Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  “She probably did,” Kian says. But he has an oddly thoughtful expression. “Or tried to, at least. This has Quinn’s fingerprints all over it.”

  “Quinn?”

  “He’s a sneaky old sod,” Kian remarks. “Surprisingly sentimental.”

  “Quinn?” I say again.

  Kian laughs. “I know, I know. We always joked he was the robot butler. But he’s seen more family history than all of us put together. And to be honest, he knew her better than any of us. They were close.”

  I don’t have to ask to know who he’s talking about.

  The rule was established a long time ago. An unspoken rule at that.

  Don’t say her name.

  Denial was how Da dealt with any uncomfortable reality. And somewhere along the way, his way became our way.

  Deny, deny, deny. Deny ‘til you die.

  It can’t hurt you if you just pretend it never happened.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. “I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s not exactly the most expressive fellow,” Kian says with a shrug.

  I drag a chair over to where Kian is sitting. Then I twist it around and straddle it.

  “I saw her watching those tapes and—I don’t know… I kinda seized up,” I admit. “I must have looked like an uptight prick.”

  “So, like Da?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m trying to tell you something here.”

  Kian grins sheepishly. “Sorry. Why did it freak you out?”

  “I don’t know,” I confess. “I just… I saw her looking at me as a kid. And I felt…”

  “Stripped naked?” Kian offers. “Laid bare? Exposed?”

  I sigh again. “Maybe. Which… Listen, I’m not one of those fuckers who walk around pretending like I don’t feel shit. But something about her seeing that part of my life messed with my head.”

  “Because she’s getting close again?” Kian chimes in. “And you’re scared you’re gonna lose her? Again?”

  I cock my head to the side and regard him carefully. “Motherfucker, you got a psych degree I don’t know about?”

  Kian’s grin gets wider. “What can I say? I pay attention.”

  “Maybe a little too much attention,” I say. “Okay, little hotshot. What do you suggest I do now?”

  “What do you wanna do?”

  I roll my eyes. “Typical shrink move. Turn it back on the patient.”

  “Answer the question, you evasive bastard.”

  I take a moment to think before answering. “I want to talk to her. Like we used to,” I say honestly. “I want to cut the bullshit and just have a real conversation.”

  Kian tilts his head to the side and scratches his beard. “So what’s stopping you?”

  “She is,” I growl with frustration. “She’s holding out on me. There’s a wall between us that wasn’t there before.”

  “She’s probably been through shit. You were gone for a long time, brother.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” I bellow. “I’ve gone through shit, too! I’ve still got pieces of the fucking bullets in me! She’s not the only one who’s suffered.”

  “Well, maybe she just doesn’t trust you like she used to,” Kian suggests.

  I frown. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel better,” Kian rebuts. “I’m trying to help you.”

  I scoff with laughter. “Such a fucking shrink.”

  “You wanna talk to her?” he presses. “Then talk to her.”

  We look at each other. I see myself in him. I see Da in him. I see Sean in him.

  And most of all… I see the truth in him.

  He’s right. I’m adding more bricks to the walls that are already there.

  I just need to breathe. To talk. To be honest.

  Even if it fucking kills me.

  “It’ll be fine, bro,” Kian adds. “I’m sure the suit will help you engender trust. Everyone trusts a dude who looks like a banker.”

  I glance at myself in the mirror.

  “There’s not a banker alive who looks this good,” I say with my trademark wild grin, unfazed by his teasing.

  I decide to leave the coat aside and just head downstairs in the pants and the crisp white shirt I’m wearing.

  Kian gives me an approving nod. “Hey,” he says as I’m about to walk out the door. “Cheesy as this may sound… be yourself.”

  I give him a wink. “I always am.”

  * * *

  I pause at the top of the curving stairs to survey the scene. The surface of the rear veranda is cobbled. It overlooks the garden below and offers amazing views of the lake. In the midst of it, the manor staff has set up a white-clothed table, per my instructions.

  I honestly want Saoirse to see how beautiful this place is.

  I want her to enjoy the view. I want her to be reminded of the existence of beauty again.

  It’s not dead. It’s not gone. It’s not out of reach.

  There’s still hope for her. For both of us.

  She’s standing at the railing of the balcony when I walk down, looking out over the waters. I can’t even see her face, but my pulse quickens.

  Her red hair looks like it’s been tamed just enough to be presentable. The curls have been combed back and arranged into a messy bun at the back of her head. Only a few loose strands of hair arc down her back.

  She’s wearing a silky dress in an off-white color. The material has that wispy romantic quality about it and it clings to her body like a second skin. The thin straps that hold the top up snake down to her lower back and I can see the thin ridge of her spine.

  She’s skinnier than she was at eighteen. But there’s a self-assurance about her that’s exactly the same as it was then. An inner fire.

  All in all, the lone conclusion is obvious: the woman is an absolute fucking knockout.

  As I step onto the cobbled veranda, she becomes aware of my presence and glances back over her shoulder.

  Her face is framed by the setting sun. Gold light puts her features into high relief and even the glorious sky behind her doesn’t distract from her beauty.

  She doesn’t appear to be wearing a stitch of makeup—but then, she doesn’t need it.

  She turns slowly, and the first thing I notice is the thin white scar between her breasts.

  The second thing I notice is the prominence of her collarbones, how severely slim her arms are.

  I realize that up until now, she’s been pretty covered up. I haven’t noticed just how much she’s changed physically since we were last together.

  She scowls. “The maid you sent to my room told me to dress up for this dinner,” she says stiffly. “But I kinda feel ridiculous.”

  She fingers the fabric of her dress, but I notice her hands linger on the hem as though she doesn’t really want to let it go.

  “Ridiculous?” I repeat softly. “No. You are beautiful.”

  She blushes.

  It’s such an immediate reaction that it takes me off guard. It seems to take her off guard, too, because she looks away immediately as though to hide the reaction from me.

  “This view is beautiful,” she says conversationally.

  I join her at the edge of the balcony. I’m not ready to talk about the weather or the view or some other mundane bullshit like that.

  I want to talk about her.

  “Not compared to you.”

  She stiffens again. “Stop.”

  “Why?”

  She shakes her head, still refusing to look at me. Still refusing to answer. Still refusing to let me in. “Why did you want to have dinner out here?”

  I gesture to the view before us. “Isn’t this explanation enough?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean, why this formal dinner? Why ask me to dress up? Why just the two of us? I know your brother is here—why isn’t he joining us?”

  I glance at her. “I thought it was a good idea that we talk.”

 
“About what?”

  “Everything.”

  She sighs. “‘Everything’ is a lot to ask of one dinner.”

  “We have to start somewhere.”

  “Cillian…”

  I cut her off before she says something that will be counterproductive. “Let’s eat,” I suggest. “Might as well enjoy the food before we end up arguing.”

  She smiles at that and gives me a small nod.

  Taking her hand, I lead her to the table set up right behind us. I pull out her chair and she settles into it with a murmured thanks.

  The moment we’re both seated, the maids approach with closed cloches and champagne on ice.

  “Champagne?” Saoirse mumbles in shock when she notices.

  I grin. “Why not?”

  She eyes me suspiciously. I feel a smidgeon of doubt. Maybe I should have tried a more subtle approach.

  But given the time restraints involved, I figured it was either go big or go home.

  Since when have I ever done things any other way?

  The dinner comes in savory waves.

  We enjoy salmon and caviar, lobster and tuna ceviche, and a magnificent braised lamb in a red wine jus. Throughout the meal, I manage to finish three glasses of champagne, while Saoirse conservatively sips through her first glass.

  We keep the conversation light and safe. But I can sense the underlying nerves that pervade the entire meal. Almost like avoiding any serious topic is taking up significant amounts of concentration from the both of us.

  “I gotta say,” she breathes when our dishes are cleared away, “that was without a doubt the most amazing meal I’ve ever had.”

  I smile. “Why, thank you. I cooked it all myself. Microwave technology is really amazing these days.”

  She laughs. “So you’re a chef, too, huh?”

  “Told you I was talented.”

  “You did say that,” she agrees. “Numerous times.”

  “Did I mention I’m also exceptionally modest?”

  Her smile gets brighter and her eyes grow softer.

  I can sense that the small talk for the evening is well behind us now. Silence floods the air between us, filled with all the moments we’ve missed from each other’s lives. Little distances yearning to be closed.

  “Where’d you get that scar?” I rasp quietly.

  Saoirse glances down at her chest unnecessarily. She flinches a little at whatever memory I’ve pulled up.

  I put my hands on my knees so that she can’t seem them clench into fists.

  “It was nothing.”

  “Did he do that to you?” I ask immediately.

  She flinches again.

  It’s the clearest answer she could have given me. But I still need to hear her say the words. Even as my fists tighten harder beneath the tablecloth.

  “Saoirse.”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “How often does he hurt you?”

  “Cillian…”

  “How often does he hit you?” I demand, my tone losing any semblance of warmth.

  She sighs and looks down at the spot on the table where her plate had been a moment ago. “Can we just… not?”

  “No,” I seethe. “We’ve avoided this conversation for long enough, Saoirse. I want some fucking answers.”

  “You’re acting as though I owe you an explanation,” she says almost accusingly.

  “You do.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?” she lashes, her voice growing fiery. “How do you figure?”

  Before I can think twice about it, I blurt, “I think I deserve to know why you chose him over me.”

  Silence. Brutal, endless silence.

  She leans back against her seat, her eyes turning glassy with pain.

  “It wasn’t like that,” she says eventually.

  I’m still fuming. “No?”

  “No,” she sighs. “I chose my father.”

  “That’s not what you told me.”

  “Of course not!” she says with frustration. “If I’d told you the truth, you’d never have left Dublin. And staying meant risking your life. I told you what you needed to hear to get you out of the country.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “Yes,” she says softly. “I lied.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  I’m trying really hard to rein myself in. But I’ve opened Pandora’s box and there’s no going back now.

  Seeing her again after all these years is only making me realize just how unresolved our relationship still is.

  I used to think I’d moved on. Got over her. Made peace with how we had left things.

  But none of that was true.

  It was denial, plain and simple.

  Maybe I’m more like my father than I ever thought.

  “That’s not fair,” she says in a muted voice.

  My eyes dart to the scars on her arms. “How did you get that one, Saoirse? Or that one? Or that one?” I jab my finger at each mark that I know Tristan left on her. Each fucking sin that glows in the starlight.

  God help me—if I ever get the man alone, I’ll pay him back tenfold for what he’s done to her.

  A veil falls over her expression. I can see her closing herself off to me. And for a moment, I don’t fucking know who she’s protecting.

  Tristan fucking Rearden?

  Or herself?

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Because you can’t save me, Cillian!” she yells, her tone rising with heat. “I’ve dug my grave.”

  More silence.

  This time, I’m the one who’s speechless.

  It takes me a long, long while to find my words. “Is that really what you think?” I whisper.

  “Stop trying to be the hero,” she begs, voice breaking. “I’m not yours to save. And I don’t owe you an explanation. You don’t get to invite yourself back into my life. Especially when you refuse to let me into yours.”

  I frown. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not a fool, Cillian,” she hisses, jerking to her feet.

  Her chair makes a clawing sound against the cobblestones, but the expression on her face is the one that grates most of all.

  “I know you’re hiding something from me,” she says. “All those unused clothes in that wardrobe upstairs? The fact that you freaked out when you walked in on me watching those old tapes? You’re not telling me something. So don’t come out here and lecture me on keeping secrets. You’re just as bad. You’re every fucking bit as guilty.”

  I leap to my feet. My chair topples over and clatters to the ground behind me.

  “And you expect me to be completely transparent with you, even though you refuse to be honest with me?” I shoot back at her. “That’s some double standard bullshit.”

  She rears back at that, lips opening and closing but no words coming out.

  We stare at one another, chests heaving. Both stubborn. Both refusing to back down.

  “You know what? You’re right!” she says firmly. “You know why double standards happen at all? It’s when people expect shit from one another. We should just stop expecting anything from each other. That’ll solve it like that.”

  “Saoirse—”

  “Let’s just agree right now: you don’t owe me a thing. And I don’t owe you a thing,” she continues furiously. “We were just two stupid kids who were naïve enough to believe we had a shot once.”

  She brushes her fallen hair away from her forehead and presses on.

  “But you and I are a far cry from the kids we used to be. So let’s stop pretending like we have any real connection to each other. You tried to help me out of some twisted sense of obligation. And I accepted it because, deep down, I’m scared of being alone. But neither one of those reasons are good enough to continue doing whatever the fuck it is we’re doing.”

  I take a step around the table towards her, but she backs away immediately.

  “Excuse me,” she says abruptly.

  Then she starts walking away
from me as fast as she possibly can.

  She doesn’t look back.

  She doesn’t slow down.

  I watch her disappear into the mansion, and I stand there, wondering why the fuck I’d thought coming back to Dublin was a good idea.

  * * *

  Sighing, I leave the table and abandon the veranda for the quiet of the house.

  I never make the decision to go there consciously, but I somehow find myself in the library.

  I walk over to the lounge chair that Saoirse was standing in front of this morning and slump down.

  The champagne hasn’t dulled my raging thoughts at all. If anything, it’s made them worse. Saoirse’s words keep running through my head.

  Two stupid kids, naïve enough to believe we had a shot.

  I’ve held onto that night for my entire adult life. It’s the only thing that kept me going.

  And it turns out she’s buried it as deep as she fucking could.

  I’m trying to rifle through my complicated state of mind when I hear the crackle of paper at my side. Frowning, I pull out a notepad that’s been stuffed in the crack between the arm of the chair and the cushion.

  I stare at the top page—and I’m amazed to see myself on the paper.

  It’s me as I was more than two decades ago.

  An innocent child with a face full of possibility, absent of worry or concern or stress.

  Just a kid, reaching for something he’s sure he can catch.

  She has drawn me.

  And she has captured the likeness so perfectly that looking at the image transports me back to that moment in the garden.

  With Ma.

  And Sean.

  Kian had been there, too, just a little avocado in Ma’s belly.

  I blink and the memory dissolves.

  I take a deep breath and head out of the library.

  I need to see Saoirse.

  42

  Saoirse

  I meant to go straight up to my room.

  But the moment I’m inside the house, I hate it. The walls are oppressive. The ceiling looms over me like it’ll crash at any moment.

  Maybe I just feel the need to be with him again.

  But since that’s not an option for me, I move to the opposite side of the house and choose another door that leads to a separate part of the garden.