Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  “Good instincts. I’d hate to have to save your ass and kick it on the same fucking night.”

  I chuckle as we turn into the streets and start walking. The lights of Hollywood don’t seem as brutal anymore. Not quite so harsh. Not quite so glaring.

  “So what brings you to Los Angeles?” Artem inquires.

  I glance at him. “Mate, that’s a long fucking story.”

  “You got somewhere to be?”

  My laughter dies on my lips. “No,” I say softly. “I’ve got nowhere.”

  We arrive at his car and my eyebrows leap up on my forehead. “Jesus Christ,” I breathe. “Is that a fucking Lotus Elise?”

  Artem smiles. “Fresh off the line.”

  I look up at him. “I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I am into men.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Get in the fucking car. And stay on your side.”

  Laughing, I get in, thinking one thing: this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

  19

  Cillian

  TWELVE YEARS LATER—A REMOTE MOUNTAINTOP IN NORTHERN MEXICO

  I’m going to die.

  I’ve been close to death before. Several times, in fact. But it never felt quite like this.

  There’s a finality about this pain that clings to my bones and make me feel decidedly mortal.

  Armed soldiers clad in black swirl around me amidst the sparse mountain foliage. Some step on me as they converge around Artem.

  He’s lying in the dirt several feet away in front of his uncle, Budimir.

  I’m so delirious with pain that I can barely think straight. But the sight of the power-hungry bastard who caused all this still makes my gut twist in fury.

  Artem’s vicious, backstabbing uncle. The man who tried to steal Artem’s throne as don of the Kovalyov Bratva.

  The man who tried to kill all of us.

  Me. Artem. Artem’s wife, Esme.

  I should have seen this fucking coming. I should have prepared for it.

  But I didn’t, and now, my best friend and I are at the mercy of a deranged psychopath with a point to prove.

  And it’s my fault.

  It’s all my fucking fault.

  I try to move, but my body seizes up immediately. Probably not a wise idea.

  I’ve got three bullets lodged into my chest, courtesy of Budimir using me for target practice as a way to torture Artem into giving up his birthright, and I’m bleeding out from a gash in my arm. The smell of my own blood fills my nostrils and makes my vision blurry.

  One of Budimir’s traitorous soldiers kicks me in the stomach.

  I grunt, but no sound escapes my lips as I roll over. My legs flop over a small ledge. I try to clamber for purchase on the ground, but I’m going, going…

  Fuck.

  My bodyweight drags me over the edge and I slam hard onto the ground two or three feet below. Dried leaves fall on top of me.

  Everything that was hurting before now hurts twice as bad.

  I try to look up, to figure out what’s happening. With the twisted way I landed, I can barely see Artem.

  But I can see Budimir.

  The bastard is surrounded by his men. There’s a manic look in his eyes. Triumph. Sheer fucking glee.

  He’s speaking, but the words sound hazy. Like they’re coming from far away.

  Concentrate, motherfucker! I hiss silently to myself.

  It’s important that I keep my wits about me for as long as possible.

  But the pain… the fucking pain…

  Then a gunshot resounds through the air.

  No!

  Artem…

  My head sags. I have no strength left to hold it up.

  Everything is crumbling. Everything is broken. Everything is fucked.

  I guess this is how it ends for us.

  There’s more talk, more shuffling around. A few men walk near to where I fell. I can see their boots crunching through the leaves.

  “Where’s the Irishman?”

  “Kicked him over that ledge. He’s dead.”

  Fuckers. It’ll take more than a couple of gunshot wounds to kill me.

  “And Artem?”

  “Dying. The boss wants him to bleed out slowly. It’s just a matter of time. There’s no one out here anyway.”

  “Let’s move out.”

  “‘Bout fucking time.”

  They do exactly that. Stomping off to go back to Los Angeles and take over the Bratva that was meant to be Artem’s. It takes only minutes.

  And then I’m alone.

  We’re alone, I remind myself.

  Artem is still alive.

  Which means there’s fucking hope. If I can just get my body to cooperate, maybe I can save myself. Maybe I can save Artem.

  I struggle for several minutes to move. But my muscles just won’t respond, and even the tiniest twitch sends scorching hot agony searing through me.

  Moving is out of the question.

  I need to call for help.

  For someone.

  For anyone.

  But my mouth refuses to open. Any sounds coming out of me are swallowed at once by the harsh mountain wind.

  More minutes tick by. They always say that your life flashes before your eyes like when you’re about to die.

  Sounded like a bunch of bullshit to me.

  But as I admit defeat, as I curl into myself and wait for death, my memories unleash with a fury.

  I know I should be fighting unconsciousness. My eyelids are just so fucking heavy, though.

  And the moment I close them, I see things. Things I haven’t seen in a very long time.

  I see Dublin. The cobblestone streets I grew up on.

  The Free Canary, grimy and crumbling and beautiful.

  I see Kian and Sean on a clear summer’s day, chasing that awful dog of Sean’s through a field.

  Everything’s so fucking clear. It only reinforces the truth that’s slowly starting to dawn on me.

  I really am dying.

  “Artem!”

  My eyes fly open.

  That’s not my imagination, is it?

  Someone just called for Artem. And I know that voice. At least, I recognize it. There’s a name I associate with it, but it’s not popping into my head now. The pain is crowding it out, silencing it.

  Fuck… what is her name?

  I hear movement.

  And then I see her.

  Dark hair, beautiful features, slim figure.

  Esme.

  That’s it.

  That’s her name.

  She is Esme. He is Artem.

  And I am Cillian O’Sullivan.

  We’re not dead. Not yet.

  I open my mouth and try to call out her name, but I can’t seem to remember how to speak.

  At least my eyes are open, though. I can see that she’s managed to drive a vehicle through here.

  What a fucking star. Artem certainly chose the right woman.

  Or rather, fate chose her for him.

  Either way, he isn’t fool enough to deny what he has been given in Esme Moreno.

  I watch, nearly lifeless, as she somehow manages to get him to his feet. It’s painful to witness, because his weight is clearly too much for her to handle and he’s groaning with agony just like I am.

  But she refuses to give up.

  Artem is pushing himself forward in an attempt to help her. It’s obvious how much it’s costing him.

  Neither one of them have so much as glanced in my direction. And even if they did, I doubt they’d notice me. Between the leaves and the ledge and the shadows of the night, I might as well be invisible.

  Which basically translates to—I’m fucking screwed.

  “Esme!”

  I think I’ve managed to shout. But in reality, it’s barely more than a whisper.

  The wind is howling around us now. Clouds are obscuring the moonlight. There’s no way Esme’s going to see me.

  When the car engine starts up again, I know it’s over for me. />
  Tires crunch over gravel. It gets quieter and quieter.

  And then they’re gone. Taking my last hopes with them.

  Once I can no longer hear the vehicle, I let my eyes close again. This time, I don’t fight it. I don’t try to stay awake.

  This is it. My fucking swan song.

  I let her face fill the back of my eyelids.

  I let myself remember all of it, all of her. Our whispered words and our fierce promises.

  I’ve tucked them all away in the darkest recesses of my mind, waiting for the day I can bring them out again. Waiting for the day I can scour through them. And that day has come. I’m like an addict who’s finally allowed himself to break after twelve years of abstaining.

  Saoirse.

  She floods my mind. Her aqua-blue eyes. Her wild red hair.

  I’ve spent the last twelve years feeling all kinds of emotions when I thought of her.

  Bitterness.

  Anger.

  Hurt

  Love.

  Forgiveness.

  Confusion.

  Devastation.

  Some years, I made progress. I evolved in my recounting of our past. Came to peace with parts of it. Found ways to forgive.

  Other years weren’t so go. I regressed. Blamed her for everything and felt a knot of rage roiling in my chest.

  Through it all, though, I never stopped thinking about her.

  Every time I was between a woman’s thighs, I saw Saoirse’s face first. Like a fucking scarlet comet, her image would streak across my mind’s eye, leaving me blinded for a moment.

  I learned to ignore it. To push through it.

  But I never learned to stop seeing her.

  Sometimes, I’d shut my eyes and pretend she was the one beneath me. That was never enough, though. Not when my body still remembered what it felt like to kiss her. To touch her. To be inside her.

  So as I hurtle towards death, I let myself do what I’ve resisted for twelve long years—fall into the memories I tried to kill.

  I’m finally at peace with dying—as long as I have her name on my lips.

  20

  Cillian

  “Gaspar!”

  Oh, come the fuck on.

  My eyes bolt open as the cry pulls me out of my peaceful unconsciousness.

  Can’t a man die in peace around here?

  “Gaspar, stop running! Come here. Now.”

  The voice is high-pitched. Girlish. But I can’t make out who it belongs to. My eyes flutter shut again, but apparently, my body is waking up.

  Because the pain is, too.

  “Gaspar, you tonto. Come on! Papa told us to stay on the path.”

  I don’t even try to speak. Now that I’ve accepted death, I kind of long for it. For the blissful peace of the eternal sleep.

  No more fighting. No more violence.

  Just… peace.

  Unless of course the whole “heaven and hell” thing is legit. In which case, I’m pretty sure I’m going down under.

  I feel sudden moisture on my face. But it doesn’t feel like water. It’s almost… sticky.

  Then I register his panting. And the breath.

  Christ, that’s awful.

  “Gaspar! What have you found, perro?”

  Oh, shit. This little girl is gonna freak the fuck out when she sees me.

  I hear the crunch of leaves under her feet somewhere nearby.

  And then… nothing.

  Is she standing close? Has she noticed me yet? I can’t even crack my eyes open. The daylight is like a knife drilling into my eyeballs.

  “Oh, God…” she breathes. “Gaspar, stop! It’s… It’s a man. A body.”

  She sounds young, but there’s a certain composure about the way she speaks.

  I hear her footsteps recede. She’s running. Running away from what she thinks is a corpse, no doubt.

  But her dog stays behind, licking my face and my ears.

  Sooner than I expect, I hear footsteps again.

  “Stand back, Carlita.”

  “Papa, is he dead?”

  The man sounds grim. “We’ll find out.”

  Large hands paw gently at my body. I’m turned over and I can’t help but moan at the pain that surges through my spine.

  I try to catch a glimpse of him through the tiny gap between my eyelids, but everything’s fucking hazy and bright and it all hurts so goddamn bad.

  “Dios mio!”

  “Papa?”

  “He’s alive,” the man sighs. “Barely.”

  “We gotta take him home, Papa. We gotta get him help.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “He’s been shot. More than once. This man’s involved in some nasty business, Carlita. Best we leave him here.”

  “Papa!”

  “I don’t want any trouble, mija,” he says, his tone softening. “And this one here is trouble.”

  “He’s still a person,” the girl argues. “We’ve got to help him if we can. Mama would have wanted us to. She would have told us that we shouldn’t judge.”

  The man sighs like he knows he’s lost the argument. “Alright then.” He shifts around. More leaves crunch. “Come on. We’re gonna need the wheelbarrow. This chico is a beast.”

  I want to protest, but I just sigh and let it all happen. I’m not in control of anything right now.

  Sometime later, when the man starts to move my body, fresh pain scorches through me. It’s too much to handle. The blackness claims me once again.

  I don’t fight that, either.

  * * *

  I don’t know whether it’s hours or days later when I come to consciousness in brief spurts and drags.

  I start to notice little things.

  The subtle light of hanging lamps just above me.

  The smell of something cooking. Rosemary. Chicken.

  The sound of singing in the background. An old hymn that I used to know the words to, a lifetime ago.

  When I finally ease back into consciousness, I know it’s been days since I was left for dead in the woods. I can feel it in my body.

  It still aches. There’s still pain.

  But it’s a healing pain.

  I wince as my muscles complain at the movement, but I force myself upright all the same.

  I’m lying in a single bed pushed up against a clean adobe white wall. There’s a narrow two-door wardrobe in the corner and a rickety wooden writing desk right next to it.

  A muffled voice comes through the walls. “Vamos, Gaspar! Let’s go check on Poncho.”

  Poncho? Who the fuck is Poncho?

  Two seconds later, a young girl rounds the corner and steps into my room. She freezes the moment she sees me, her hazel eyes going wide with shock.

  “Y… you’re awake?”

  I lick my chapped lips. “Apparently.” My throat is croaky from disuse.

  “PAPAAA!”

  “Jesus!” I exclaim, cringing against the noise. “Do you need to scream?”

  She takes a step back but eyes me carefully. The white-brown collie beside her cocks his head to the side as though he’s trying to figure me out, too.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you it’s not polite to stare?”

  “I saved your life,” she says without flinching. “I think I’ve been very polite.”

  Damn. She’s got me there.

  I smile. The effort hurts. “What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?” she retorts.

  My smile gets wider. I like this kid.

  “Wait, I think I remember hearing it once or twice… Camila?” I venture a guess. “No, that’s not it. Cristina?”

  “Carla!” she interrupts proudly, unable to help herself.

  “That’s it. I was close.”

  “My full name is Carla Amengual de la Cavallería Hernandez.”

  “Yikes. Bless you.”

  A burst of laughter escapes her lips. “You’re funny.”

  “Carlita?”

  She glances back ov
er her shoulder. “That’s Papa,” she warns. “Be cool.”

  I have to hold back my laughter at her whispered instruction. I’m glad I do, because a second later, her father fills the entire threshold of the door.

  “Well, well… you’re finally up.”

  Carla looks just like him. She’s got his calm features, his hazel eyes. But she’s just a reedy little girl, no more than nine or ten, while he’s a big, bearded guy with sun-tanned forearms.

  “Carlita,” he says, “why don’t you go get our guest a glass of water?”

  Her expression scrunches up immediately. “You’re just trying to get rid of me.”

  “I just want to talk to the gentleman.”

  Gentleman? Haven’t ever been accused of being that before.

  “Alone?” Carla balks, raising her eyebrows. “I think I should be there, too.”

  “Carlita…” her father growls.

  I have a feeling that arguments and negotiations are a daily occurrence between these two. They’re growing on me already.

  Of course, them saving my life doesn’t hurt in that department.

  “Papa, I was the one that found him. I was the one that wanted to save him. I think I should be here to talk to him.”

  Knew I liked this kid.

  He groans and closes his eyes for a moment. “Fine,” he replies. “Fine.”

  Then he turns to me. I can’t help but smile at the two of them.

  “I think you should still get Poncho a glass of water though.”

  Her lips pucker, but she doesn’t want to be difficult. She knows she’s won the battle, so she’s willing to make this small concession.

  “Okay!” she chirps before disappearing.

  Her father turns to me. His smile drops at once. “Who are you connected to?”

  “No one anymore,” I answer honestly. “I’m a dead man walking.”

  I vaguely remember Esme dragging Artem away. Even if he survived Budimir’s gunshot—unlikely—and even if they managed to stay one step ahead of Budimir’s men after that—even more unlikely—then they’re going to be staying undercover for a long time. Finding them will be impossible. Especially since they probably think I’m dead, too.

  So, just like when I was exiled from Ireland twelve years ago…

  I’m on my own again.

  “Are there people out there who’re looking for you?”