Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  He lunges towards me again. I close my eyes just as his hand squeezes around my throat.

  In the darkness of my mind’s eye, I see a man with blond hair. Blue eyes. A devil-may-care smile.

  It’s pathetic to be in love with a memory, after all this time.

  But it’s all I have. It’s my life preserver. It’s the one dream that’s kept me going through the endless nightmare.

  I don’t want to discover what will happen once it no longer exists.

  Seeing Cillian today made that dream look shakier than ever. He hadn’t acknowledged me. Not a trace of recognition in his eyes.

  But my heart is quick to make excuses for him. Quick to preserve the fantasy for as long as possible.

  Maybe he didn’t really see me.

  Maybe he thought he was dreaming.

  Maybe it wasn’t him at all.

  Tristan’s hand redoubles its grip on my throat and I wince against the pain.

  “Open your eyes,” he orders. “Look at me.”

  I sigh and do as he says.

  “Tell me, Saoirse—what did it feel like when he was inside you?”

  My eyes go wide.

  But I’m sure I haven’t misheard him.

  “How big was he? Did he make you come? How many times did he take you?”

  Every question is crude. Every question is meant to make me feel like an object.

  But it doesn’t have the desired effect. He’s not succeeding in terrifying me like he wants to.

  He’s only making me think of Cillian. Of the one night that ever mattered.

  An idea seems to occur to him. “You know what?” Tristan muses. “I’m going to fuck him out of your head. Right here. Right now.”

  I wish I could say I balked. That I screamed.

  But the truth is that, after thirteen years of torment, I expect this kind of monstrosity from him. He doesn’t realize how predictable his methods of torture are.

  It’s horrible every time. It feels like a part of my soul is crushed under the weight of his stink.

  But I have survived it before.

  I’ll survive it again.

  This motherfucker will not win.

  He shoves his weight into me and I close my eyes, trying to dissociate from the experience.

  But just as he’s fiddling with the buckle of his trousers, I hear voices coming towards us.

  “Tristan!”

  With a frustrated growl, he releases me and steps back.

  He makes sure his trousers are zipped up and proper before turning to the door of my open cell.

  A fellow cop walks into the holding area. “Sorry, Tris,” he says. “Didn’t want to interrupt, but I have news.”

  “It better be important fucking news,” he snaps.

  His friend comes towards the cell and his eyes fall on me curiously. Something tells me he interrupted just so he could see me.

  It’s surprising how few of Tristan’s cop buddies I’ve met over the years.

  He likes to keep me closeted at home.

  His possessiveness can get out of hand sometimes, so much so that even he’s aware of it at this point.

  “This is the wife, huh?” the guy asks, his eyes traveling over my body in fascination. “Well, I see why you keep her locked up.”

  “What the fuck did you come in here for, Gary?” Tristan demands.

  “Like I said, something’s happened.”

  “Spill it, man!”

  “Kinahans and Murtagh… They’ve made their move.”

  Tristan pales at once. “Fuck.”

  I turn away from both of them. I couldn’t care less about the Kinahans. I’ve been hearing about mob business for the past thirteen years and it’s always the same shit.

  Deals and drugs and trafficking.

  Betrayals, backstabbing, and unnecessary murders.

  That’s Tristan’s shit. Not mine.

  As far as I’m concerned, the Kinahans and the Murtaghs can drown in their own shit and take Tristan down with them.

  In fact, I wish they would.

  I try to block Tristan and his crooked cop buddy out, but snippets of their conversation still carry to me. They’re not exactly trying to keep their voices down, either.

  “A full-scale attack… How many dead?”

  “… didn’t resist… They’ve been taken…”

  “Fuck… Ronan O’Sullivan… and his bitch, too?”

  “Where have they been taken?”

  “The Cavern.”

  “Fuck. This changes things.”

  “It changes everything.”

  My back hits the cold wall and I slide to the ground, ignoring the cement block in the corner that’s supposed to be a bed. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them.

  Things are always changing in the mafia world. Shit is always hitting the fan. This time is undoubtedly no different.

  So I tune them out as an old melody pops into my head. It takes me a second to place it.

  And when I do, the words come to me, too.

  “The pale moon was rising above the green mountain…” I hum under my breath.

  They’re still fixated on some mafia gossip. It must be good, because Tristan is practically foaming at the bit.

  I continue my song. “…The sun was declining beneath the blue sea...”

  His friend glances at me and then says something else. Tristan’s expression changes instantly. He pales slightly as though he’s just been informed that he has three months to live.

  “What?” he barks.

  “Yeah,” his friend replies.

  He adds something else, but I’m busy singing.

  “…When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain...”

  “Are you sure?” Tristan demands, his dark eyes zeroing in on me as though I’ve personally offended him by existing at all.

  “A hundred percent.” His friend confirms whatever bad news he’s just delivered. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

  Tristan nods, but there’s a look in his eye. Calculating. Foreboding. Murderous.

  “..That stands in beautiful vale of Tralee...”

  The song I sang Cillian that night on the rooftop.

  The same song he sang right back to me.

  With me.

  For me.

  It was the last time I’d ever felt safe.

  The last time I’d ever felt wholly content, wholly at peace.

  He saved me back then. And he’d given me the strength and the courage to keep going all these years.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever see Cillian O’Sullivan again.

  But I hope that, wherever he is right now, he knows that he saved me.

  I hope he knows I’m grateful.

  31

  Cillian

  The Office Of The O’sullivan Don—Midnight

  “Jesus Christ. If isn’t Cillian O’Sullivan, as I live and breathe.”

  Darragh Gallacher is gawking at me with that trademark smirk of his.

  “Can’t get rid of me that easy.” I shake hands with the reedy lawyer who’s worked with the O’Sullivan clan for well over two decades now.

  I’m surrounded by loyalists. Men who give us their trust and have earned ours in return.

  It’s a good fucking place to start. But I can already tell the road ahead isn’t easy.

  “How’ve you been, Darragh?” I ask.

  The man gives me a calm smile. “Same as ever. Kids are out of the house now. The missus and I can finally hear ourselves think. Unfortunately, we didn’t like that much, so we got ourselves a fair few rescues. A trio of mangy mutts, if you can believe it.”

  “You replaced your kids with canines?” I drawl. “Bet the smell hasn’t changed.”

  He laughs. “You’ve got that right, son.” He hesitates, then asks the question on his mind. “Are you back for good?”

  We both look around the room.

  It’s Da’s office space. I’m sitting in the massive leather throne behind his desk.<
br />
  Not because I want to. In truth, I’d rather be anywhere else on the planet.

  But some things are bigger than my wants and needs.

  This is one of them.

  “We’ll see,” I reply vaguely.

  “Well, it’s good to have you back, however long it lasts.”

  I lean back in the chair. If I’m going to play the part of don, then I have to look like I belong in this seat. I have to command the same kind of respect my father did.

  One thing’s for certain, though—I’m not Da.

  But I never wanted to be. I swore from the day I was old enough to decide such things that I’d never be like him.

  I’d be my own man. A different man. A better man.

  “Sit down, Darragh,” I say quietly.

  He notices it at the same time I do—my voice changed.

  Gone is the laughter. Gone is the carefree, who-gives-a-fuck-lilt.

  Darragh complies quietly, sinking into the armchair across the desk from me. His own smile is gone, too.

  He’s somber. Serious.

  The face of a man looking his don in the eye.

  “You heard about the ambush?” I inquire.

  Darragh nods slowly. “Aye. Kinahan bastards, eh?”

  “The police, technically,” I explain. “But it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots.”

  “Murtagh’s behind it all, then?”

  I nod. “Who else?”

  I lean forward, place my elbows on the desk, and look the lawyer in the eye. “I need to get my parents back, Darragh. And then I need to make these motherfuckers pay for what they did.”

  Silence. Thick and tense. The room is rippling with violence. With my anger. With my confusion.

  This isn’t why I came home. But what choice do I have?

  This is what needs to be done.

  “Of course,” Darragh murmurs. He strokes the old black leather briefcase in his lap like it brings him comfort.

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  “I understand, Cillian.” Again, his voice is reverent. Respectful.

  I feel strange hearing my name in that tone. But I don’t say anything.

  “Do we know where they’re being held?”

  I shake my head and sigh. “I’ve already made some inquiries, but they’ve led me straight to dead ends. No one I’ve spoken to has any information. Or at least, none they’re willing to give me. So we have to start at the beginning. Go to the cops and ask politely, I guess.”

  “Then that’s where we’ll go,” Darragh says immediately. He grabs his briefcase, but he pauses when I rise to my feet along with him. “You’re coming with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Cillian… you’re still a person of interest in this country. Maybe not officially but—”

  “They took my parents, Darragh,” I remind him coldly. “And they broke my brother’s leg. I’m coming.”

  “There’s a difference between being brave and stupid.”

  I smile. “I happen to think you can be both.”

  That earns me a soft chuckle, but Darragh still looks concerned. “If they decide to arrest you—”

  “I don’t plan on being taken.”

  “What makes you think you’ll have a choice?”

  “There’s always a choice, Darragh.”

  He gives me a searching look, as though he’s trying to figure out what’s different about me. “You were always a confident lad,” the lawyer observes. “But now…”

  “I’ve grown up,” I say simply. “I’m not eighteen anymore.”

  “You’ve been busy this last decade,” he guesses.

  I laugh. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

  * * *

  We head out of the compound. By this point, everyone has been informed of the authority shift. Kian has spoken to the men himself.

  It’s still a bit strange to have the reins handed to you by your younger brother, but I’m not an asshole. I know how it works.

  I was the one who left the clan.

  Kian was the one who got left behind, and the men know to look to him in Da’s absence.

  I don’t expect the sudden shift to be easy or automatic for them. Hell, half of them thought I was dead.

  But I’m willing to be patient. There’s a difference between pride and ego. I have the former, not the latter. I won’t be one of those assholes running around trying to stomp on the world to prove a point about my own masculinity.

  Brody Murtagh was that guy.

  And no matter what Da said to me in that jail cell a decade ago, I’m nothing like that rich fuck.

  I have Rory bring around one of the cars in the garage. A glistening, vintage silver Rolls Royce.

  “They don’t make them like this anymore,” I sigh appreciatively.

  I take the keys from Rory with a nod of gratitude and slide into the driver’s seat. Darragh gets in next to me and fixes me with a contemplative glance as I hurtle down the private driveway towards the gates.

  It feels good to drive. To take action. The wheel thrums beneath my hands and the engine roars in my ears.

  “What if you’re recognized?” he asks.

  “I’ve already been recognized,” I say. “They know I’m back in the country. Kian’s broken leg is the result.”

  He frowns. “They broke Kian’s leg because you returned to Dublin?” he asks, trying to follow along.

  “He told them he was me.”

  “Ah.”

  “Not the brightest bulb,” I chuckle. “But it bought me some time.”

  “Just don’t do anything stupid,” Darragh warns.

  I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “Why does everyone automatically assume I’m going to do something stupid? I’ve been doing this shit for the last thirteen years. I know how to handle myself.”

  “Los Angeles and Dublin are very different places. Homes to very different people.”

  “I can handle myself anywhere.”

  He drums his fingers on the briefcase in his lap. “You and Kian are a lot alike.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” I caution. “Compliments like that go straight to a young man’s head.”

  * * *

  Driving through Dublin is more triggering than I expect. But not in a bad way. I pass streets I used to walk down, restaurants I used to frequent, alleyways where I’d drank stolen liquor with Sean or learned how to handle myself in fist fights.

  The memories they pull up are like snapshots from another era.

  But they’re clear.

  They tug at me, igniting a love for home that I’d buried long ago.

  Until we arrive at our destination. When I pull up in front of the police station, I feel the anger flood back into my extremities. These bastards just stormed the O’Sullivan stronghold and dragged my parents out in cuffs.

  They’re not about to get away with it.

  I park the car and slip on the dark trench coat and hat that Rory stowed away in the back seat on my request. There are other goodies waiting for me as well and I reach for them eagerly.

  “Seriously?” Darragh balks, noticing the gleaming Glock in my hand.

  I hide it away and reach for the switchblade knife. “As you so rightly pointed out, I am a target. It would be stupid to walk into enemy territory unarmed.”

  “Why the gun if you have the hat and coat? I thought the whole point was to stay undercover.”

  “It is.”

  “Forgive me if I hesitate to see how blowing a hole in a Dublin cop would keep things low-key.”

  “If no one sees me, then these beauties won’t need to be used,” I point out, tucking the switchblade into my boot. “I’m just preparing for every scenario.”

  “Are you going to let me do my job?” Darragh asks cautiously.

  I fix him with a grin. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

  I hear him mutter something under his breath. It sounds something like “…hasn’t changed a bit”.

  The
n we start the walk towards the station.

  There are only a few officers manning the place, all of whom look lethargic and disinterested. Darragh goes to the reception desk and asks to speak to the highest ranking officer on duty.

  The woman behind the desk looks up from a mountain of paperwork. “What’s this in regard to?” she asks.

  “The arrest of Ronan and Sinead O’Sullivan,” Darragh replies.

  Her eyes go wide and she gets to her feet almost immediately.

  “I’m afraid that’s not—”

  “I’m their lawyer,” he interrupts. “And I’m not leaving without talking to my clients. Has bail been posted yet?”

  “I can—”

  “I’d like to speak to someone who knows something,” he spits. “Right now.”

  She lingers for a second and then hurries off.

  That’s the thing about Darragh. The man can be ordinary and unassuming one minute. Then dangerous and sinister the next.

  People are never what they seem.

  When the female cop returns, she’s accompanied by a tall man who reeks of self-appointed authority. His eyes are small and watchful.

  I distrust him immediately. But I stay back and keep my head down.

  No reason to stir up shit just yet.

  “You’re the O’Sullivans’ lawyer?” the officer asks.

  “I am. And you must be Sergeant O’Brien,” Darragh says. “I heard about your promotion last year. Wasn’t there an article in the papers?”

  He clears his throat gruffly. “There might have been.”

  “I remember,” Darragh says with a nod. “Brian Murtagh seemed awfully chuffed to have a man of your caliber in this position.”

  Well, fuck me. He’s connected—and not in a good way.

  The sergeant’s face darkens instantly as though he’s just been called out. “Mr. Murtagh has no jurisdiction over promotions within the force. I earned this promotion on my own merits.”

  “Of course, of course,” Darragh says with obvious sarcasm. “Tell me: does Mr. Murtagh have jurisdiction over unlawful arrests?”

  The sergeant’s been expecting this. “The arrest was not unlawful,” he says icily. “Your clients were served warrants.”

  “Oh, of course, of course. Speaking of which, I would like to speak to my clients.”