The sun is shining, the birds are singing and the Irish contingent of the Moonstruck Mafia series is jabbering away in my head. I don’t see a **CLOUD** in the sky to rain on their parade, despite the fact that I keep “shipping up to Boston” via Google maps. Still the last paragraphs of the opening chapter have the #1lineWed theme word–CLOUD–in it so here’s just a tease. To set the scene, Ronan O’Connor is the heir-apparent to the Irish mob. His younger brother, Mickey, is his #2. They “run” a bar called Clancy’s and the cops are serving search warrants on all the mob’s properties for…reasons. Anyway, Foley (who might be a dirty cop) is throwing insults and Ronan has made him cool his heels. Mickey, keeps snickering or tossing out comments only Ronan can hear. And here we go…
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Ronan ignored his brother. Foley was a tool, to be certain, but they had no reason to play the cop’s game. “Mickey, go with the nice detective and make sure his men don’t damage the stock.”

“You can bet we’ll check every last damn bottle.”

Allowing a hint of a smile to lift one corner of his mouth, Ronan acknowledged Foley. “I’m sure you’ll find tax stamps on all of them, Detective.”

Mick moved to the door and opened it, waiting for Foley. He shot his big brother a look and got a slow blink in reply. The O’Connor boys never forgot a thing and their da had left them with one lesson: O’Connors never held a grudge, they always got even.

Foley brushed past and attempted to jam his elbow into Mick’s gut in a show of either scorn or intimidation. Mick didn’t move and flashed a grin at the startled cop as he all but bounced off before crashing into the door frame.

“Well. That’s sure to leave a bruise.” Then Mick pointed to the CCTV camera aimed at the door. “You won’t be tellin’ tales out of school, will ya now? After all, we can’t help that yer a clumsy igit.”

Foley righted himself and scrambled out into the hallway, face red and curses dropping from his lips like boos raining down on the Yankees during a Red Sox game. Mick exchanged another look with Ronan then followed the tool cop down the hall.

Ronan closed his eyes, listening as Foley and his men clattered down the stairs. His brother’s footsteps were lost in noise made by the others, not that Mick stepped heavy. There was another thing they shared with their da—and Brian. The Lupi versi pellis gene. Literally translated, it meant the man who wears the skin of a wolf. Wolf shifter. He’d never bothered with the science of it but knew it was a mutant gene attached to the Y chromosome.

His inner wolf chose that moment to stretch and raise his head. The thing snorted in disgust after Ronan took a deep breath. The cop’s aftershave hung in the room like an oppressive cloud. In self-defense, he stood and strode over to the window. He raised the sash and looked down on Dorchester Street. Cop cars blocked traffic in both directions. Boston drivers, not known for their great driving skills—or their patience—to begin with, played bumper cars with horns blaring. He shut the window.

The phone on his desk rang and he grabbed the receiver. “O’Connor.”

“They’re here at the warehouse.” Declan Donahue, his third in command sounded amused.

“I hope you are cooperating,” Ronan replied dryly.

“Oh, aye. We’re legitimate businessmen around here. We have manifests for every crate.”

Just like at Brian’s house, the cops would find nothing at the warehouse or here in Clancy’s. Especially not here. The bar was home base for the O’Hara mob. Yeah, bootleg booze made it’s way onto the shelves behind the downstairs bar and lots of cash showed up on the books but Clancy’s was a thriving business and had been for a hundred years. Of course, Southie gangs had fought over this turf for near as long. And given Brian’s orders, they’d be fighting for it again.

After all, the war had just begun.
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And there it is, the hook at the end of the first chapter. I hope it’s good enough to make readers turn the page for Chapter 2. Writers, any cloud or cloudy words to share? Readers, how’s the weather in your neck of the world?