Page 1 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

CHAPTER ONE

Maeve

Friday nights at Murphy’s were always loud. But that night, they somehow got even louder.

By seven the place was packed tight. People were pressed shoulder to shoulder, laughing and spilling pints and arguing nonstop.

The cold outside was brutal, a stack contrast from the heat of the bar. The warmth hit first, then the noise, mixed with the smell of beer, fried food, and wet coats dripping onto the wooden floor.

Irish songs played from the ceiling speakers, but nobody listened to them. They just filled the gaps between shouting and clinking glasses.

“Don’t tell me the Shamrock Rovers are the greatest Irish club ever,” someone called from over by the dartboard.

“They’re literally farming titles off luck,” another voice shot back.

A lot of people disagreed immediately, like this argument had been rehearsed all week. Near the bar, some people were laughing too hard. A very drunk man asked for ketchup for his food. It was always like this, and it was always mine to manage.

Most people hated Friday shifts, but I was indifferent to them. I’d done this job for long enough that working at Murphy’s stopped feeling like work. I knew everyone—the drunks, the people who only ordered their “special,” men who complained about everything and still came back, and women straight off hospital shifts, exhaustion still in their eyes.

As always, there were some construction workers wearing the day on their clothes and the old boys who claimed the same stools every night, like land ownership existed in a pub. I moved through it all with a carefully balanced tray in one hand.

“Maeve!”

I turned. It was Mr. Hennessy, who’d been sitting at the bar since God knows when. He was about seventy-something, with a sharp tongue, failing eyesight, and an absolute confidence in his own opinion.

I set a fresh pint of Guinness in front of him. “What’s wrong this time?”

He looked at the pint like it offended him personally. “You’re still not pouring it right. Even after I taught you how.”

“That’s what you say every Friday.”

“Because every Friday you’re wrong. You always get it wrong.”

The man beside him laughed into his drink as I leaned on the counter. “You’re seventy-two. Your eyes are decorative at this point, so try to drink it before you complain.”

Hennessy looked scandalized, then took a slow sip and paused. “This one is better.”

“Glad we’ve reached an agreement,” I said, already moving away.

That was Murphy’s. It wasn’t about drinks or service; it was about patterns. People never changed, even when they swore they were different every week. I was carrying two bottles toward table seven when Nora walked up to me.

“Table six wants another round,” she said.

I glanced over at the table. Three men wearing office shirts and loosened ties were laughing, but it was the kind of laughter that came after divorce paperwork and poor decisions. “They should want water,” I said.

“They’re celebrating. Of course they don’t want water.”

“Look at them; they’re barely surviving,” I corrected.

Nora smiled faintly. “You could try being nice.”

I snorted. “That’s your job.”

She nudged my shoulder lightly and moved on. My phone rang in my back pocket, but I ignored it at first. When it rang the second time, I checked it.It was my dad. He’d called twice already and sent me a text, too.

We need to talk, dear. Call me later when you’re free.

That wasn’t normal. Even a text from my dad was as rare as a snowstorm in Africa, and now he was calling me? My brows furrowed.