KEENAN: A DARK IRISH MAFIA ROMANCE: Dangerous Doms

by Henry, Jane

  We make our own rules. We adhere to a code. We obey the chain of command, and anyone who doesn’t suffers the consequences.

  Still, I couldn’t help but give her some small measure of comfort after I punished her. Given that she’s innocent and naïve, perhaps she didn’t notice how punishing her affected me, how aroused it made me. It wasn’t the first time I’ve whipped a woman, and it won’t be the last. And if I’m honest, I liked it.

  No.

  I fucking loved it.

  The way she squirmed and screamed. The power that rushed through me, pinning her to the bed and administering deliberate pain.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m hard as fucking granite after that.

  The girl’s a virgin, I’ve no doubt, and it makes it that much harder to abstain. I’ve never had a virgin, and the thought of me being her first… Christ, I can’t think like that.

  “I’ve business to tend to,” I tell her. “You’ll stay here and wait for your clothing. When mam arrives, allow her to help you dress, and be ready for this evening’s dinner. But before we go, I need to be sure you’re prepared, Caitlin.”

  She looks up at me with those wide blue eyes, beads of tears still clinging to her eyelashes like tiny crystals. I swallow hard. There’s something about her that’s fetching, that makes me regret being the cause of those tears.

  “What?” she says. I’m glad to see her tone’s softened, that her punishment did something to mitigate her cheek.

  “I’ll give you one chance to speak truth before I take you before my father.”

  She blinks but doesn’t reply.

  “I need to know why you were in possession of materials suitable for a spy,” I tell her. “My men will want to know.” I speak earnestly, for this is important. If I can’t prove she’s innocent, her life is forfeit.

  “I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “I truly don’t.”

  “Were they your father’s, then?” I ask.

  Her brow furrows. “If they were, it is news to me,” she says sadly. “I can’t imagine he’d be a spy. I truly can’t.”

  “Are you?” I ask her bluntly.

  She looks at me as if I just asked her if she’s ever visited the moon. “Do I look like a spy?”

  I feel my jaw harden. She still doesn’t get it.

  “Answer. The. Question.”

  Of course she doesn’t, but I never met a spy who did.

  She stills, and squirms on the bed, likely mulling over the punishment I inflicted.

  “I am not a spy. I lived the life of a recluse, until you robbed me of that and took me. I don’t even know who you are, much less what you do. I don’t know who owned the books in that shed, and the most logical explanation is yes, they belonged to my father. Why would he spy on you? I don’t know.”

  She speaks the truth.

  “Those were good answers,” I tell her. “I have work to do before this evening. I’ll be back. My men will be outside this door and mam will be back soon. You’re to call her Maeve, her Christian name, and do what she says. I trust her.”

  She doesn’t respond, her eyes fixed on the window behind me.

  “Did you hear me?” I ask sharply.

  She starts, then drags her eyes back to mine. “Yes, of course,” she says.

  I nod, and for the first time, something in me loosens looking at her.

  She could be the one.

  The moment the words hit the periphery of my consciousness, I shove them away. I’m not the type to fall for sentimental notions. Nolan’s the romantic; I’m the practical one. Men in our Clan don’t marry for love but convenience, to solidify and strengthen our bonds, or to form alliances. Love can form, of course. Of this I’m certain. One only has to see the way mam looks to my dad with stars in her eyes, and the way he softens when she’s near. But love is an ethereal emotion for which I have no time or patience.

  And it’s stupid to even entertain the thought of anything between me and Caitlin. She’s my captive, and I’m to question her.

  But what will become of her after tonight?

  I don’t like leaving her in the room. Though I know no one can penetrate the layers of protection that surround our estate, it troubles me. I call my men back to their positions outside my door, and when they arrive, it still doesn’t put me at ease.

  I want to be the one to protect her.

  My phone rings as I exit my room, and I answer on the second ring. It’s Carson, our Clan secretary and bookkeeper.

  “Yes?”

  “Keenan, are you on your way into the office?”

  I grunt into the phone. “Yeah. Why?”

  “I heard you had company, and wanted to be sure we were still meeting,” he says. “I’ll meet you there.”

  We disconnect the call. Word gets out quicker than wildfire in The Clan.

  I usually prefer to drive myself into the office, but today I’m distracted. I call a driver, and within minutes, I’m in the backseat of one of our vehicles, scrolling through my phone and heading in. I have business to attend to, and want it done quickly and efficiently.

  I could call off the meeting I have today, but I want to see how she handles my absence. I also want to be sure I’ve taken care of everything I need to, so I’m free to deal with Caitlin.

  As Captain of the Clan, I oversee the finishing school we host at Saint Albert’s. Every one of us was trained there; every one of our fresh recruits attends St. Albert’s before they’re initiated. The vast majority of the boys who train there are blood-relations, with few exceptions. Carson was one such exception.

  Carson’s mother, an English woman by birth, worked for my family all her life. She’d barely graduated University when she became a widow, left with Carson, then just a baby. She told my father she trusted him to help raise her son to be successful. My father, as Clan Chief, suggested he board at St. Albert’s, the finest educational institution near us. At the time, it was merely a temporary, pragmatic decision. He had no intention of initiating Carson into The Clan. But the rest of us felt he’d become like a brother.

  He lived in our home. Knew our ways. He was as much a member of our family as Nolan or Cormac. And his mother gave her blessing for full initiation before she died.

  My father broke law and tradition with his induction, but Carson’s brilliance and unparalleled logical mind are decided assets to our brotherhood. We had enough who could break bones and fulfill hired hits. We had muscle and brawn and leadership. We were in need of someone to keep our books and organize the business side of things.

  Carson upholds the code of Clan brotherhood with the best of them, and my father’s never regretted his decision.

  Though there are many clans through Ireland, some rivals and some neutral, ours stands as one of the strongest. I’ve no doubt it’s due in no small part to the finishing school we fund. Unlike our rivals and peers, the men of our brotherhood are trained at a young age in obedience, fortitude, and logic. By the time they’re ready to graduate, they’ve been taught loyalty and our code of conduct as well. Men don’t bite the hand that feeds them.

  I look over today’s agenda: review Clan finances, review the summaries given us from Malachy, the overseer of St. Albert’s. Introduce the imprisonment and capture of Caitlin.

  When I arrive in my office, my secretary sits at her desk, piles of paperwork stacked in neat piles. Though I’ve got an office at the house, there are times I need to conduct business elsewhere, to keep up appearances. I like to come here a few times a week.

  “Catrina, I have a job for you,” I tell her. She’s young and put together, a petite blonde well-dressed in a skirt and jacket, eager to please, and though I’ve always found her pretty, it occurs to me she doesn’t hold a candle to Caitlin’s radiance.

  What is wrong with me?

  “Yessir?”

  “Find out anything and everything you can about Jack Anderson, the lighthouse keeper. History, parentage, if he was married to anyone. Get in touch with Brady and tell h
im I want a full report as soon as possible.”

  “Yessir. Of course, sir. Several of your men are awaiting your arrival in your office.”

  Brady, one of several private detectives we have on staff, is prompt and efficient. I’ll have what I need.

  We’ve assumed Anderson was an eccentric old man, when he may have been a spy right under our very noses. Madness is a well-fitting disguise.

  “Thank you.”

  I enter my office to find Carson and Malachy sitting amiably beside each other. They’ve known each other for years, as Carson and I were under Malachy’s tutelage when we were in school together.

  “Gentlemen,” I say in greeting. Both men get to their feet to greet me, but I gesture for them to sit. All of the men in our Clan function as brothers, but the chain of command holds weight, and all know to show respect to those higher in rank. I’ve been Malachy’s and Carson’s superior for several years now.

  “What’s the story, Keenan?” Carson says amiably. He takes his laptop out of his bag and balances it on his knee. Though Carson’s trained with all of us, rising to peak physical shape, he’s the more studious of the lot. With his wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, we’ve always called him The Clan professor.

  “Got a lass in my keeping,” I tell him. “You’ve heard this?”

  “I have,” he says with a knowing smile. “A gorgeous lass, no less.”

  Something in me tightens.

  That she is and hell if any of them come near her…

  “Do tell,” Malachy says, leaning back in his chair and crossing one ankle on his knee. Several years younger than my father, Malachy’s my father’s best mate and cousin. Malachy never married but has dedicated his life to the raising of the boys of The Clan into men. He’s tall and muscled like all of us, and he’s an expert in the study of ealaíona comhraic, Irish martial arts, encompassing everything from boxing to wrestling and stick fighting. We’ve all been properly trained.

  Malachy’s iron-gray hair is cut short, his jaw clean-shaven, his eyes as steely gray as his hair. Rumor has it his father’s father’s father hailed from Germany, and he’s suited for training The Clan because of his family’s Spartan rules and principles. It’s why he’s never married, he says. No woman would tolerate his regimen and monk-like existence. Though he rules with an iron fist and kept all of us in line with uncompromising discipline, Malachy is a second father to us all.

  I sit behind my desk and loosen my tie.

  “Pour us a drink, will you, Malachy?” Christ, I need one.

  Malachy grins and goes to the sideboard I keep in my office, pouring a generous amount of Jameson in tumblers. I don’t speak again until the hot, fiery liquid hits my veins. I sigh. I needed that. I clear my throat and begin.

  “This morning we had early council. Father Finn had news to relay.”

  Malachy snorts. “Course he did,” he says. “Always the fly on the wall of the confessional, eh?”

  “Aye,” I say with a smile. “That he is.”

  I fill them in.

  “You left the lass in your room?” Malachy asks curiously. “You trust her?”

  I’m not sure how to answer the question. Do I? There’s something so winsome and wholesome about her, I can’t deny that a part of me wants to trust her. Do I think she spied on my family? I have to assume she did until we can prove otherwise, though I think it far more likely her father was the one to blame. So I don’t answer him. “I left her bound and under orders not to leave the room. My men are on guard, and mam’s on her way to help dress her.”

  “Dress her?” Carson asks curiously.

  “She came dressed in old, tattered clothing,” I say, shaking my head. I don’t tell them she’s a recluse, never having left her home. It sounds too odd, too preposterous.

  And it’s something I want to keep to myself.

  Like her.

  A dark, almost perverted sense of ownership pervades me when I think of her locked up in my room. Innocent. Virginal. Fully dependent on me.

  “How very interesting,” Malachy says, his eyes twinkling.

  “What?” I ask. He looks as if he knows something.

  “First pretty young thing we take into our custody since you’ve come of age and you’ve ditched the bitch who held you by the bollox, and the new girl’s privately held in your chambers, eh?”

  I narrow my eyes at him but bite my tongue. He’s baiting me, and I know it.

  Though I’m above him in rank now, memories die hard. I’ve been the recipient of more than one thorough discipline session at Malachy’s hands, and I still respect the man.

  “Keep his history out of it, Malachy,” Carson says quietly. “Leave off. Keenan’s too dedicated to fidelity to’ve taken a woman when he was committed to another one, and you know it.”

  I give Carson a quick, thankful glance.

  “I’m not here to discuss the girl,” I say, changing the subject. “I’ve got others researching her father’s history, and still others fingerprinting what she had in her possession. Let’s hear what’s going on, and be quick about it. Carson, you first.” I ignore Malachy’s snicker.

  Carson’s concentrating on the computer before him. “All’s well, captain,” he says. “Our investments in The Cask have tripled since last spring.” Cask Whiskey’s profitability’s increased by twenty percent, and we’re one of the first to invest heavily. “Our sources on the Isle of Man confirm the arrangement we’ve made for our dealing next month. Spain is strong, as well as our alliances.”

  Alliances are code for paid hits. We don’t speak of them aloud unless in the vault-like interrogation room.

  “Good,” I say. “I’d like it so the arms trade increases three-fold by this time next year.” I clear my throat. “And I’d like to see us eliminate alliances completely.”

  Malachy raises a brow. “Lofty goals, Keenan.”

  I turn to him. “We can do it. Anyway, it’s safer,” I tell him. “More reliable. And I have it on good authority there will be a stronger need for South African dealings in the coming years. If we’ve formed strong alliances and solidified our contacts, we’ll be set financially for the next decade.”

  Malachy nods, accepting this.

  Contracted hits are part and parcel for any organized crime group, but they aren’t necessary. Given how lucrative our arms dealings have been, we can eliminate the riskiest of our income streams.

  “Word on the school, next,” I say, moving our meeting along at a breakneck speed. I want to get back to Caitlin. Christ, the woman affects me. I have to keep a close handle on my logic and reason. I can’t have her swaying me from my job.

  Malachy grins. “Our boys are thriving,” he says. “Young Grady made star quarterback last term. Big, strapping lad. Lachlan’s done well, raising his marks.” Grady and Lachlan will graduate soon, steps away from formal induction into our brotherhood.

  “No more write-ups?” I ask. Lachlan has a history of a hair-trigger temper the boy would do well to quell.

  Malachy grimaces. “Four instead of eight.”

  I frown. “Still too high,” I say. “I want to see him personally at the weekend.”

  Malachy nods. “It’s fair,” he says. “I’ll not tell them you’re coming. You’ll see them at their most candid.”

  I nod. I’ll arrange it so Caitlin can accompany me on this trip. I wonder how the boys will react to her.

  He gives me the update on the rest of the boys, the staff changes, and the dedicated curriculum they’ve instilled with focus on martial arts. The faculty’s made up of Clan affiliates, as well as the wives, sisters, and cousins of our members.

  “You’ve got marks for me to look at?” Malachy nods. The marks include both academics and additional skills the boys are taught. They’re kept in peak physical shape and trained like the soldiers they’re meant to be.

  “What shall we do about teacher retention?” I ask.

  “I’d recommend a solid bonus and raise,” Malachy says.

>   “Note that,” I tell Carson, who nods and makes note. We discuss a few more items on the agenda, when my phone rings. It’s my father.

  “Got to answer this,” I say. “It’s dad.”

  I answer.

  “Keenan.”

  “Yes, sir. What is it?”

  “What did she tell you?” I clench my jaw. I told him I’d question her and answer him this evening, but he’s obsessed. He wants answers now.

  “My gut says she’s an innocent in this. She found the records in the shed on her property, and insists she knows nothing about her father’s affiliation with any of this.”

  “She’s lying.”

  Heat flares across my chest at his accusation. I made the very same accusation to her myself today, but I can’t abide it coming from anyone else but me.

  “I’m not sure she is,” I tell him.

  “What sort of tactics did you use?”

  My body tightens. We had a battle of wills this afternoon, and I’m holding my ground. “Do you trust me to do this right?” I ask him.

  He pauses and doesn’t answer at first.

  “Do you?” I insist, my voice growing steely. My father’s never been one to micromanage any one of us, and I can’t have him starting now.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then please, let’s keep this as we had it this morning. I’ll interrogate the way I see fit and update you this evening.”

  I swear I can hear him grind his jaw on the other side of the phone. “Fair enough,” he says. “You’re usually bang on, so I trust you here. Do what you have to. I want to know tonight. Something’s afoul, Keenan.”

  “Don’t need to tell me that,” I say grimly, with an air of resignation. “I agree. Trust me, and I’ll find out what I need to.”

  “Right.”

  He hangs up the phone, and I look up to see Carson and Malachy looking at me curiously.

  “What?”

  “The girl’s got you addled,” Malachy says, shaking his head.