Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  What’s causing him to feel that way?

  I’d love to dig a little deeper here, but I’ve allowed myself to get sidetracked by Saoirse again. I need to get back on track.

  “Did Tristan ask you anything else about me? Did he mention my parents?”

  Padraig’s eyebrows knot together for a moment. “No, he didn’t.”

  “You’re aware he has ties to the Kinahans?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Murtaghs?”

  “Yes.”

  I grind my teeth in frustration at the short-sightedness of Padraig’s long-term plan.

  “Is it true?” I ask. “Is Brody Murtagh awake? Is he alive?”

  Padraig hesitates for a moment.

  “Where do your loyalties lie, Padraig?” I press directly. “Tell me now.”

  He glances at me, and I can see the fear dart across his eyes. There’s conflict, too. His deepest nature is to cower back, but I can tell he’s trying to be stronger.

  I’m hoping it’s for Saoirse’s sake. That’s the only way the man can ever hope to win my respect.

  “My loyalties?” he repeats. “Wherever Saoirse’s best interests are, that’s where my loyalties lie, too.”

  I sigh and regard him. “As answers go, that’s a pretty good one,” I say with an approving nod. “Lucky for you, I feel the same way.”

  “You care about Saoirse?”

  “It’s the reason I broke her out of that holding cell,” I say. “I don’t intend on letting the motherfucker she married come anywhere near her again. And if you want the same thing, you’ll help me.”

  His eyes go wide as he nods slowly. “I… I don’t know much,” he says. “But I do know that Brody Murtagh is alive. He was in a coma for a long time.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Apparently not. Tristan told me about it. The doctors were astounded. They thought he’d be little more than a vegetable.”

  “I’m guessing he wasn’t.”

  “Not quite. They said his memories came back slowly. He learned to walk and talk again.”

  The way he speaks gives me pause. His voice has instinctively fallen into a hush, almost like he’s scared of being overheard.

  “What else?” I ask, sensing there’s more.

  Padraig looks at me fearfully. “At the time I didn’t think much of it,” he admits. “I never thought we’d be on the other side.”

  “Other side of what?”

  “This conflict between your family and… them,” Padraig says softly. “Tristan used to refer to Brody Murtagh as Brian’s secret weapon.”

  I frown. “What does that mean?”

  “The boy—well, I suppose he’s a man now,” Padraig corrects himself. “The process of rehabilitation affected him. He’s twisted. Prone to violence. Filled with vengeance. Brian Murtagh was able to mold him into a killer. Someone cold and ruthless, consumed only with power.”

  It seems that Brody Murtagh really has risen from the dead.

  Unfortunately for him…

  So have I.

  “Cillian,” Padraig says uncertainly, “the Kinahans are strong.”

  “I’m aware,” I rumble. “But I’m stronger.”

  “You haven’t been here for a long time.”

  “You can take the man out of the country. But you can’t take the country out of the man. Or fuck, I dunno, something like that. I can handle this.”

  He grips my hand in his frail grasp. “I don’t want my daughter caught in the crossfire.”

  I’m glad that Padraig has decided to be a father after so long turning his head the other way. But his words spark another bout of anger.

  “If you didn’t want that, then you shouldn’t have put her in the fucking crossfire to begin with,” I snap.

  “I thought he’d protect her!” he wails.

  I look at him without a shred sympathy. “And maybe he would have, if she’d kept her head down and done his bidding like a fucking trained dog. If she’d allowed him to control her, maybe she’d have avoided a few beatings, a few bruises. But we both know Saoirse is not the type of women to take a beating lying down. She’s a fighter.”

  His eyes drop guiltily. “I know that.”

  “And you handed her over to a man who was determined to break that fight,” I snarl, getting to my feet. “You have no moral high ground here. I suggest you sit back and let me protect your daughter.”

  “How do I know you will?” he asks.

  I almost laugh in his face. It’s a bold question from a man in no position to be asking such things.

  Apparently, he has bigger balls than I thought.

  “I did once before,” I remind him. “It cost me everything.”

  Padraig nods, processing what that means.

  Then his expression turns curious. “What did happen between you and Saoirse?” he asks carefully.

  That question takes me by surprise, too.

  So many fucking ways to explain that.

  In the end, all I say is, “It’s complicated.”

  But what I’m really thinking is…

  Fuck if I know.

  45

  Saoirse

  The Veranda Outside The O’sullivan Manor

  I sigh as I look out over the peaceful view of the lake from our perch on the same veranda where Cillian and I had dinner.

  It feels like weeks have passed since then.

  “This place…” I breathe in amazement. “It’s good for the soul.”

  Kian gives me a smile. “Maybe if you haven’t grown up here,” he says with a shrug.

  “Meaning you’ve gotten used to the view?”

  “Meaning we never learned to truly appreciate it in the first place,” he corrects. “There were other things that took priority. And also, our parents were not exactly the kind to sit and enjoy nature, you know?”

  I smile. “More of the tough love types, huh?”

  “Understatement of the year, but yes,” Kian laughs. “Sean got the brunt of it because, for a long time, he was the heir. But Cillian was the second-born, so he got it, too. To a lesser degree, but plenty bad enough.”

  “And then they both left and there was nothing to distract from you,” I surmise.

  He smiles thinly. “I managed.”

  “Is that why you chose a broken leg over leading the clan?”

  It’s strange really, almost unsettling, how he looks so much like Cillian. The nose, the cheeks, the cut jaw—it’s all the same.

  But there’s a different kind of soul animating his features.

  “Perceptive.”

  “For the record, I don’t doubt you were trying to trying to protect Cillian.”

  “What makes you so sure?” he asks.

  I shrug. “It’s in the eyes.”

  His expression grows more thoughtful. More searching.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just weird to see and speak to you now. You were only ever a name before.”

  I cringe a little at the thought of what his answer to my next question might be.

  But I ask it anyway. “Did you hate me?”

  “Some days, yes,” he says honestly. “But as I got older, it became easier to understand.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been stupid about girls when all I felt for them was lust. I can’t imagine how stupid I might have been if what I really felt was love.”

  I guffaw. “That was… poetic.”

  He chuckles politely. “Nah, Cillian is the poetic one. He always was.”

  “So what are you then?” I ask.

  He thinks about that for a moment. “I was only ever the spare,” he answers softly. “Not even the second choice. I was always the third. I was the last chance. The only remaining hope for Da’s dreams.”

  In the distance, birds skim over the lake. The air is warm and balmy, but a sudden chill races over the backs of my arms right as Kian grows more mournful.

  “I had no choic
e but to embrace it,” he continues. “My parents gave me no choice. They suffocated me with duty and called it love. I’ve never had a chance to be anything else.”

  I look at him as my heart cracks. What a hard life he must’ve had. The pressure of an overbearing father and two exiled brothers weighing down on him. Never a moment’s rest from that burden.

  “Is that how you feel now?”

  “Now?” he repeats. “Now, I feel like I deserve the chance to see what other options are available to me. And who knows? Maybe I’ll end up back here, right where I started.”

  “But at least if that happens, it’ll be your choice,” I say, understanding where he’s coming from.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  I give him a sympathetic smile. “Trust me—I know what it’s like to feel trapped. To not have a say in your own future. It makes you feel… powerless.”

  Kian nods like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

  “You know that Cillian plans on leaving Ireland, though, don’t you?” I ask.

  He snorts. “Or so he says.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You don’t believe him?”

  “Oh, I believe that he believes,” Kian replies. “I just think he’s in denial.”

  “About what?”

  “About where he belongs.” He fixes me with a hard look. “He came back to Ireland for a reason, Saoirse.”

  He doesn’t offer up an explanation as to what that reason may be.

  But he doesn’t have to. I already know the damage our fleeting romance had on his life.

  He has come back to fix what we broke.

  “Anyway, I’m heading inside,” Kian tells me. “It’s time for my painkillers and my leg is hurting like a motherfucker. Are you gonna be alright on your own?”

  “I’m a big girl,” I say with a smile. “I can handle the quiet.”

  “If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

  He’s turning towards the house when I realize that I do want something. It’s the only therapy I’d turned to over the years. And even then, I’d fallen into it in secret.

  “Kian?”

  “Yes?” he asks, twisting around slightly to look back at me.

  “Actually, there is something I want.”

  “Name it.”

  “A flew blank sheets of paper and some pencils.”

  He gives me a smile and nods. “I’ll send someone out here with both soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  He heads back into the mansion and I sink deeper onto the bench.

  The view really is spectacular. It’s got my creative juices flowing.

  Tristan put up with my art for a few months before he started to get impatient and annoyed every time he saw me with a pencil and pad.

  “Why the fuck is your nose always buried in a fucking piece of paper?” he demanded one night. “You’re not a damn teenager anymore.”

  I’d ignored him of course. What was the harm of letting me pretend—if only for a moment—that there was still some beauty left in my world?

  But of course, Tristan hated allowing me the slightest modicum of freedom. Any sliver of joy I managed to find, he would stomp out.

  Which is why I’d come home one day to find all my sketchbooks burned to a crisp in the kitchen sink.

  “Miss Saoirse?”

  I clutch my heart as the austere butler appears at my left shoulder. “Jesus, Quinn,” I scold. “You never make a sound.”

  “It is the mark of a good butler.”

  “Then you must be the best of the best.”

  He doesn’t really smile, but his features seem to soften for a moment. I consider that progress.

  “The items you requested,” he says, handing me a large sketchpad and a set of pristine colored pencils.

  “Wow, thanks,” I say, my eyes popping out at the sight of the expensive supplies.

  I resist the urge to smell both things. I don’t need to give people in this mansion another reason to look at me as though I’m a kooky outsider.

  He gives me a nod and leaves as silently as he came.

  I watch him go, wondering at the kind of loyalty that would bind a stranger to one family for so much of his life. There’s a lot about Cillian’s world that I don’t understand.

  But being here has helped me see the other side of things. The life he came from. The reasons he chose to come back.

  I start to draw idly. It’s been a long time since I was able to enjoy my hobby so much. And as always, I lose myself in the beauty of creating something from nothing.

  My eyes dart up to the scene before me and back down again.

  And time whisks past like summer breeze in the process.

  * * *

  “That’s beautiful.”

  For the second time that day, I jump with a gasp of shock. But this time, it’s not Quinn or Kian.

  “Cillian,” I breathe. “Goddammit, no one makes a sound in this place.”

  He gives me a soft smile as he sits down beside me. “I didn’t want to disturb you.” He looks over at my completed image and shakes his head. “You’re an artist.”

  The word feels completely alien. I’ve never thought of myself as an artist. It’s not a title that suits me.

  “I’m not.”

  “No?” he asks, gesturing to the sketchpad. “Then what do you call this?”

  I’ve managed to capture the lake to perfection, right down to the reflection of trees on its outer banks. Even I have to admit, it’s one of my most well-realized landscapes.

  “I’m just a girl who likes to draw.”

  He smirks. “And what’s the difference?”

  I close the sketchpad and angle my body towards him. “Nothing you’d understand.”

  I meant it as a joke, but he doesn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes melt and he leans in a little closer to me.

  “Saoirse,” he says tenderly, “I’m sorry about before.”

  He’s probably the only man I’ve ever met who’s offered me apologies instead of accusation. He’s probably one of the few men out there who can do it with so much grace, as well.

  For lesser men—Tristan comes to mind—an apology is like pulling teeth. If they manage to do it at all, it’s given grudgingly, filled with bitterness and condescension.

  But Cillian’s apology comes easily, like it doesn’t cost him a thing.

  “I overreacted,” he says. “I was acting like a—”

  “Don?” I offer.

  He sighs. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “That’s what you are,” I say. “And in any case, I owe you an apology, too. I shouldn’t have fought you so hard about talking to Pa. Of course you’d want to. Of course you’d want to do whatever you have to do to find your parents.”

  He gives me a small, tight smile. “Except so far, I’m not doing the greatest job.”

  “Give it time.”

  “They might not have time,” he scowls, but this time, I know he’s not angry with me. “I’ve got half a dozen men doing recon on their whereabouts, but still nothing. Every feeler I put out there keeps coming up blank. It’s like there’s nothing to find.”

  “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places,” I suggest.

  I can see the muscles of his arms tense. “I don’t know where else to look. Sometimes, it feels…”

  He stops short. I can sense the uncertainty tunneling through him.

  I reach out without thinking and put my hand on his knee. He glances down. I tense slightly but I don’t remove it.

  “What?” I ask. “What were you gonna say?”

  “I’m starting to suspect that maybe the Kinahans have someone on the inside,” he says in a low voice.

  “You think one of your men is a rat?”

  “I’ve just got this—fuck, I dunno what to call it—this nagging in the back of my head,” he tells me. “I’ve tried so many different avenues and each one leads to a dead end. If there’s one thing I know, men leave trails. Where’s the Kinahans’ trai
l? The only way it could disappear so completely is if—”

  “There was someone here who was covering it up for them,” I finish.

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you spoken to Kian about it?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “There’s the rub,” he says. “I’ve been here all of three days. The first thing I do after coming back can’t be accusing my own men of disloyalty.”

  “But what if you’re right?”

  “Kian has been here the whole time,” Cillian points out, as though he’s trying to talk himself out of his own suspicions. “So have my parents. If there was a mole, don’t you think they would have sniffed him out by now?”

  “People make mistakes, Cillian,” I point out. “And sometimes love and loyalty are the easiest ways to make mistakes.”

  He frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that it blinds you,” I try to explain. “When you trust someone, it takes a beat before you can open your mind to the fact that they might not be trustworthy. Your men have all been with the family for years, right? Ninety-nine percent of them probably are loyal. But one might have slipped through the cracks.”

  He’s dour, uncertain. “You think I’m right?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I reply. “But I think if you have an instinct about something, it’s probably worth looking into it.”

  He takes a moment and nods slowly, as though he’s processing my words. “Thanks.”

  I’m trying not to be too excited about the fact that he seems comfortable opening up to me about all this.

  “Did my father give you anything useful?” I ask tentatively.

  “Nothing I don’t already know,” Cillian says with obvious disappointment. “Tristan had him discharged and taken back to your house.”

  “I know. Pa told me.”

  He gives me a curious little glance that borders on being secretive.

  “What?”

  “Apparently, Tristan questioned your father about me.”

  I stiffen. “About you?”

  “He seems to be under the allusion that I might still be a… threat to him,” he says sort of vaguely.

  “Well, you are the son of the O’Sullivan don,” I point out.

  Cillian only shakes his head. “That’s not the kind of threat I’m talking about,” he says. “He seems to think that you might still have feelings for me.”