Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  “Chertovski smeshno,” Artem mutters in Russian, reaching for his own beer.

  Fucking ridiculous.

  We’ve been cocooned in this room for the past few hours now. And despite the amount of alcohol we’ve consumed, neither one of us is close to being drunk.

  The stories we’re telling are pretty sobering, to be fair.

  “Pretty exciting, huh?” I say, flashing him a smile. “Bet you’re jealous.”

  “Of what, exactly?”

  “The adventures I’ve been on.”

  Artem narrows his dark eyes at me. “Are you referring to playing the part of farm boy for the better part of a year?” he asks.

  “Well, the way I told it was better, but sure, we can go with your version.”

  “Are you trying to insinuate that it was more exciting than me taking back the Bratva from my psychotic uncle?” His smile is twitching at the corner of his lips.

  “And probably more dangerous, too,” I add with a serious nod. “Have you ever tried milking a grumpy cow? Those bitches get feisty.”

  Artem guffaws with laughter. He’d never say it out loud, but he’s glad I’m back.

  Which only makes it harder to tell him what I’ve put off telling him for the last few hours.

  “Always knew you’d do it,” I say, letting sentimentality creep in a little. “The Bratva was only ever meant to yours.”

  Artem shrugs. “I guess I knew I could do it, too,” he says. “Just always assumed you’d be next to me when I did.”

  “Me, too,” I admit. “But you didn’t need me.”

  “Not true.”

  I cock my head to the side and look at him pointedly. “Let’s not pretend.”

  Artem smirks. “I should have figured you’d show up right when shit’s settled and the danger’s passed.”

  “You know me,” I laugh. “I always had great timing.”

  Artem shakes his head. I can still see the disbelief in his eyes when he looks at me. “Cillian fucking O’Sullivan,” he breathes. “Back from the dead.”

  I smile. It takes some effort to keep my expression casual.

  “So… I hear Kian’s still in town?”

  Artem’s expression irons out. “Yes. Your father really pulled through for the Bratva.”

  “Who woulda thought?”

  I’m surprised at the edge of bitterness in my tone. I’d thought enough time had passed to blunt the edge of all my resentment.

  But apparently, I thought wrong.

  “He will always have my gratitude,” Artem says carefully. “And my respect.”

  “Commanding respect was never his problem,” I retort. “He sent Kian?”

  “Yes.”

  I nod. “That’s significant. Kian’s his last remaining heir.”

  “Kian’s not the little boy you said goodbye to, Cillian.”

  “I never said goodbye to him at all,” I point out. “I wasn’t allowed to.”

  “Well, thankfully, it wasn’t goodbye after all. You have the chance to see your brother again.”

  I stiffen at the thought of seeing Kian. I have no idea what to expect, truthfully.

  “Where is he?”

  “Byrne’s.”

  “That little bastard would go straight to a pub,” I chuckle. “I taught him well.”

  “I can drive you over there.”

  “Boy, you have missed me, haven’t you?” I say, throwing him a wink.

  Artem rolls his eyes.

  “I appreciate it,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you go back to your wife. Tell Esme I miss her. I can do this myself.”

  He nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  He stands up, and I mimic his movement. But what I have to say next doesn’t come so easily.

  “Artem…”

  He catches the tilt of my tone and looks at me with a frown. “What is it?”

  “The last year… It’s been a transformative one for me,” I tell him. “I realized something during my recovery. I’ve always felt like I was chased out of Ireland. But maybe… Maybe the opposite is true. Maybe I ran.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying that I think I need to go back home,” I say. “I have unfinished business there I ought to sort out.”

  Artem stares at me for a moment, trying to decide whether to argue with me or just support me without question.

  In the end, he splits the difference. “You’re sure about this?” he asks softly.

  “I’m sure.”

  He sighs. “Alright then.”

  We move in for a hug. Artem slaps me hard on the back. “You better come back at some point,” he tells me. “I need my right-hand man.”

  “You did fine without me,” I point out.

  Artem shrugs. “Yeah, well, there was no one to distract or annoy me, so what do you expect?”

  I burst out laughing and we head out of the room together. As we make our way downstairs, he hands me the keys to his Wrangler.

  “You never let me drive the beast,” I say in surprise.

  “Some things change.”

  “Most of them stay the same, though.” I smile. “You really did miss me.”

  “Shut up, you sentimental bastard.”

  * * *

  It takes me half an hour to get to Byrne’s, and then another fifteen minutes to get to the bar amidst the throng of people crowding up the place.

  But I recognize Kian immediately.

  And I freeze for a moment, just to take him in.

  My little brother.

  He certainly isn’t little anymore.

  He must be at least six-three and filled out with lean muscle. That ruffled brown hair looks exactly the same as it did when he was a boy. But the lines in his shoulders and back show the shape of a man.

  He must sense someone watching him. He turns and catches sight of me.

  His eyes spark with recognition, but they don’t betray anything else.

  Just like Da’s. Only dark mysteries swirling in his irises.

  I sidle forward and take the empty barstool next to him. “Hey, kid. Fancy running into you here.”

  Kian smiles. The smile reminds me of Sean—on those rare occasions where he wasn’t glowering or grimacing or frowning at everything under the sun.

  “You look like Ma,” Kian says.

  “You look like Da.”

  He scoffs. “Insults right off the bat, eh?”

  I smirk. So he’s funny, too.

  I’m thankful for that. You can’t get through life—particular the mafia life—without a sense of humor.

  “I never believed Artem when he said you were dead,” Kian informs me softly.

  “He believed it.”

  “But I didn’t,” Kian fires back. “Call it brother’s intuition. I always knew I’d see you again.”

  “Who told you?”

  “That you were alive?” Kian asks. “I was informed the moment you barged in on Artem’s meeting. The clan has its way of getting information.”

  He talks like a man who knows what he’s doing.

  He’s got confidence. An easy swagger about him.

  I shake my head, trying to reconcile the image of the ten-year-old in my head with the man sitting in front of me now.

  “You’re imagining me playing with train sets, aren’t you?” Kian asks with a knowing smile.

  I laugh. “Actually, I was just thinking that you’re almost as pretty as I am, you little fucker.”

  Kian snorts and waves the bartender over. “Two pints for my brother and me,” he orders. “And keep ‘em coming!”

  I’ve already consumed my fair share of alcohol tonight, but I’m not about to turn down a drink with my kid brother. Especially not after thirteen years of absence.

  “Well?” Kian asks, turning back to me. “You’re back from the dead. What’s the plan now, big bro?”

  “What makes you think I have one?”

  Kian’s expression turns serious. “You
didn’t come back for nothing.”

  The bartender plunks down two large pints in front of us. I accept mine gratefully and pass the other to Kian.

  “Da doesn’t want me back,” I point out, pulling one of the beers towards me.

  “Fuck Da and what he wants,” Kian says. “He doesn’t always know what’s right.”

  I smile. “We can agree on that. How is the old tyrant?”

  “He hasn’t aged a fucking day.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “I think he may be a vampire.”

  “Again, not surprised.”

  Kian laughs. “He never talks about you or Sean,” he admits, his laugh dying slowly. “If anyone mentions either one of you, he gets this look on his face. It’s fucking terrifying.”

  “Is this your way of trying to convince me to come back?” I ask. “Or are you trying to warn me to stay away?”

  “My point,” Kian presses on, “is that Da wouldn’t have such a strong reaction if he didn’t still care.”

  I shake my head. “Sean and I embarrassed him. Disappointed him. He’s never going to forgive us for that.”

  “He’ll come around.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You think so?”

  Kian shrugs. “Vampire or not, no one lives forever,” he says. “The future of the clan is up in the air.”

  I frown. “No, it’s not. He has his heir,” I say, gesturing towards Kian. “And a perfect one at that.”

  Kian shakes his head, his brows knitting together.

  I recognize that look. I’d experienced that feeling for several days when I thought I was going to be the next O’Sullivan don.

  “I’m not perfect at anything,” Kian says. “And even if I was, I doubt it would matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The clan’s power has faded in recent years, Cillian,” Kian admits. “Brian Murtagh controls the entire city now. Which means the Kinahans are practically untouchable. Da still has his fair share of influence, but he’s in a precarious position.”

  I frown and try to process that. The names he’s saying—Murtagh, Kinahan—are dusty from disuse. But it’s not hard to remember the nasty taste they leave on my tongue.

  “Tensions are boiling over between the O’Sullivan clan and the Kinahans,” Kian continues. “And if it comes to an all-out war… I’m not sure we can win.”

  I haven’t been part of the politics for thirteen years. And yet, one conversation is all it takes to find myself being drawn back in. As though I’d never left.

  “I can’t do it alone, brother,” Kian says. “Come back to Dublin with me.”

  I stare at him.

  His eyes are blue, of course. A little darker than mine, but identical to Da’s.

  But where Da’s eyes are cold and unfeeling, Kian’s have elements that are warm and inviting. He has all the best parts of Ma and all the best parts of Da.

  Maybe he has the better parts of me, too.

  “I’ll come back with you,” I say carefully, “on one condition.”

  Kian raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “Will you forgive me?” I ask. “For leaving without so much as a goodbye?”

  It’s clear Kian isn’t expecting that. He holds my gaze for a moment.

  Unreadable. Dark. Stormy.

  And then a small smile spreads across his face.

  “I’ll admit—I was pretty fucking pissed for a long time,” he says. “Then, when I got older, I got the whole story out of Ma.”

  “And?”

  “And I understood,” Kian says simply. “I would have done the same damn thing in your place.”

  I smile. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

  Kian laughs. “Back in Dublin, waiting for you,” he says, clapping me on the back.

  We clank our beer mugs together and drink.

  “I have a question,” Kian asks after we’ve had our fill.

  “Fire away.”

  “Do you still think about her?” he asks.

  He doesn’t need to clarify who he’s talking about. I tense for a moment, and I have no doubt the reaction’s not lost on Kian.

  “Yes,” I admit quietly.

  “How much does this trip back to Dublin have to do with her?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What exactly are you asking?”

  “I’m just saying,” Kian says with a casual shrug, “it was pretty easy convincing you to come back home.”

  I laugh. “You’re too fucking smart for your own good.”

  “I’ve had to be,” he replies, “to survive living alone with our control freak parents.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I breathe with a shudder.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Finish drinking your beer, you little shit,” I reply. “You may be the future don, but I’m still your fucking big brother.”

  Laughing, Kian shakes his head. “And I thought you were coming back because you missed me.”

  Yeah. Definitely too fucking smart for his own good.

  26

  Saoirse

  The Dublin Airport

  I head into the airport, my skin crawling with unease. Security is everywhere, and every time I see a man in uniform, I clam up instantly.

  My palms are sweaty as I walk through to the ticket counter. I could have bought the ticket online far in advance, but I didn’t want to risk Tristan finding a clue that might lead him to my escape plan.

  I’ve been careful, but there’s a nagging in the back of my head that’s telling me I can’t relax.

  Not yet.

  It’s almost my turn at the counter when I feel eyes on me.

  I turn subtly and try to suss out the person looking at me, but I don’t notice anyone.

  You’re being paranoid, Saoirse, I scold myself. Just relax. No one knows who you are.

  “Next up!”

  I shake myself back to reality, plaster a normal, innocuous smile on my face, and step up to the counter.

  The woman sitting on the other side is a blond wearing ruby red lipstick that makes her look like she belongs in the 1920s.

  “Hi,” I say. “One-way ticket to Los Angeles, please.”

  I’d checked flights on my phone right before leaving the house. I know there are available seats. Last-minute tickets are expensive, but it’s not like I’m about to rent a canoe and paddle my way to America.

  A voice sounds somewhere in the distance, so soft I almost miss it. “Saoirse…”

  I freeze. Whirl around. No one’s looking at me.

  I clamp my hands together and turn back to the woman behind the desk. “Sorry—what did you say?”

  She gives me an odd look. “I said, ‘Can you repeat that?’”

  Something feels deadly wrong. My instincts are screaming at me to get out of line. Abandon this plan. I’ve been found out.

  Because I know that voice.

  I recognize it.

  Somehow, he’s found me.

  “Ma’am?”

  I stare at her bright red lips, but I barely see the woman attached to them anymore. Just a pair of lips. Disembodied. Saying things that make no sense, no sense at all…

  And in the distance, the voice again: “Saoirse…”

  This time, there’s no doubt in my mind.

  Tristan is here.

  He’s found me.

  But how?

  I was so damn careful. I covered my tracks. I left nothing that could’ve given me away.

  But he has eyes everywhere. The Kinahans are everywhere. Maybe I was a fool to think that escaping him was ever a realistic option.

  Still—now that I’ve decided to run, I can’t face the thought of being dragged back to that house. To that life.

  “Ma’am, are you alright?” the lips are saying.

  I don’t bother answering. I turn and run.

  “Ma’am! Ma’am!”

  I don’t turn back. I start weaving through the crowd, my feet digging into the ground h
ard.

  I know there’s no way I’m getting out of the country now. Not today, at least.

  But maybe I can hide out somewhere in Dublin. Maybe I can disappear into the city and find another way to leave. Surely, this isn’t the end for me?

  More and more people are looking my way.

  I’m on their radar. Everyone’s radar, apparently.

  A couple of airport security guards start taking notice, too.

  “Hey, you!” someone barks.

  I spy the exit doors up ahead. Maybe I can grab a cab out of here. Or steal a car if I have to. The thought feels foreign, but I can feel my resolve solidify.

  I’m not gonna let him take me back.

  I’m going to fight.

  I burst through the doors, back out into the Dublin air. The dawn is just barely peeking over the horizon in the distance.

  “Stop her!” someone screams.

  I don’t even have the chance to sprint towards one of the cabs waiting outside the airport for a hire before someone grabs my arm.

  Another police officer seems to materialize in front of me an instant later.

  “No!” I scream. “Let me go!”

  “Calm down, ma’am. It’ll go easier for you if you stop fighting.”

  It’s a portly man in an airport security uniform who’s gotten hold of me. More of his colleagues keep appearing with every passing second. They all look harsh, suspicious.

  This one, though, has kind eyes, rheumy and gentle.

  “Please,” I beg him. “He’ll kill me.”

  Worry flits across his face and his grip softens. Just barely—but it’s enough.

  I take the opportunity to wrench away from his grasp.

  I turn, start to run—

  And slam straight into Tristan.

  His eyes are narrowed and bloodshot.

  And furious.

  How the hell is he here? He’d been piss drunk when I snuck out of the house in the dead of the night.

  His hand seizes around my wrist and he pulls me to him. “You thought you could run?” he asks, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “You little fucking whore. Did you forget? Did you forget what you are?”

  My heart is thundering so hard against my ribcage that I can barely breathe. My eyes look past Tristan’s shoulder to the cars queuing up outside the airport. Dozens of pairs of eyes, all watching in shock and horror—and not a damn one of them lifting so much as a finger to intervene.