Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  Cillian stands in the hallway and stares at me, his light blue eyes slowly morphing from disbelief to grim acceptance.

  It hurts so fucking much to see that expression on his face.

  They tell you that hope is hard to kill.

  What’s far harder is watching it die.

  “I didn’t mean it,” I continue past the pain. “I didn’t mean anything I said. I didn’t think you did, either.”

  He doesn’t respond to that. He just looks at me like he’s reassessing the whole situation. Reassessing our time together.

  I want to take his hand.

  I want to touch him again.

  One last time before he disappears forever and I’m left here, marooned indefinitely in a life I never wanted.

  If I could just kiss him, just one more time..

  One more chance to tattoo the taste of his lips against my own. So that in my darkest moments, I can close my eyes and feel his kiss again.

  And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help me endure. It’ll help me survive.

  But I know I can’t have either of those things.

  I can’t touch him again.

  I certainly can’t kiss him again.

  Because if I do, he’ll know.

  I may be able to hide the truth behind well-crafted lies.

  But I’ll never be able to hide my feelings for him through a kiss.

  Even the softest of touches will give me away. It’ll betray my secret. The secret I must keep because keeping it means getting him away from me, away from Ireland.

  It means keeping him alive.

  He takes a step back, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, staring at me like he’s memorizing my face. Like he’s committing every detail to memory.

  “Cillian,” I say softly, “you have to go.”

  A shadow flits across his eyes. “Goodbye, Saoirse.”

  My heart feels like it’s caving in on itself. “Cillian…”

  He doesn’t stay to hear the rest. Maybe that’s a good thing, because I have no idea what I’m about to say.

  He turns and starts running.

  I take a step forward and watch him retreat down the corridor. As he rounds the corner, we lock eyes one last time.

  And then he’s gone.

  I go to the window at the end of the hall. I see him burst out of the hospital and jump into a waiting cab.

  He doesn’t look back.

  I wait and watch until the cab shrinks.

  Until it turns into a tiny yellow blip on the horizon.

  Until it vanishes from sight.

  And then I wait some more.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper to him through the pane of glass, hoping that some part of him knows just how sorry I am.

  It strikes me that he’s the only one who’s ever kept a promise to me.

  Or at least, he tried to.

  I wish I could have at least told him how much that means to me.

  Maybe I can stand here forever. Maybe if I don’t leave this spot, then time will freeze and I won’t ever have to go back into the hospital room.

  But of course, time doesn’t work that way.

  Life doesn’t, either.

  I feel Tristan’s presence a second before he speaks.

  “You did the right thing, Saoirse.”

  I whirl around, meeting his nasty grey eyes. There’s a satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looks even uglier when he’s happy.

  I push past him and go back into the room.

  Of course, he follows me. He’s incapable of giving me even a moment to myself.

  I can sense his possessiveness already. And I know he wants to suffocate Cillian’s presence in my heart.

  I head straight for the en-suite bathroom and pour myself a glass of water. I’m not really thirsty. I just want to keep my hands busy.

  Any excuse not to look at him.

  “Your performance was wonderful,” Tristan continues. “I almost believed you myself.”

  I set down the full glass of water, sending little drops flying on the countertop. The bed beyond us is empty, just ruffled sheets and the imprint of my father’s form. He’s gone for testing in another part of the hospital.

  It’s just us here.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Just… leave me alone.”

  “Alone?” Tristan repeats. “Alone?”

  He doesn’t sound angry, but I’m starting to understand him now. His anger simmers just beneath the surface. He masks it well.

  But it’s always there. Ready to break at a moment’s notice.

  He grabs my jaw and jerks my head up, forcing me to look at him.

  “You will never be alone,” he promises me. “Not anymore. You are mine now.”

  To drive home his point, he pinches the skin of my ring finger.

  There isn’t a ring there. Not yet.

  But there will be.

  And he’s reminding me of that. But he’s also reminding me that he doesn’t need a ring to claim ownership of me anymore.

  It’s ironic, really—in order to save my life, I’ve ended up bartering it away.

  “What else did he say to you?” Tristan asks.

  “You heard the whole conversation.”

  “Not the first part,” he tells me. “Did he sing you sweet nothings? Promise to protect you always? Did he tell you he loves you?”

  Of course he wants to know. He wants every piece of my relationship with Cillian.

  So that he can peel it apart and poison it. To ensure that anytime I look back on my memories of Cillian, they’re laced with pain.

  “He came to say goodbye,” I reply in a monotone voice.

  “Did he now?” Tristan asks with mild amusement. “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because from where I was standing, it sounded like he wanted you to run with him.”

  Goosebumps prickle my skin, but I hold my own and shrug.

  “I said no.”

  “That’s right. Because you’re smart. You know that he’ll never be able to keep you safe. Not like I can.”

  As if that were some swoonworthy romantic quip, he leans in and presses his lips to mine.

  It takes all my strength not to cringe away from him. But my body goes stiff. My lips lie unmoving against his.

  He can try and steal my submission from me. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be willing to give it.

  His lips leave mine with a hollow pop. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are angry.

  He seems to realize that he can make me submit to this fucked-up arrangement. But he can’t make me participate.

  “Kiss me, Saoirse,” he snarls.

  “I just did.”

  He grips my jaw a little tighter, to the point of pain. But I show him none of that. I just stare up at him with my dead eyes.

  “No, that was not a fucking kiss,” he hisses. “I don’t want to feel like I’m kissing a corpse.”

  “Isn’t that what I am at this point?”

  The words escape my lips before I can stop them. In this case, I don’t regret it.

  I feel so numb at this point. Immune to the pain I know he wants to inflict on me.

  Let him do his worst. I’m past caring.

  He squeezes my cheeks hard and then shoves me stumbling backwards.

  I fall against a low shelf and it hits the small of my back hard. I wince at the sharp pain that shoots up my spine.

  But somehow, it doesn’t hurt as bad as my aching heart does right now.

  “You think you’re a corpse?” Tristan says. “Is that what you think?”

  “Yes.”

  He glares at me for a moment and then he laughs darkly.

  “Baby, if you deny me… you’ll wish you were a corpse.”

  The words should make me tremble. But they don’t. Not now. Not so soon after having to say goodbye to the one man that I could have been happy with.

  “I’ll tell you again, Saoirse,” Tristan says threateningly. “
Kiss me. And kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me the way you kissed him.”

  I cringe. I can’t help it.

  He’s asking for something I can’t possibly give him.

  He’s asking for sincerity.

  “Come on, baby,” he says, prowling closer to me.

  I’m trapped between him and the empty bed now. I glare at him, but I can’t pretend. Not this time. I’m all tapped out.

  He seems to realize the same thing. His expression darkens for a quick flash before it fades back to neutral.

  Looking calm and composed, he sighs, straightens up, and pulls out his phone. As he dials in a number, he switches to speaker phone.

  The dial tone vibrates through the small kitchen. “Morning, boss, what can I do for you?” a high, nasally voice answers.

  “Tell the boys on duty that I have some information on Cillian O’Sullivan,” Tristan says. “He’s no longer in police custody, and I think I know where he might be headed.”

  I go cold.

  The numbness I was so thankful for just moments ago vanishes. It’s replaced by bone-chilling fear.

  “No!” I cry, grabbing Tristan’s arm. “Please don’t!”

  I have no expectation that he’ll actually listen to me. But to my surprise, he gives me a reassuring smile.

  “Hold on, Helms,” he says to the person on the other end of the line without breaking eye contact. “Let me get back to you. I may have been mistaken.”

  He hangs up and puts his phone down.

  “What’s the matter, my little kitten?” he murmurs. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “He’s leaving, Tristan. He won’t ever be able to return,” I plead. “I won’t ever see him again. Isn’t that enough? Just let him go.”

  His eyes betray his intentions as he takes a step closer to me.

  “You know, this relationship is a two-way street, Saoirse. If you expect me to do something for you, you have to be willing to do something for me.”

  I’ll do something, if that’s what it takes.

  But not for him.

  And in a way, it’s not even for Cillian.

  It’s for myself.

  I step forward instantly, wrap my hand around the back of his neck, and pull his face down to meet mine.

  Our lips jam together and I let them come alive underneath his.

  I don’t feel any morsel of the passion, the heat, the tension, or the desire that came with kissing Cillian.

  But maybe, if I play my part well, I can make Tristan feel it.

  That’s all that really matters anyway.

  He doesn’t care what I want, what I feel, so long as I make it convincing for him.

  Is it possible that sincerity is easier to fake than people realize? Or maybe my desperation is what makes it easier.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and kiss him until my lips are raw and swollen.

  Until my heart is throbbing with the open sting of betrayal.

  Until I feel as though I’ve done enough to convince him that I will play along.

  When we break apart, his lips are wet and his mouth is parted with desire.

  I can see the naked lust in his eyes as they scour down my body, ripping me open and leaving me bare and vulnerable.

  “That was… something,” he says with a satisfied nod. “How it makes me yearn for our wedding night.”

  My gut twists with a strong wave of nausea at the thought, but I push it down and keep my body in check. I’ll need to develop a strong stomach if I’m going to survive this man.

  “Good girl.” He gives me a nod that’s just as much of a dismissal.

  It makes me wonder: is he really attracted to me?

  Or is he just addicted to the power high he gets when he’s with me?

  I turn to the glass of water on the counter behind me. I pick it up now and take a big sip, trying to wash the taste of him from my tongue.

  When I finish the glass, I realize that Tristan has his phone pressed to his ear.

  “Helms,” he says.

  And I freeze.

  “Yeah… just checked with my source,” Tristan says, a smile teetering across his still-wet lips. “Cillian O’Sullivan is heading for Dublin Airport. He’s trying to get out of the country.”

  “No,” I gasp. “No!”

  “Yes. Okay. I’ll meet you there.”

  The moment Tristan hangs up, I fly at him, my fists hammering against his body with fury.

  “How could you!?” I yell. “You promised me!”

  He grabs my arms and twists them back. “The only thing I promised you was to keep you safe. To protect you,” he tells me. “And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m keeping you safe from that fucker.”

  “No,” I sob. “You’re a fucking monster. You—”

  His open palm rails against the side of my face, snapping my neck to the side.

  I stumble backwards, half-shocked and half-dizzy from the strength of the slap.

  “You’re right about one thing,” Tristan snarls at me. “I will be your personal fucking monster. Unless you learn to fucking obey.”

  He grabs my face again and leans in. He bites down on my lower lip until I feel the skin split open. Then he steps away as the metallic taste of blood coats my tongue.

  “Time to go catch a runaway,” he croons.

  A second later, I hear the door slam.

  The sound feels so final. Like an axe being brought down on my head.

  My knees give out almost immediately and I crumple to the floor. I lose myself to despair and hopelessness.

  “Cillian,” I sob to the empty, lifeless room. “Cillian, you can make it out of here. You can do it. You have to.”

  I don’t even know who I’m talking to.

  Am I talking to Cillian?

  Am I talking to a higher power?

  Or maybe, like always, I’m just talking to myself.

  17

  Cillian

  Dublin Airport

  Getting into the airport is easier than I expect.

  There are quite a few police officers standing outside the entrances into the airport. But the crowd is massive and impatient. The makeshift security checkpoints they’ve installed before each entrance is creating a gridlock situation that’s causing more problems than it’s solving.

  In short, it’s fucking chaos.

  And in chaos, I find the distraction I need.

  First, I ditch the gun discreetly in a trash can. Then I make my way towards the doors.

  I hunch down a little and slip into the airport behind several tall businessman travelling back to their native Germany. I manage to snake my way through the shifting waves of passengers until I’ve cleared the checkpoints.

  Donal is right where Da said he would be at the second international terminal.

  The man is instantly forgettable. Anonymous even when you’re looking right in his face. Dressed in dark slacks and a wrinkled white button-down shirt under an appallingly hideous sweater vest, you’d never think he is Dublin’s most skilled forger.

  “Donny Boy,” I greet, though there’s not an ounce of warmth in my voice.

  Truth is, I feel hollow. Utterly wrecked from the inside out.

  He gives me a curt nod and gestures for me to follow him.

  He leads me into one of the inner corridors that lead to the restrooms. But instead of heading to the men’s restroom, he turns left towards the storage area.

  The room’s decently sized, but most importantly, there’s no one around.

  “Who’d you have to bribe?” I ask.

  “Just the one attendant on duty,” Donal replies dryly. “I fucking hate airports.”

  “This one’s a bit crowded for my liking.”

  “That’s precisely the problem,” he says. He doesn’t waste any time in pulling my new documents out from his briefcase.

  I grab my forged passport and take a look.

  “Niall Mulligan, twenty-three… what the fuck?” I groan. “You’ve made me a
fucking brunette?”

  “Your blond hair stands out too much,” Donal says without a trace of humor. “They’ll be searching for a blond smart ass with a stupid grin on his face.”

  Clearly, he hasn’t noticed that I’ve lost my smile in the last hour.

  But whatever. I’m not in the mood for explanations.

  “Have you forgotten the fact that I’m still blond?” I say, pointing to my head.

  Donal grabs something else from within his case. “I came prepared.”

  “Spray on hair dye?” I balk when I see what he’s holding. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “It only lasts two days,” Donal replies sourly. “Just spray and go.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter. “Alright. Spray me.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later and I’m a goddamn brunette.

  “Ticket?” I ask.

  He hands me the ticket. I glance down at the details staring back at me.

  “So I’m heading to America.”

  “Los Angeles,” Donal confirms. “You can make your way from there.”

  He makes it sound fucking simple. Just make my way. La-dee-fucking-da. Like I’m going through the woods for a fun little picnic.

  Part of me wants to ask him what the hell I’m supposed to do when I arrive. But he’s not the kind of man to offer much in the way of reassurances.

  And fuck him. Fuck that.

  I don’t need anyone’s help.

  I’m on my own now.

  “Thanks, Donal,” I tell him.

  He looks up at me, his eyes kind of scrunching together as though he can’t see me clearly.

  “I’ve been working with your father for over twenty years now,” he says. “That’s older than you are.”

  “I appreciate the help with the math there, mate,” I drawl. “Are you getting all sentimental on me, Donal?” I ask.

  It was a joke, but honestly, he looks conflicted as he hands me the rest of my documents in a black satchel. Odd. He never betrays emotion like that.

  “You take care, Master Cillian.”

  It isn’t a title he’s ever used with me, but I understand the sentiment he’s trying to get across.

  “Aw, Donal. I love you, too, you miserable old bastard.”

  His eyes bulge out as though I’ve just said something obscene. “What the fuck are you on about?”