Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  “Like I said, not anymore.”

  “Can I trust you in my home?”

  This question is perhaps the most important. Mostly because what he’s really asking me is, can he trust me with his daughter?

  “A hundred percent,” I say with all the seriousness I can muster. “You can trust me.”

  He watches my face for any giveaway. In the end, he must not see anything questionable, because he nods and relaxes. “That better be true.”

  He falls silent as Carla returns with a glass of water in hand. She’s panting a little and I know she’s hurried back, eager not to miss anything.

  She walks to me confidently and hands me the glass.

  “Why, thanks, little miss,” I say, taking the glass from her with a nod.

  I down the glass in a few seconds, realizing just how thirsty I am. There’s nothing like a glass of cool water when you’re parched as fuck.

  “Fuck, that was good.”

  “Language.”

  “Fuck me. Sorry.”

  The man glares at me, but Carla giggles.

  Clearly, I’ve won her over.

  “I’m Diego Hernandez,” the man says, introducing himself. “And this is my little girl.”

  “I’m not a little girl!” she insists. “I’m almost eleven.”

  “Big girl, then,” he corrects with a half-hidden grin.

  “And this is Gaspar,” Carlita adds, pointing out the dog that keeps moving between her and her father.

  “It’s nice to meet you all,” I say, with a smile. “Now, I have one burning question: who is Poncho?”

  Carla blushes a little as she glances at her father.

  “That’s the name I gave you,” she admits. “You were asleep for so long and I didn’t know what to call you. So I named you.”

  “And you went with Poncho?” I balk. “Kinda ordinary, don’t you think?”

  “We’d like to know your real name,” Diego says firmly.

  “Cillian O’Sullivan, at your service,” I say, dipping my head forward.

  A pang of pain rips through my body. I groan and settle back into the bed, against the pillows.

  “But,” I add, “maybe not at this very moment.”

  Carla giggles again. “I’m glad I saved you.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Diego doesn’t look as happy about that as his daughter. But I have every confidence that I’ll win him over in the end. I’ve always had a way with people.

  “You’ve got three bullet wounds in your chest,” he points out. “And a laceration on your arm. Probably a knife wound.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “What happened?” Carlita asks, cutting to the chase.

  “What happened is a very, very long story.”

  “Well, if you want to recover in our home, it’s a story you’ll have to share with us,” he tells me fiercely.

  “And I will,” I say, looking him in the eye.

  He nods, understanding what I mean. I’m not sure the whole story is appropriate for a little girl’s ears, and I don’t want to step on the man’s toes by telling his daughter details he’s not comfortable with.

  I have no doubt Carlita can take them. She’s got that sheen of maturity to her.

  But still, he’s the parent.

  I’m also keenly aware of how much I owe these two.

  “So how long have I been out?”

  “It’s been six days since mija found you in the woods.”

  “Six days,” I balk. “No fucki—uh, no way?”

  My mind races with a million unanswered questions again.

  Artem.

  Where is he?

  Did Esme manage to get him help?

  Is he even alive?

  I try to sit up, wincing through the pain.

  “Diego, I need to use a phone.”

  “No.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “No?”

  “No,” he echoes firmly. “You’re not permitted to use any of the phones on my premises. The day you decide you need to make contact with the outside world—your world—that’s the day I expect you to leave my house.”

  I blink, but he’s deadly serious.

  “I don’t know who or what you’re connected to,” he continues, “but I know it’s not good. I will not put my daughter in harm’s way. So if you want to recover properly—and trust me, I advise that you do, if you value your life—then you’ll forget about contacting anyone while you’re with us.”

  Well, that certainly puts shit in perspective.

  “I just wanna check in with my family,” I tell him.

  Diego narrows his eyes at me. “Do you have a family, Cillian?” he asks, testing me.

  If I lie to him now, I will forever break his trust. I can see that in his eyes.

  “When I say family, I mean the family I’ve made along the way,” I admit with a sigh.

  “You can contact them when you’re ready to leave here.”

  I look down at my near-broken body and I realize how much further I have left to go before I can call myself fully healed.

  In any case, I’ll be no use to anyone in this state. And with Budimir having the upper hand back in Los Angeles, I might only get one chance at a second life.

  I have to make the most of it.

  I grit my teeth and swallow the burning disappointment, but I also respect Diego. I understand his desire to keep his daughter safe.

  It’s what I would do in his place.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “You have my word.”

  “Gracias,” he replies politely. Then he starts moving to the door. “Now that that’s settled, why don’t we let Cillian get some rest, mija?”

  “But he’s been resting forever!” Carla complains.

  Her papa smiles patiently. “Healing is a long process, little wildcat. Give him time.”

  She sighs and looks at me. “Once you’re done resting, I have lots of questions for you,” she informs me.

  I smirk. “I have no doubt.”

  “Don’t sleep too long, okay?” she says. “We’re having roast chicken for dinner.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  The two of them walk out of the room. But before the door closes shut, I stop them.

  “Oh, and Carla?”

  “Yeah?” she asks, poking her head back into the room eagerly.

  “Thanks for saving my life.”

  Her face breaks into a bright smile. For the first time, she actually looks her age. “You’re welcome.”

  21

  Saoirse

  Twelve Years Since Cillian Left—Dublin, Ireland

  “I hate this place.”

  “Don’t say that, Pa,” I admonish. “It’s your home.”

  “Why can’t I just live with you and Tristan?” he asks.

  My heart constricts, but I can’t allow myself to get sucked into this. Not again. Pa knows exactly why he can’t live with us.

  It’s because he drives Tristan crazy.

  My husband is not a man who likes to share his wife’s attention.

  “Pa, please,” I beg him. “Just take your pills and have a nice lie-down.”

  “No!”

  He crosses his hands over his chest and turns his face to the side like a petulant child.

  Well, that certainly makes it easier for me to be firm with him.

  “If you don’t take your pills, the pain will come back.”

  “The pain’s there anyway.”

  “It’ll be worse.”

  “I don’t care,” he insists, still turning his head away from me.

  “That’s what you said last time, and then you regretted it later.”

  “Stop throwing that in my face. It was a year ago.”

  “It was a month ago,” I reply with frustration.

  Pa’s always been stubborn as a mule. Age has done him no favors in that department. And the last few years have only accelerated everything else about him that’s hardening into place.
r />   His hair has gone completely grey and thinned to nearly nothing. His eyes have gotten lighter, more filmy.

  According to his doctors, he’s only got about forty percent visibility in his right eye, and yet he still refuses to wear his glasses.

  He had another fall two months ago and broke his hip. Now, he’s on pain medication, but he refuses to take it because he claims it gives him nightmares.

  I’ve tried telling him that his past is what’s giving him the nightmares.

  But he doesn’t believe me.

  Probably because believing me would also mean taking responsibility for that past, for those mistakes. It would mean owning up to it. And Padraig Connelly is still knee-deep in denial.

  “Pa, please,” I try again. “Just take the damn pill. If you do, I’ll bring you an extra pudding cup for dinner.”

  “Will you stay for dinner?” he asks, turning to me, his little temper tantrum momentarily forgotten.

  “Pa…”

  His pout is forming before I’m even finished speaking. “You don’t ever stay and have dinner with me.”

  “I have lunch with you every day,” I point out.

  “That’s lunch,” he says stubbornly. “I’m talking about dinner!”

  I throw my hands up in frustration and move towards the small window that faces his little single bed.

  Dove Crest is a pretty nice nursing home. In fact, it’s one of the better ones in Dublin. Which of course means it’s not cheap, even with my employee discount.

  But I twisted Tristan’s arm about it so much that he finally gave in. Mostly so that he could kick Pa out of his house and get the peace and quiet he craved.

  But it’s still one of the scant few battles I’ve won with him.

  Pa’s room overlooks a hilly patch of the garden. From this vantage point, I can see the walkway that I use every morning, walking one patient or the other. I can see the little vegetable patch by the peonies. I can even see the pond at the far end of the garden.

  As far as things go, it’s a nice room. But none of it seems to make Pa happy. Truthfully, nothing makes him happy anymore.

  And trust me, I’ve tried.

  God, how I’ve tried.

  The whole reason I took this nursing job at Dove Crest was so that I could be close to him.

  Come to think of it, every decision I’ve made for the past twelve years has been about other people.

  Starting with the choice to stay back in Dublin instead of leaving with Cillian.

  It always makes my body tremble a little when I think of him.

  And yes, I do still think of him.

  All the fucking time.

  It’s pathetic, really.

  I’ve lived off that one night for the past twelve years. Those few hours have powered me through my darkest days and my lowest moments in life.

  I’m a thirty-year-old woman now. No longer a child. No longer naïve.

  And I still feel that the realest, truest, most authentic experience I’ve ever lived is the one I shared with Cillian when I was eighteen years old.

  “Saoirse!” Pa barks, drawing me back from the window. “Stay tonight. Have dinner with me.”

  “You know I can’t, Pa,” I say tiredly. “Tristan will be expecting me.”

  “Tell him to join us here.”

  I bite my lip. “Why don’t you have dinner with Lonny and Mel?” I suggest.

  “Those bastards. I want nothing more to do with them.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the poker game you played with them on Saturday?”

  “They swindled me!”

  “They didn’t,” I reply calmly. “Lonny won.”

  “Only because Mel was reading cards behind my back. They cheated!”

  I sigh and glance at the clock. “Pa, please, it’s almost six. I’m off-duty in fifteen minutes and I still need to give Mrs. Filan her sponge bath.”

  “I don’t like that you have to do that,” Pa says gruffly.

  “It’s my job.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  I shake my head. “It pays the bills,” I tell him. “And it also gives me a great discount, which is the only reason Tristan agreed to put you here in the first place.”

  “It’s all about money,” he scoffs.

  “Yeah, it is, in fact,” I snap harshly. “Now take your pills, or else I’m gonna ask Shane to come in here instead.”

  Pa’s eyes go wide. Shane’s not exactly known for his gentle touch.

  “Not Shane,” he whimpers.

  “Then take them!”

  With an angry grunt, he grabs the pills and pops them into his mouth. He swallows but I don’t completely trust him.

  “Open up and let me see.”

  He glares at me, lips clamped shut.

  “Do it or Shane will be in here before you know it.”

  He relents reluctantly and opens wide. To my surprise, he’s actually swallowed them. Not the first time we’ve done this song and dance, but rarely does it only take one round.

  “Thank you,” I say with gratitude, bending down and kissing his head. “Now, I’ve got to go.”

  “I hate this place,” Pa calls out again as I’m heading for the door.

  I turn. “It’s beautiful here, Pa. It’s big. Clean. There’s a garden and a pond. You’ve got friends.”

  “I’m too old for friends,” he says. “What I need now is family.”

  I have to bite my tongue.

  If only he’d felt that way when I was a kid.

  Why is it that some men only remember they have families when it suits them?

  I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s best not to engage, anyway. It’s best not to care. To be vulnerable. To ask questions or expose your heart to more hurt.

  I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

  “Goodnight, Pa,” I say softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I want to go for a walk around the garden after breakfast,” he says.

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “And I don’t want anyone else joining in, either.”

  I suppress a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Maybe you could speak to Tristan,” Da says suddenly, his breath catching a little as he tries floating the idea again. “See if he’s open to me moving back in with you two.”

  “Pa…”

  “Just ask and see,” he insists.

  “Sure, Pa,” I concede. “I’ll ask.”

  I know what Tristan’s answer will be. I also know what his reaction will be if I bring this up with him again.

  Unfortunately, Pa still suffers from the delusion that he and Tristan are friends. I’ve tried to explain to Pa that he and Tristan were never friends to begin with. But that conversation didn’t go well.

  You can’t argue with a man in denial. And denial has been Pa’s best friend since Mama died.

  I slip out of his room, feeling that guilty tug every time I say goodnight to him. But the guilt has an edge to it now. And it’s starting to feel a lot like bitterness.

  I love my father. Deep down, I know he loves me, too.

  But if love is measured in sacrifice, then the scoreboard reads something like “SAOIRSE—Infinity, PA—Zero.”

  And it’s not gonna be changing anytime soon.

  I walk down to Mrs. Filan’s room and knock on her door.

  “Sara?” comes her warbling voice.

  I sigh. “It’s Saoirse, Mrs. Filan.”

  I push open the door and walk in. She’s sitting on her bed in a ratty old bathrobe that she supposedly knitted herself when she first moved in here decades ago.

  It’s a believable story, mostly because the robe looks like it’s been through multiple world wars. The weave is coming loose, holes opening up in all manner of unsightly places.

  She wobbles upright so I can help her to the bathroom. “Where’ve you been?” she barks at me as we shuffle across the tile floor together.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Filan. I was—”
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br />   “Down the hall with that no-good father of yours,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes at me.

  I fill the tub with lukewarm water and then help her out of her robe. “I just had to make sure he took his pills,” I reply once she’s settled in. “And I wasn’t that late.”

  “A few minutes late is still late.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I admit. “You’re absolutely right.”

  If my life were a movie, then this job would be romanticized accordingly. I’d come here every day and get to give help and comfort to the sweetest elderly people. The kind who’d fall in love with me at first glance. Who’d share stories about their youths and give me advice that would help shape my life.

  But unfortunately, my life is no movie.

  And the men and women I take care of? They barely tolerate me, much less love me.

  Mostly, they just use me as punching bags to vent their frustration and despair.

  It’s not like I can blame them. It’s not easy getting older. It’s not easy having to depend on other people for every single thing you do.

  I get it. I really do.

  But there are some days when it’s so fucking hard to be patient.

  “You got a fella?” Mrs. Filan asks suspiciously as she leans back in her tub.

  “No.” My answer is immediate. I don’t even think about it.

  She frowns. “Your father claims you’re married to some good-looking cop,” she says, looking at me oddly.

  Mrs. Filan’s problem is certainly not her mind. The woman’s smart as a whip and sharp as ever. She’s also got a killer memory. She was only put in this home because her children just didn’t want to deal with her.

  And after spending a couple of hours with her, it’s easy to understand why.

  I falter a little. “Oh, um… right. Well, I’m married.”

  She glares at me as I try and avoid her gaze.

  “Did you forget you were married?” she asks sarcastically.

  “I wish I could forget,” I murmur.

  Instantly, I regret it. Talking shit about Tristan is never a good thing. What if it gets back to him somehow?

  I know I’m being paranoid and fearful even thinking it, but what can I say? I’ve become paranoid and fearful over the years.

  Maybe that’s another reason I think about Cillian so often.

  Because the last time I was brave—really, truly brave—was with him.