching the caramel-coloured liquid fill the glass, and glanced again at the woman. Six months she’d lasted. Longer than most. There was a reason: she was different from the Creole pieces he was used to, so thin he could break them in two like dried sticks – this one had meat on her bones. And she was better. Prime.
The best.
Giordano had more enemies than he could count and zero friends. But as long as he had Cuban smokes, fine cognac, and ladies with alabaster skin in his bed, he’d take it.
The wind howled down the length of a deserted St Charles, where the city’s oldest streetcar line ran from South Carrollton and South Claiborne Avenues to Canal Street, ruffling the tiles on the roofs like a gambler cutting a new deck. Beppe poured a drink for himself but didn’t offer one to her. A reminder of the terms of their relationship.
She lifted her dress and dropped it over her head; the gangster’s gravel voice admonished her. ‘What the hell’re you doing? Did I tell you to put your clothes on?’
‘I thought—’
‘You thought? You fucking thought?’ He stabbed the air with his cigar. ‘Next time somebody says, “a penny for them”, do yourself a favour, girl. Sell!’ Giordano laughed loudly at his own joke.
Sex mellowed most people. Beppe wasn’t one of them; his temper was as legendary as his appetites. He leaned a heavy elbow on the mahogany desk at the other side of the room and got down on one knee in front of the safe his father had built into the wall when Beppe was still a child. The modest exertion left him breathing hard. He felt a sudden sensation in his left arm and ignored it, spinning the tumbler clockwise twice followed by one turn anticlockwise. The lock disengaged and the door sprang open. A wave of nausea washed through him; the robe fell away exposing his massive frame; an invisible vice squeezed his chest under the amber pendant on the gold chain. Beppe realised what was happening and struggled to his feet, one flabby arm flailing wildly before he collapsed on the carpet.
Charlene smoothed her silk stockings over her legs and didn’t raise her head. When she was ready, she walked unhurriedly to the desk. Giordano was on the floor behind it, his face the colour of wallpaper paste, his lips already tinged with blue mouthing words that refused to form. She hunkered down close enough to smell the cigar smoke on him and see the sweat gathered like tears in the corners of his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she raked a painted nail over the folds of flesh at his neck through the tangle of tight grey hair to his belly.
Charlene tapped his clammy temple with her finger. ‘“A penny for them” yourself, you fat bastard.’
Out in the street, the storm relentlessly bludgeoned the city; glass shattered; a dog barked, somewhere another replied, and inside the mansion the lights flickered and failed, plunging the room into darkness. When they came on again, Beppe Giordano was dead.
Charlene stepped over his body and bent to examine the safe she’d witnessed the gangster check every day since she’d known him, making sure whatever treasure it held was still there. She’d imagined the dull glow of gold bars reflected in his bloodshot eyes, or the diamond sparkle of a stolen necklace once owned by the wife of Nicholas II, last Czar of the Romanovs – too hot for the street and likely to stay that way for another fifty years. At the very least, there had to be a fortune in high-denomination bank notes to explain his concern.
The disappointment when she peered inside was like a blow, and for a moment, Charlene was too stunned to take in what she was seeing: it was almost empty.
She thrust her hand into the metal box and brought out a wad of money secured by a mustard bill strap signifying $10,000. Towards the back, another dozen like it were divided into neat piles. To a man like Beppe it was scatter cash he’d lose at blackjack in an evening; it didn’t make sense.
Charlene wanted to cry.
Her eyes darted anxiously to the door, listening for the armed guards on the other side. If one of them came to check on his boss he’d see Beppe lifeless on the floor, shoot first and ask questions later. Even if he didn’t, Giordano was gone. And what was she but a whore in a city full of them? His mother, Madeline, was a wizened old witch – eighty if she was a day – who’d made her distaste for her son’s tart obvious and had never spoken to her. She’d relish throwing her onto the sidewalk with nothing but the clothes on her back.
Charlene was smart, yet men – certainly the ones she’d met – were more interested in her tits than her brains. She wasn’t complaining, her impressive breasts had served her well, except her looks wouldn’t last forever – ten years at most, then…
The decision was easy. She stuffed the money into her purse and zipped it shut. The guards were stocky, crew-cut dullards, who thought with their dicks and lusted after the foxy chick at their corpulent boss’s side. They were used to seeing her arrive and leave – getting past them shouldn’t be a problem. After that, Charlene had no idea where she’d go but her time in the Big Easy was finished.
The lights dimmed and flickered again: Martha wasn’t close to being done. Another outage might bring Beppe’s two-legged Rottweilers. She had to get clear before that happened. With luck, they wouldn’t find him until morning. By then, if the highway wasn’t washed out, she’d be miles away.
Charlene towered over her former lover remembering the countless humiliations the animal had made her suffer for his amusement. His rough features were smooth and unlined; death had made him younger. The temptation to spit on him was strong. She resisted and was closing the door on the safe that had promised so much and delivered so little when she noticed the envelope on the bottom with a small black diary secured by a metal buckle next to it.
Her heartbeat quickened. Beppe had checked and rechecked the safe. Not gold bars. Not stolen diamonds.
More. Much more.
He’d been making certain the s