Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  “Enough,” Da says.

  He doesn’t even raise his voice. But I go silent immediately.

  Another one of his many talents.

  “You are excused,” he growls.

  Sean glances at me. “Go, Cillian,” he says in a low voice. “I can handle this.”

  “I should explain…”

  “No,” Sean says, turning away from me. “I’m the one who has to explain. This was my task. None of it was your fault.”

  “You don’t have to play the martyr all the time.”

  “With a brother like you, what choice do I have?”

  He gives me a smile—the ghost of one, at least—and I all I want to do is jump in front of him and take the brunt of Da’s rage.

  But I know it’s pointless.

  If I don’t leave, I’ll be removed forcefully.

  So I just nod in Da’s direction and slip out of his study.

  The moment the door shuts on me, I hear the muffled sound of conversation, but the words aren’t distinctive. The study was soundproofed for a reason.

  Sighing, I walk upstairs to the second floor.

  Granite, steel, hardwood, and glass blend together with painstaking craft. Each material flows into the next. Huge windows into sprawling floors into high, arched ceiling.

  It’s imposing as fuck to everyone who enters.

  To me, though, it’s just home.

  I can hear Ma in her own private study down the hall. But I glide past the open door and keep walking until I hit Kian’s room.

  I slip inside and catch sight of my little brother on the large carpet in front of his bed. He’s got his model train track all set up and he’s trundling them around, adding noise effects with his mouth.

  “Cillian!” he yells joyfully, abandoning the train in his hand and running towards me. He slams into my waist.

  I let out a low grunt. “Oof. Good to see you too, kid.”

  “Where were you?” he demands. “You promised we’d ride our bikes down the cape together.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. Something came up.”

  Kian’s face lights up instantly. “Da told me! A money collection,” he croons, his eyes brightening with interest.

  The blue of his irises are extremely light and hide little clusters of grey flecks. His shaggy brown hair has the potential to get lighter, but I doubt it will.

  He’s got Ma’s beauty and Da’s fight.

  He knows much more about O’Sullivan business than I did at his age.

  The difference is that he’s interested.

  I wasn’t.

  Sometimes, I think how arbitrary it is that the oldest son inherits his father’s responsibilities. Why not hand over the reins to the child who’s best suited for it?

  It’s not a popular opinion.

  “Da tells you too much,” I laugh.

  Kian frowns. “No, he doesn’t. And anyway, I’m not a kid. I’m ten years old.”

  “That definitely makes you a kid.”

  Kian makes an expert fist and punches me in the arm. It actually hurts.

  “Jesus,” I growl, massaging my sore arm. “This is what I get for coming in to say hi to you?”

  Kian smiles. “Tell me what happened.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” he says eagerly.

  My thoughts flit to Sean. I really wish I were in that study with him right now. But Da would never allow it.

  In his eyes, Sean’s the next don. And a don who needs support in difficult situations is weak.

  “It went amazing,” I lie smoothly. “Sean was brilliant.”

  “So you got the money?” Kian asks.

  “Sure did,” I reply. “Taught that drunk a lesson, too.”

  “Booyah!” Kian says enthusiastically. “Did he fight you?”

  “He tried, but he was no match for Sean.”

  “Tell me about the fight.”

  I proceed to give him an elaborate and completely inaccurate description of the fight between Sean and Padraig. Kian listens with rapt attention, interrupting every so often with a random question.

  “I wish I’d been there,” he sighs when I finish.

  “Really?”

  “Fuck yeah,” he replies.

  “Hey, hey, language. Ma hears that shit out of your mouth and she’ll be on me like a bad rash.”

  Kian rolls his eyes. “Ma isn’t here, is she?”

  I smirk. “She’s got eyes and ears everywhere.”

  Kian laughs at that one. We both know it’s true.

  I reach out and ruffle his feathery brown hair. “You shouldn’t be so involved in the family business,” I tell him. “Enjoy your childhood while you can. Be a kid.”

  “I don’t wanna be a kid,” Kian insists. “I wanna be like you and Sean. I wanna help Da.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “How about we play some trains?”

  Kian looks at me suspiciously for a moment. The kid’s too damn smart for his own good.

  “Fine,” he concedes at last. “Can we ride our bikes tomorrow at least?”

  I smile. “Of course.”

  Sean is the oldest son. He’s the heir. The future don.

  Which means that my ability to protect him is limited. Especially from Da.

  But with Kian, it’ll be different.

  I promise myself that as I reach for one of his trains.

  I’ll be there for Kian in every way I can’t be there for Sean. I’ll make sure he’s protected. Make sure he’s safe.

  Most of all…

  I’m gonna make sure he’s happy.

  5

  Saoirse

  The O’connelly House

  My hands are shaking as I press down on Pa’s wound. Blood gushes out between my fingers.

  He’s lost so much already.

  Maybe too much.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Please, Pa… don’t die on me. Don’t leave me.”

  His eyes flutter open. Even his irises look like they’ve lost color. Is that what it looks like when the life drains from someone’s body?

  “Someone help,” I cry out, trying to raise my voice over my own sobs. “Someone help—”

  “No,” Pa croaks, his jowls jerking from the effort of speaking. “Don’t. No one can see. Inside… inside… house.”

  I look around at the dark, suburban quiet of our neighborhood.

  Three other homes are dotted around the loop. No lights turn on. No one comes out. Nothing moves.

  How is it possible that my world imploded into chaos and not a damn soul has noticed?

  “I can’t,” I plead. “If I let go now, you’ll bleed out.”

  “Call T… Tris… Tristan,” he stammers, spit and blood spewing from his mouth.

  My insides twist uncomfortably. “Tristan?” I balk. “Pa, no. Not him.”

  “Do it, Saoirse!” His eyes are wild. Terrified.

  Ignoring his instructions, I grab hold of him and try to hoist him to his feet. My arms nearly give way from the struggle, but I manage to get him upright.

  He leans against me, replacing my hand with his own against the gunshot wound on his lower stomach.

  Together, we clumsily stumble for the front door.

  He’s still alive. He can walk. He can talk. He can think.

  Maybe we’ll survive this.

  But we’re a long way from in the clear just yet.

  I get him as far as the carpet in the living room before my arms give out only a few feet away from the couch. His knees keel forward and I do all I can to cushion his landing a little.

  “Call him,” Pa says again as he gasps on the floor. “Quickly…”

  I ignore him again. I’m not calling that son of a bitch. We don’t need him.

  I get to my feet and rush into the kitchen, pretending not to understand his frustrated growls.

  I grab an old sheet and
cut out a long strip before rushing back into the living room. Then I use the strip to tamp down on the bleeding, hoping that if I apply enough pressure, it’ll stop.

  “Argh,” Pa moans pitifully as I push the fabric into the wound.

  It strikes me that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing right now.

  “I have to call 112,” I mutter. “You need an ambulance.”

  “No!” Pa insists, his eyes roiling with anger and pain. “Tristan Rearden.”

  I take a deep breath and bend my head down.

  It’s no secret that I don’t like the man. He may be a cop, but he’d definitely not one of the good ones.

  “But—”

  “Fucking do it, girl!” he bleats.

  Fine. So be it.

  With my hands still shaking, I look around for the phone. When I find it, I have to take a deep breath before my hands are steady enough to dial in Tristan’s number.

  Pa forced me to memorize his number a year ago.

  In case of emergencies, he’d told me.

  I suppose this qualifies.

  “Hello?”

  His voice is as sharp and clipped as I expected.

  “Tristan,” I stammer. “This is Saoirse Connelly.”

  There’s a moment of silence. “Saoirse Connelly. You’re the last person I expected to hear from.”

  And with good fucking reason.

  “I’m sorry to call but there’s been a… Something’s happened.”

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “Pa’s been shot.”

  Silence.

  “Did you hear me?” I say, very nearly losing grip of the phone. “He’s bleeding out on the living room floor. Please… He wanted me to call you.”

  Silence.

  “Are you still there?”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Make sure he stays awake.”

  The line goes dead. I rush back over to Pa. His eyes are still open, but they keep fluttering closed every few seconds.

  “Pa, you need to stay awake, okay?” I tell him. “Please just let me call the paramedics.”

  “No,” he insists. “It has to be Tristan.”

  I don’t argue with him. I don’t want him using what little strength he has left fighting with me.

  I do the only things I can do at this moment.

  I sit.

  I wait.

  I try not to relive the last half hour before Pa was shot.

  I will myself not to see the O’Sullivan boy’s pale blue eyes as he called my name. There was a message in his tone when he said it.

  Was there an apology hidden somewhere?

  Was there remorse? Sympathy?

  Or am I just a stupid girl imagining feelings when there’s nothing there?

  He left me in the dirt with my father in my arms. That much is certain.

  But he didn’t want to go.

  I don’t know how or why I know that. I just do.

  Cillian O’Sullivan.

  I’ve never heard of him before. But his last name is familiar. It’s spoken in hushed whispers throughout the city.

  Cillian O’Sullivan.

  It’s seared on my mind like scar tissue.

  The front door slams open. I yelp with shock as Tristan steps into the living room.

  He’s tall and broad with a strong but doughy build. Dark hair, almost black, sort of messily curling around his big head. His eyes are watery gray, but his lips are constantly on the move in a way that reminds me of a wild animal hunting for its next meal.

  He doesn’t even glance at Pa. He looks only at me as he moves closer. His tongue runs over his thin lips as he squats to the floor and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “You did the right thing calling me,” he croons in a voice that’s far too calm for the circumstances.

  I glance towards Pa, mostly because I can’t stand looking at Tristan.

  “He wouldn’t let me call the cops or the paramedics.”

  “They’ll ask questions,” Tristan explains condescendingly. “Questions your pa won’t be able to answer. The people I call won’t ask questions.”

  “Call them.”

  He flinches at my tone. “I already have. They’ll be here to collect him shortly.”

  “How bad is it?” I can’t help but ask.

  For the first time, Tristan looks down at Pa. I look with him.

  I can’t help but notice how drained he looks. How old. He barely looks like himself without all the ruddy redness in his cheeks.

  “He’ll live,” Tristan says dismissively.

  He gets to his feet and scans the room. I try and ignore him, but he has the kind of gaze that burns.

  He’s been around for years. Practically my whole life. Lingering on the periphery for as long as I can remember.

  And how do I feel about that?

  For a long time, indifferent.

  Until a few years ago. Around the time I’d turned fourteen and he’d started looking at me with something else in his gaze.

  Something new.

  Something threatening.

  From then on, his presence became oppressive. Invasive.

  Even now, with my father bleeding out in front of me, that look is still there.

  I can sense Tristan’s eyes scouring over my body, reveling in the knowledge that I called him in my time of need.

  Never mind that I had no fucking choice.

  * * *

  When his men arrive, four in total, they’re all dressed in uniform. They’re all wearing police badges.

  But I trust none of them. None of them make me feel safe.

  Tristan is right about one thing, though: they don’t ask questions.

  They bandage Pa up and hoist him onto a gurney.

  I follow them outside. Just as I’m about to step into the back of the ambulance, Tristan puts his arm out and blocks me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “They’ve got him well taken care of,” Tristan tells me. “And it’s crowded in the back there. I’ll drive you to the hospital myself.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  He doesn’t respond. He shuts the ambulance doors on Pa and taps the back of the vehicle twice.

  “Wait!” I cry.

  But my words are lost in the roar of the engine.

  I turn to him in shock. “I need to be with my father.”

  “What a devoted daughter you are,” he says with that leer I loathe so much. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from his side. I only want what’s best for you, Saoirse.”

  His gaze drops to my chest and I take an instinctive step back.

  “Where’s your car?” I ask. “Let’s follow them.”

  He smiles. “So impatient,” he says. “Don’t worry, we will follow them. But I need a drink of water first. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you? Not after everything I’ve done for you?”

  I push back a loose curl that’s fallen over my left eye. He watches the movement with fascination.

  Again, he runs his tongue over his thin upper lip.

  He’s been watching me this way for years now.

  The thought of exposing my back to him feels wrong. It’s like closing your eyes on the predator stalking you.

  But I have no choice.

  I walk into the house, keenly aware that Tristan is shadowing my every move.

  He follows me right into the kitchen and takes a seat at the tilted round table while I pour him a tall glass of water. I pass it to him silently and he accepts it without a word.

  Now that he’s got it, he doesn’t seem very interested in drinking.

  “You look different,” he remarks.

  I grit my teeth. “That might have something to do with the fact that my father was just shot right in front of me.”

  “No,” he demurs without hesitation. “That’s not it.”

  “Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

  He takes a sip of water.

  “You wanna tell me what happened?” he
asks.

  I tense. “I don’t really know. Everything happened so fast.”

  “Try and remember.” It sounds like a threat.

  “A couple of guys showed up,” I tell him, staying by the sink. “Apparently, Pa owed them money.”

  “What were their names?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  My answer surprises even me. I’m not sure why I don’t give the O’Sullivans up. I owe them nothing.

  Except that it feels like I do.

  “You don’t know?” Tristan repeats.

  “I heard them mention the name ‘Kinahan’ a couple of times.”

  “Kinahan, huh?” Tristan muses. “Interesting.”

  He has the demeanor of a man who’s never fazed, but I can sense that he’s curious about what happened here today.

  “Any other names?”

  “Brody,” I reply.

  “Murtagh?”

  “I think so.”

  “Your father certainly has a way of getting himself into trouble, doesn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looks at me with a nasty smile on his face. “Owing the Kinahans is never a good thing,” he tells me. “Especially now that they’re under Brian Murtagh’s thumb.”

  I feel my body go cold, wondering how much more danger Pa is in, considering he also owes the O’Sullivans.

  There’s no way I’ll be able to pay back the debt he owes.

  Still, I don’t have the same kind of fear attached to the O’Sullivans as I do with the Kinahans.

  Maybe because of Cillian O’Sullivan’s eyes. Beneath the cockiness, beneath the fire, he had kind eyes. The type that seem like they’re laughing even when he’s not.

  “So Brody showed up to collect and good ol’ Padraig didn’t have the cash.”

  I nod my head.

  “Well, that makes sense,” Tristan says. “The Murtaghs are ruthless when it comes to money. If you don’t pay up, you die.”

  He frowns then, as if something is puzzling him.

  “Why not finish the job, though?” he asks. “Why leave him alive?”

  A chill runs down my spine as I contemplate what might have happened if the O’Sullivans hadn’t been there.