by Henry, Jane
Cormac: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance
Dangerous Doms
Jane Henry
J. Henry Publications
Copyright © 2020 by Jane Henry
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photography by Wander Aguiar
Cover art by PopKitty Designs
Contents
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Previews
About the Author
Synopsis
Aileen
They promised me as tribute.
Youngest of six, I'm untouched.
Unblemished.
And in the world of the Irish mafia...
Wanted.
I'm given to a man I've never met.
Forced into a union I didn't condone.
Owned by a dangerous rival.
He may take my body, but he won't steal my heart.
Chapter 1
Cormac
My mouth waters when the bartender places three large, frothy pints of Guinness in front of us. Christ, I need a pint like a newborn calf needs her mother’s titties.
“Anything else I can get you boys?” Rafferty Kelly asks with a ready grin. The oldest son of a dirt poor family of ten, he’s scrapped his way from the dank hovel he grew up in the Midlands to Ballyhock. A stone mason by day and bartender by night, word has it he still supports his mam and the little ones back at home. Rafferty runs a hand through his short, ruddy hair, and folds his arms on his chest. I down my pint in long, thirsty gulps, slam it back down on the counter and give him a chin lift. He grins in approval.
I tap the empty glass. “Another one, lad.” He clucks his tongue and takes my empty pint with a wink. When his back’s turned, I fold a tenner into the tip jar.
“Y’alright, Cormac?” Keenan asks, nursing his pint. His tone’s casual, but I don’t miss the way he drums his fingers on the table, or the ramrod stiffness in his spine. He knows I’ve been wrestling with what I have to do all week. Hell, he was the one that threw the fucking gauntlet.
“I’m alright,” I mutter. I’m in the mood to drink, not talk.
The door to the pub section of the club swings open, and Nolan ambles in. I snicker to myself as every damn girl in the pub takes note. One girl tosses her hair back, and another straightens her shoulders to show off her tits. One even takes out a golden tube of lipstick and smears red on her pouty lips. Some whisper and point, and one even walks his way, but he walks past her without a second glance.
Nolan’s single, and every damn girl in Ballyhock knows it. They don’t care that he’s the youngest McCarthy son. They don’t care that he’s the heart and soul of the Irish mafia closest to Dublin. How he gets his money or spends his time is of no consequence to them. He’s rich, he’s easy on the eyes, and he’s a fucking charmer.
He walks past each of them and stalks straight toward us. Rafferty wordlessly slides a pint of Rock Shandy in front of him, the yellowish orange drink good enough without a drop of alcohol. A year ago Nolan would’ve have scoffed at a virgin drink and called the manhood of any bloke who drank one into question, but now, Nolan doesn’t even flinch. I’m proud of him. He’s been nearly a year sober, and it’s only been in recent weeks he’s even come near a bar. Takes fucking bollox to face your weaknesses and stay strong.
“What’s the story, brother?” I ask him, tapping my pint to his in greeting.
He swigs his drink before speaking, places it on the bar top, and sighs.
“Christ, but it feels good to be back here.”
Nolan was the first of the McCarthy brothers to frequent The Craic, the dual-purpose club now under new management and aptly named.
Rafferty wipes the counter in front of Nolan and nods. “Good to have you back.”
Nolan was the one who recruited us all here to begin with. Beyond the bar is a members-only exclusive section of the club, reserved for those who’ve got what Nolan calls, “tastes of a particular nature.” In Ireland, we hide our sex clubs well. I suppose we have to reconcile the ghosts of our Christian forefathers by keeping up appearances, or some such shite. But we have our demons, too, behind closed doors.
Keenan looks to Nolan with concern. He knows how Nolan’s bout with alcoholism nearly destroyed him, and as the older McCarthy brother and Clan Chief, it’s his job to be sure Nolan’s alright.
“All good, lads,” Nolan says with his signature grin. “I figure now that I’ve got control of myself, time to control some tits and arse.”
I snort, and even Keenan’s lips tip up.
“Sounds about right,” he approves. “You’re heading to the back, then.”
“Aye.” Nolan takes another long pull from his drink.
“Any word on the bitch you’re trackin’?” Keenan asks.
Keenan assigned Nolan to tag the nosy reporter who’s had her head up our arses, and it seems he’s making headway with her.
“She’s hot onto the Martins, it seems,” Nolan says.
“Will you need to teach her a lesson?” Keenan quirks a brow, his pint to his lips.
Nolan grins, his voice lowering an octave to a lust-filled groan. “Christ, brother, I hope so.”
I laugh out loud. I know exactly what he means.
Keenan shakes his head, but he smiles, his eyes crinkling around the edges, and for one moment, my heart squeezes. God but he looks like my father when he smiles like that. Seamus McCarthy, father to the three of us, has been dead now for nearly a year. He was a hard-headed son of a bitch, but a loyal man. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it hadn’t been for him.
“Cormac, we said we’d talk about your decision this weekend. What will it be, brother?” Keenan shoots straight and is ready to move ahead with our plans. It’s rare we discuss Clan business in a pub instead of one of the more private meeting rooms, but sometimes if we can talk discreetly enough, it’s worth it.
I don’t answer at first, but take another long pull from the cold, frothy Guinness. I welcome the thick, slightly bitter taste, my belly warming with the gulps I take. Up until now, we could’ve been any three brothers sitting at a pub with a cold drink. But few people have to wrestle the decision before me now.
My father was killed by a Martin clan sniper, an act of war according to the iron-clad code we follow. But shortly after my father’s death, our rival, Mack Martin, offered a virgin tribute to Keenan, to be given to one of our men. Marrying the Martin girl would ensure peace between the Clans. We agreed she wouldn’t marry until she’d graduated, but now that she has, it’s time.
Keenan raises a finger to Rafferty. “Another round, Rafferty.”
“This one’s one me, brother.” Keenan’s soon to be a dad, and I want to celebrate.
I take another long pull from my pint and mull over the choice before me. As the second eldest McCarthy brother, I’m next in line to the throne.
There’s no escape. If anything were to happen to Keenan, I’d have to take his role and by clan law, I’m not allowed unless I take a wife.
The thought of marrying a Martin makes me sick. Fucking Martins. I’ve little choice when it comes to marriage, though. The men of The Clan rarely date for sport. A Clan marriage should solidify bonds. They rarely take place because of love. Sometimes we take captives in payment for a crime. Sometimes marriage is an act of retribution, and sometimes we agree to arranged marriage. Often, we’re betrothed.
If I decline the Martin girl, what other chance will I have? But more importantly, what will happen to our Clan?
“She’s fucking gorgeous,” Nolan says to me. We’ve been given pictures, and I’ve done a fair bit of social media stalking myself.
“Aye.” But what if the girl’s looks are only a mask? “She may be spoiled. Her father’s one of the wealthiest in the Martin clan.”
Keenan smiles. “You could fix spoiled.”
Nolan groans. “I’d fucking love a chance to fix spoiled. Put that little girl right over my knee and teach her the lessons her dad forgot, aye?”
Despite my reservations, I shift on the bar stool. The image of the pretty blonde I’ve been poring over strewn on my lap tempting as hell. I don’t like the more violent line of work we do at times, but I do like what Nolan’s introduced me to at the club: deliberate pain laced with raw sexual power.
“Agreed,” Keenan says. “Spoiled is an easy fix, and one you’d handle well.”
I grunt and take another swig. “Could be a nag.” I grimace at the very thought.
Nolan snickers. “Also quickly remedied with a firm hand. Hell, the first thing you ought to teach a woman’s to watch a smart mouth.”
Keenan rolls his eyes. “For a jovial fuck-up, you’re a dominant son-of-a-bitch.”
Nolan clinks his drink against Keenan’s, smiling. “Why thank you,” he says, as if he’s just been paid the highest compliment. “And anyway, you should talk. You think I didn’t notice the crop and cuffs you nicked from the club, or that slender collar your own wife wears? You might be private, Keenan, but I’m no eejit.”
Keenan smiles wordlessly as he takes another sip from his pint. He enjoys the finer tastes of domination, but would cut off his own bollox before he brought his wife in the presence of other men. He may have brought her here once or twice, but he’s a possessive bastard, and saves his escapades for the privacy of his bedroom.
“You are not,” Keenan says. “And Cormac, I agree with Nolan. Both spoiled and nagging are easily remedied.”
“Not everything can be fixed with a crop or a firm hand,” I tell them, barely tempering the need to roll my eyes.
“No,” Keenan agrees. “But you’re McCarthy stock. You’ll know how to handle her.”
“Aye,” Nolan says, his bright green eyes widening in earnest. “’Tis easy to train a woman. When she’s naughty, you take her across her lap, teach her manners and to watch her mouth. Then you show her just how nice it can be when she obeys you. If you catch the right sort, she might even be wet between the legs after you punish her.”
Keenan chuckles. “Aye.”
“Then when she’s good and well tamed, you reward her for being a good girl. Take care of her, and her heart will be yours.”
“You act as if training a woman’s as simple as training a feckin’ filly.”
“Aye, lad,” Nolan says sagely. “But it is.”
Keenan shakes his head. “Not hardly.”
“You ought to talk,” I say, shaking my head at him. “You ended up with Caitlin.”
His eyes darken, and he places his pint on the table. “Come again?” The dangerous tone of his voice warns me, but I’m not afraid of Keenan, and I say what I mean.
“Oh come off it, Keenan. All I mean is that she was neither a nag nor spoiled,” I tell him. “She was sweet from the day we found her.”
“Did you forget she nearly clocked us with a trowel? I had to carry her away, kicking and screaming like a banshee.”
“In self-defense,” I remind him. “Hardly a banshee.”
“No,” he admits with a smile, his eyes getting that faraway look when he speaks of his beloved. “Caitlin is a sweet lass.”
Sweet lass indeed. He fucking worships her.
“The more pressing question isn’t her temperament, lads,” Nolan says. “But what our choices are. If you don’t marry her, Cormac, she’ll have to go to another of the Clan, at the very least. Rejection of a tribute’s serious business, a luxury we can’t afford. I’d take her myself if you won’t, Cormac. It’s our duty.”
“Aye.” Don’t I know it. I feel the weight of responsibility to make the right choice. The livelihood of the Clan’s on my shoulders. Keenan’s wife’s heavy with child, ready to burst at any moment, and though he’ll have a nanny and help, he’ll be occupied for a time. And if we don’t take the tribute offered by the Martins, our clans will war. Someone has to marry her.
“Honestly, brother, it isn’t hesitation,” I admit. “I’ll take the Martin girl. I just want to be prepared to deal with her.”
Nolan leans forward, a shock of blond hair falling across his forehead. “I’ve met her, you know.”
“Have you?” It’s news to me.
“Aye,” he says. “Banged one of her roomies.”
Keenan’s lips thin, but he doesn’t speak.
“Course you did. And what’d you find?”
I’m suddenly curious. I need to know everything about the girl I’m to marry.
“I wasn’t joking when I said she’s gorgeous,” Nolan begins, when Keenan’s phone rings. He answers, and a few seconds later, drops his pint. It clatters to the floor. Nolan and I look to each other in astonishment. Keenan never loses self-control.
“It’s Caitlin,” Keenan says. He’s on his feet, his eyes wide, hands trembling on the phone he holds.
“She alright?” I ask him.
“Aye. Water’s broke. She says her contractions are two minutes apart.”
“Christ, man, go!” I tell him. “You want me to drive you?”
“No, I’m good,” he says, already at the door.
“Good luck, brother!” I shout after him.
He waves, and he’s gone.
Nolan and I sit for a moment, stunned. He polishes off his Shandy with a flourish, and slams it on the countertop.
“Brother, it’s time we pay a visit to the real part of this club, aye?”
The real part of the club, where women are aplenty, and the air is ripe with the sweet, seductive scent of sex.
“Hell yes.”
I pay our tab and head to the back with Nolan. We move past the dimly-lit front room, past the idle chatter and clink of glass, to the thick black door guarded at the back.
“Tell me more,” I say to Nolan when we enter the members-only section of the club.
“First,” he says with a roll of the eyes, “her name’s Aileen, not ‘the Martin girl.’”
I punch his shoulder, which only makes him grin while he rubs it out.
Aileen. Have to admit, I love that name.
“Second,” he says, smiling and waving to a girl dressed in black latex in the corner of the room. He snaps his fingers and points to the floor. She drops to her knees and begins to crawl toward him, her ready grin revealing this is not a hardship. “She sings like a lark.”
He freezes when a man steps toward the little kitten heading his way, lumbering toward her with the grace of a troll. He’s masked and wearing all black. He reaches down, blocking the girl’s path, and grabs a fistful of her hair. My pulse spikes. I’m used to all manner of manhandling at the club, but the tone of her scream and shocked expression tells me she didn’t authorize this.
“Son of a bitch,” Nolan growls, and takes off. I groan but follow. If there’s a throw-down, I’m his backup. I see Tully and Boner with a few girls nearby, and catch their attention as we go.
By the time we get to the girl, the bastard’
s got her on the tips of her toes, her hair entwined in his meaty fist. She’s beating at his hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Flagon!” she screams. “Flagon!” It’s the goddamn club safe word. He doesn’t stop.
Nolan doesn’t hesitate but tackles the man full on. The girl topples to the floor, and Tully catches her.
The man’s mask falls off, hanging around his neck like an executioner’s noose, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. His beady black eyes are infuriated. With a savage growl, he lunges at Nolan. They fall to the floor, fists flying. Tully, Boner, and I watch, ready to defend Nolan if we need to, but we let him fight it out, our own bodyguards are about the place as well. No one comes to aid his opponent.
“You fucking asshole,” Nolan fumes, landing a solid punch to the guy’s nose. We’ve all been trained in martial arts, and will easily take this guy out. His aim is solid, his fist connecting. Blood spurts everywhere, and the guy covers his face with his hand. In a flash, he reaches to his foot, and the light catches a gleaming silver blade in the light.
“Fuck!” I growl, and in one reflexive motion, kick the blade from his hand. The knife clatters to the floor. Nolan decks him again. He’s on his knees, grabbing at his broken nose, when uniformed security guards grab both of them.
“He assaulted her,” Nolan says, pointing an irate finger at the guy, who still looks ready to kill. “She safeworded and he wouldn’t stop.”
“She fucking likes it,” he growls. He’s missing teeth, and his bloodied face is contorted in anger. His thick, heavy eyebrows draw together over black eyes that are too-small for his puffy face, like buttons sewn too tightly on a throw pillow.
