Thicker Than Water (Boston Syndicate #1) Read Online Michelle St. James

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Boston Syndicate Series by Michelle St. James

Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 202(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)

Nolan Burke was never really a criminal.

He’d joined the Syndicate to learn how to be a man. Pissing off his socialite mother was just a bonus, as was hanging around South Boston with Bridget Mongahan and his best friend Will. But that was before Bridget dumped him without explanation. Forced to pick up the pieces, Nolan returned to law school and set about fulfilling the real purpose of someone of his station — making money.
Bridget Monaghan has never been ashamed of her working class upbringing. She loves everything about Southie, loves living with her parents and brother in their small row house and knowing everyone she passes on the sidewalk. Going to night school to become a lawyer was a way to do something meaningful with her life, a way to make the world a better place. Then her brother was diagnosed with ALS and she was forced to make the most painful decision of her life — let Nolan Burke go to save her brother.
Four years later, Bridget is working as a lawyer for the Irish mob, trying to cover the expense of her brother’s medications and treatments, when she finds herself in the crosshairs of a war between the Syndicate and a former I.R.A. operative running the criminal organization in South Boston. When the Syndicate asks for Nolan’s help, he and Bridget are drawn into a deadly turf war that will force them to decide if they should save themselves — or risk everything for love.



Christophe Marchand stepped out of the car and into the lobby of the steel and glass skyscraper in the Financial District.

He missed Paris already.

Still, New York was better than Boston, where he’d spent a majority of his time over the past months while Nico and Farrell were preoccupied with other territories. Had there been any choice at all, he would have happily foisted the responsibility of the beleaguered city onto either of the other men, but alas, Vegas had taken longer than expected to get under control, and London was an increasingly complicated network of old-world criminal activity and modern revenue streams that involved everything from surveillance to cyber espionage for which the Syndicate was paid extraordinary sums by even companies deemed altruistic by society.

“Good evening, Mr. Marchand.”

Christophe looked up and nodded at the security guard seated behind the mirrored desk at one end of the lobby. The Syndicate had purchased the building after Raneiro Donati’s assassination, shortly after he and the other men had agreed to take over — and make over — the old infrastructure. It had been an enormous expense that had paid for itself many times over, both in property appreciation and in the privacy and security it provided by the opportunity to choose their tenants.

But the building still felt like an empty vessel, lacking the history and finery he cherished in the city’s older buildings, off-limits to the Syndicate according to Nico, who said historical buildings were the subject of too much curiosity to be viable as Syndicate headquarters.

Christophe stifled a sigh as he stepped into the elevator, his thoughts turning to Charlotte, as they always did when he missed home. He’d once believed home to be the apartment in Paris that had been in his family for generations, or perhaps their estate on the island of Corsica.

Now he knew the truth: home was Charlotte.

She was the find of the century, a gift from the heavens. That she’d come to him only through a dangerous and horrifying series of events that had included the death of his estranged brother was no matter.

She belonged with him. She always had. The years he’d spent hunting down the antiques and art that had been sold over the years to satisfy his father’s many divorce settlements seemed like an exercise in futility, an attempt to fill a hole shaped like Charlotte, like her beauty and kindness, like her gentle laugh and delicate hands.

He closed his eyes for a moment and saw her as she’d been when he’d left the house that morning, elegant even in fitted trousers and one of his old button-down shirts knotted at the waist, a sliver of porcelain skin showing when she lifted her arms to clean the top of a canvas she’d recently purchased at auction, a John William Waterhouse that had been in private collection for nearly fifty years.

He’d stood watching her, taking in the concentration on her beautiful face, her chiseled cheekbones and full lips, her amber eyes turning on him only after a full minute had passed.

She’d smiled, coming down from the stepladder to embrace him before he left for New York. Her body was soft in his arms, and he’d had to fight the urge to release her dark hair from the pins suspending it in a luxurious pile at the top of her head. She’d smelled of lavender and turpentine, of love and home.