Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  “Papa, I didn’t mean to be ungrateful,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “I know you will only ever do what’s best for me.”

  I hate myself for saying it, but it’s what he wants to hear. And as sick as it is, that’s the only thing that will make this nightmare stop.

  Tell him what he wants to hear.

  Wait until he’s gone.

  Only then can I cry. Only then can I retreat into my room, scream into my pillow, and pretend none of this is happening.

  “You are young and beautiful,” Papa continues, his eyes glazing over. He wears the same look anytime he is trying to broker a new deal. “You must do your part for the family. You will do your part for the family. Won’t you, Esme?”

  He turns to look at me. The smile is back, the cold sneer that cuts like the sharp edge of a dagger.

  I nod, not daring to look up at him. “Yes, Papa. I will do my part.”

  “That’s my little bird. Now, come with me. I want to show you something.”

  I frown. Surprises from my father are never good. But he’s still clinging tight onto my hand, and just like everything else that’s happening around me, I don’t have a choice in the matter.

  Robotically, I follow him out of the drawing room. I expect him to turn right, but he turns left instead and goes downstairs. My heart thuds unevenly as he leads me to a room at the bottom of the staircase.

  The thick steel door is flanked by two of Papa’s guards. One of them opens the door for us to pass through.

  The moment I walk into the room, I scream, my voice cuts through the quiet of night like a siren’s wail.

  “No!”

  Miguel sits limp on a chair. He’s bound and gagged and his head hangs low on his chest. His clothes are ripped, bloodied, and his features are marred by the vicious beating his face has taken.

  “Miguel,” I whisper as hot tears roll down my cheeks.

  He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t look up. I don’t even think he hears me at all. He’s just groaning softly as blood streams from the many cuts on his swollen cheeks and forehead.

  I turn to my father in horror.

  He’s regarding me with cool detachment. “You see what your actions have caused?”

  “Is… is he dead?” The words feel like acid coming out of my mouth but I have to ask.

  Oh, God, his wife, his newborn daughter. What have I done?

  “No,” Papa replies in a bored voice. “But the next time he disobeys one of my orders, he will be. He understands that now. Do you?”

  His eyes bore into mine. I nod slowly. “Yes, Papa.”

  “There will be no more midnight outings for you, my daughter,” he continues. “I have turned a blind eye for too long. But you are not a child anymore. It is time you learned to obey. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  He smiles. I wonder if there was ever a time when I had loved the man standing in front of me.

  All I can see now is a monster.

  “Good.”

  I glance towards Miguel but I dare not move any closer to him. I only hope he knows how sorry I am.

  I flee the room as fast as I can and run to my bedroom. Then I throw myself down on my bed and cry until sleep takes me.

  * * *

  “Señorita Esme?”

  A voice calls me out of my dreams the next morning. I open my eyes, but I can barely see. They’re still puffy and red from crying until I fell asleep.

  A stocky man with a thick, dark mustache is standing over me, gently shaking my shoulder. Could it be…?

  “Miguel?” I say sleepily, hopefully.

  Maybe last night was just a horrible nightmare.

  Maybe it never happened at all.

  Then I blink and my vision clears.

  It’s not Miguel.

  Instead, I’m looking up at a stone-faced man I’ve never seen before. He has a shaved head and several serrated scars along his jaw. His eyes are cold as marble.

  The hope vanishes as quickly as it came.

  “Who are you?” I ask in alarm.

  “Your new guard, señorita,” he replies. “Your father sent me to wake you. You need to get up and pack your things.”

  I scramble upright in alarm. “Pack my things? Why?”

  The man’s expression doesn’t change. “Your father has a meeting in Los Angeles. You will be accompanying him.”

  My frown deepens and my heart beats faster. “What’s in Los Angeles?”

  But the man is turning away from me. He doesn’t answer. He already has one of my bags out and opened up on the luggage stand. A Louis Vuitton duffle I’ve used only once—the time Cesar and I flew to Paris, when we took the picture I was looking at last night. Just the sight of it makes my heart throb painfully.

  My brother swore he would protect me from Papa.

  But he lied.

  He died and left me here alone.

  No one can protect me now.

  * * *

  Artem

  A PENTHOUSE IN LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Grebanyye koshmary.

  Fucking nightmares.

  I haven’t dreamed of her in months. And now, out of nowhere, comes that old fucking nightmare.

  Marisha in her white dress.

  The silent, black O of her mouth as her screams fade to silence.

  And the blood.

  So much blood.

  Red and thick, staining the white of her dress…

  I swing my legs off the bed and drop my head into my hands, trying to shake away the black whirlpool that threatens to pull me apart from the inside.

  When that doesn’t work, I do what I always do—reach for the whiskey.

  I keep a bottle by my bedside for moments like this. I take a swig straight from the bottle and relish the welcome burn that surges down my throat.

  “Sukin syn,” I mutter gratefully under my breath in Russian. “I fucking needed that.”

  The images fade at once.

  I’m good again.

  Until I feel a hand graze my bare back.

  I whip around, seizing the arm and twisting it back, ready to snap the elbow if need be. It’s an automatic reflex from years of training—break first, ask questions later.

  I hear the girl’s panicked cry before I see her face. Her blue eyes stare back at me, wide with terror and confusion.

  She is lying naked and tangled in my sheets. Her short blonde hair no longer holds the glossy sheen that caught my attention last night.

  “You’re hurting me,” she whimpers shakily.

  I look down and realize that I’m still pinning her arm.

  Sighing, I release her. She lets out a pained little gasp before scurrying away to the opposite corner of the king-sized bed in terror.

  I turn from her and rise to my feet. “Get dressed and get out.”

  I try to remember what we did last night, but I can recall only a few vague grey flashes. I do remember that she screamed so loudly that she had given me a headache. I’d finally shut her up by putting my cock in her mouth.

  But even that left me feeling unsatisfied.

  Then again, it’s been a long time since any woman has come close to making me feel satisfaction.

  I expect her to high tail it out of here. But when I hear no movement, I pivot again and catch her staring at me.

  “Do I need to pay you or something?”

  “Pay me?” she sounds confused. “For what?”

  “For last night.”

  Her blue eyes go wide as she realizes what I’m asking. The fear gets flushed out by indignation.

  “I’m not a fucking hooker, asshole!” she spits.

  I shrug. “Then what are you waiting for?”

  Furious color floods her face as she leaps out of bed and starts stumbling around in search of her clothes, huffing in anger. She has to step over several empty bottles of whiskey to get to the sequined silver dress lying on the ground next to my bar cart.

  She bends over to snatch up her dress an
d wiggle it on. I remember now why I picked her from the crowd last night: those tits are the work of a very talented plastic surgeon.

  Once she’s grabbed her fuck-me Manolo Blahnik stilettos and neon-red Bottega Veneta clutch, she turns to me.

  Her bloodshot eyes are rimmed with smudged mascara and eyeliner. “Do you even remember my name?”

  I laugh out loud. “What do you think, princess?”

  She glowers at me for a moment, too pissed for words, before storming past me and out of my bedroom.

  I stand still, head pounding from last night’s booze, until I hear the front door of my penthouse slam shut.

  Good fucking riddance.

  When the apparently-not-a-hooker is gone, I head to the bathroom to survey the toll last night took on me.

  I look like shit. I probably shouldn’t have gone so hard with the drugs and the drinking. It was a stupid thing to do the day before a big meeting.

  My reflection stares back at me. Out of habit, I reach up and touch the scar next to my left eye. My body stiffens, and I force the hand back down to my side.

  Not today. I won’t go there today.

  The dream of Marisha had stirred old memories, ones I’ve spent several years drowning. But it only takes the smallest of reminders to make them resurface.

  I don’t have time for distractions today, though. Father will be watching at the meeting. He has been watching me closely for the last few months. Testing me.

  Tonight will be the culmination of everything.

  I step into the shower and turn it on. The water is so cold that it stings, but that’s what I’m after—a little pain to keep my mind sharp, present, aware.

  More importantly, it keeps the memories at bay.

  When I’ve had enough, I dry off quickly and pull on a pair of dark pants and a long-sleeved henley shirt. My father prefers that I wear suits to these meetings, but I deliberately avoid them.

  Fuck what he wants from me.

  No one tells me what to do—not even my father.

  Even if he is the don of the Kovalyov Bratva.

  I roll up the sleeves, displaying the tattoos that encircle my arms. My Rolex reads eight fifty-six in the evening—I’ve slept the whole day away—which means my ride will be pulling up in front of the building in exactly four minutes.

  Father is never late.

  I head downstairs to the lobby in my personal elevator. The elevator doors peel apart in the main foyer to reveal a straight-line path towards the glass entrance of the building.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kovalyov,” the concierge greets, just as I spot the top-of-the-line Range Rover that my father favors pulling up in front of the building.

  There’s no denying the luxury SUV is a sleek ride. Even at first glance, it’s intimidating as fuck. And that’s without knowing about the performance tread tires, the bulletproof ballistic glass windshield, or the high-powered automatic weapons stashed in various compartments around the vehicle.

  That’s all by design. My father is not one for traveling unprotected.

  In his case, it is more than justified. When you’ve survived as many assassination attempts as he has, investing in proper protection just makes good business sense.

  I see only my own reflection in the tinted window before I open the back door and duck into the car.

  My father and uncle are waiting for me inside, both dressed in sharp gray suits and open-collared white shirts.

  When they were younger men, it was obvious to anyone that Stanislav and Budimir Kovalyov were brothers. They had the same square jawline and hollowed-in cheekbones that I inherited.

  The same bushy eyebrows. The same beer bellies. And the same intolerance for disrespect.

  But as they’ve aged, they’ve begun to look less and less similar. My father, Stanislav, has shrank into himself, developing a slight hunch that has him looking up at the world through narrowed eyes.

  Five years ago, his lustrous black hair fell out, a by-product of the cancer treatment. When it grew back, it came in stark white.

  None of this has made him less frightening, however. He is still the don of the Kovalyov Bratva. And he still wears that title like a crown of gold.

  With his curly hair and easy smile, Uncle Budimir is less imposing. But there’s a coldness in him that runs deep. He’s ruthless in a way that my father isn’t. The kind of man who is cruel just for sport, whereas my father is cruel only out of necessity.

  “You look like shit,” my uncle remarks with a booming laugh.

  I sigh as I slide into my seat. “Good to see you, too, Uncle.”

  “Budimir is right. And you did not wear a suit,” Stanislav observes, his lips pursed up with displeasure. Thirty years in America, but his Russian accent is still thick and well-preserved.

  “I don’t want to feel like I’m being strangled by a tie all night.”

  “It’s not about what you want,” Budimir replies coolly. His accent is slight. Only the faintest hint of the motherland still lingers. “Your father prefers you dress the part.”

  I grit my teeth. “And what part is that, Uncle?”

  “You are the heir to the Kovalyov Bratva—”

  “You are not a child anymore, Artem,” Stanislav interrupts, his tone impatient.

  Budimir shuts his mouth immediately. I’ve seen this happen so many times that it doesn’t stand out to me anymore. Stanislav is the older brother. He is the don. It’s expected that everyone else takes a back seat whenever he walks into the room.

  But I’ve started to notice little things about my uncle lately. In particular, the way his mouth turns down at the corners every time my father cuts him off or overrules him.

  Like it’s eating him up inside.

  “So nice of you to notice, Father,” I answer sarcastically, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from my tone. “Seeing as how I’m thirty as of last month.”

  Stanislav’s eyes narrow on me. “It takes more than age to be a man, my son.”

  No one else says a word for the rest of the ride. We pull up at the back entrance of The Siren, the Bratva-owned nightclub where tonight’s meeting is taking place.

  “Who will be at the meeting?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Budimir answers first. “Don Maggadino and his sons. Gallo. Brooklier. And Dragna.”

  “Dragna?” I repeat in surprise, sitting up a little straighter and turning to my father. “You actually invited him?”

  “This is a meeting for all the cartels that answer to me,” Stanislav says, glancing out the window. “Dragna answers to me. Therefore, he will be at the meeting.”

  “Yeah? Then why didn’t he tell you about the drug shipment from the Antonio cartel he was trying to import without our approval?”

  A vein across his forehead pops a little but he keeps looking out the window. “I dealt with that.”

  Budimir gestures for me to keep quiet. I ignore him. I’m short on patience this morning.

  “He was trying to cheat you out of four million dollars!” I snap. “You’re going to reward that disloyalty by including him in a meeting? At the very least, he should be excluded from the inner circle for a while. See if that improves his attitude.”

  My father sighs. “That would humiliate and offend him.”

  “That is the fucking point,” I growl.

  At last, Stanislav turns his gaze on me, but his expression is icy. “Being the don is not just about throwing your weight and watching the ants scatter to the wind, Artem. Diplomacy is needed. Intelligence is needed. Brute force is never enough to hold power.”

  I’ve heard variations of this speech before.

  Just like always, it takes everything I have not to roll my eyes.

  “So that’s it?” I persist. “You’re going to look the other way and let him walk all over you?”

  At that, my father’s eyes spark with a fiery anger I have not seen in a long time. That fire, that fury—that is what has allowed him to reign supreme in the Los Angeles und
erworld for so long.

  “Do you take me for a fool, boy?”

  Boy. He called me boy. It is a slap in the face—he knows it, I know it, Budimir knows it. Hell, the driver in the front seat and the hot dog guy on the street corner probably know it too.

  My anger swells up in my chest, but I bite it back and keep my mouth shut.

  His gaze is still rooted on me. “Well?” he asks. “I don’t ask questions for the sake of hearing myself speak. Answer. Do you take me for a fool?”

  I squeeze my fists at my side as tight as I can. “I take you for the don,” I grit icily.

  “Good,” he nods. “As it should be.”

  We clamber out of the Range Rover and into the side door of The Siren.

  It’s packed to the rafters already. Lights arc across the ceiling. Bodies grind together on the dancefloor. Rising above it all is the thunder of the music.

  But we don’t go out to the main dancefloor. One of the Bratva men on security detail leads us down a dark hall and up to another imposing iron door.

  On the other side is where the meeting will take place. No doubt the other Family heads are already here. Father does not tolerate tardiness.

  Just before the bodyguard opens the door for us, Father holds up a hand to signal for him to wait.

  He turns to me and rests a wrinkled old hand on my wrist.

  I frown in confusion. “What?” I ask.

  He’s got that look on his face, the one I’ve learned not to like.

  “You’re not coming in,” he says finally.

  I blink. “What?”

  Budimir lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, nephew.”

  I shrug them both off and turn back to my father. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “You’re not coming in, son,” my father repeats. “Not today. You’re not ready.”

  I’m too stunned and furious to speak. He looks into my eyes and nods once.

  Then he turns once more and walks through the steel door.

  Leaving me alone in the hallway, with rage boiling in my veins.

  * * *

  Esme

  THE MONDRIAN HOTEL—LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA