Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  It looks like she’s regressed back into sadness.

  She’s probably thought herself out of all the progress we’d made last night. The fragile truce we managed to find seems to be teetering on a knife’s edge, in danger of falling off one side or the other.

  “Did you do this?” I ask, pointing to the sand at my feet.

  She doesn’t even glance down.

  “I woke up early,” she replies with a shrug that’s half-nonchalant, half-embarrassed. “And… I like to draw.”

  “Well, goddamn,” I say. “It’s amazing. Really, insanely beautiful. And not just the model—the artwork is really nice, too.”

  She can’t help laughing at that one. “You sure I deserve any of the credit?”

  “I mean, clearly, my classical good looks did half the work for you,” I joke. “But come on… you’re an artist.”

  “No, I’m not,” she says immediately. Her tone is clipped, almost defensive.

  I grit my teeth. “Let me guess: that fucker you’re married to told you that you weren’t good enough.”

  She looks up in surprise, giving herself away at once.

  “Come on,” she says instead of responding to my guess. “We need to get back to the car. Find a way back to the city.”

  “Saoirse.”

  “What, Cillian?” she hisses impatiently. “It’s just a drawing. No big deal.”

  I ignore that. “How often do you draw?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes. Not often.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t have the time.”

  “You need to make time.”

  “To draw pictures?” she asks incredulously. “I’m not a child anymore. I don’t have the luxury of wasting the day away with doodling.”

  “And what makes you think this is a waste?”

  I’m suddenly furious. Furious at how trapped she seems. At how much she seems to hate herself.

  Like enjoying life for even a moment is a sin, a mistake, a vulnerability.

  I’m sizzling with rage, fuming fucking mad at how little she believes she deserves.

  And I’m not even thinking about the fucker she’s married to.

  It feels like she’s trapped herself. She’s imprisoned behind bars of her own making, the voice inside her head telling her she’s not good enough.

  Not strong enough.

  Not brave enough.

  “He’s broken you,” I say without thinking.

  Her blue eyes flash with anger. That little peace we found? It just fell off the edge.

  And broke into a million little shards.

  “Yeah?” she seethes. “Glad you could come all this way to point that out to me.”

  I wince. “Saoirse, I wasn’t trying…”

  “No, fuck you!” she snaps. “We can’t all be as brave and as strong as you, Cillian. We can’t all let pain rolls off our backs like it doesn’t fucking burn. We can’t all stare death in the face and keep our smile at the end of it. We don’t all get to escape to another country when shit gets hard.”

  “That’s not fucking fair.”

  “Finally caught on, have you?” she demands, throwing up her hands in frustration. “Life is not fair!”

  She strides over to the fire and kicks up a cloud of dust, destroying her drawing of me in the process.

  But I watch her face when she does it.

  And I see the truth.

  She hates herself for doing it. Her jaw tightens further every time she sees another graceful line disappearing into the dirt.

  But she does it to make a point. To prove to me just how little she thinks of her own talent.

  Or maybe to prove just how little any of it matters.

  Once the drawing is completely gone, she straightens up and turns to me, shrugging off my coat. She tosses it at me with her chest rising and falling rapidly. “I need you to take me back to my house. Now.”

  I look her dead in the eye. “No.”

  She may be stubborn.

  But I invented the fucking word.

  “No?” she balks.

  “That’s what I said,” I tell her calmly. “I’m not taking you back there. I’m not taking you back to that motherfucker.”

  “That’s not your call.”

  “I’ve just made it my call,” I reply. “Deal with it.”

  “Jesus, Cillian. You have enough on your plate with the Murtaghs and the Kinahans,” she points out. “You really wanna bring Tristan into this, too?”

  “I’ve always liked a challenge.”

  “This is not a game, Cillian.”

  “Wrong. That’s exactly what it is. And I intend to win it.”

  I grab my phone and check for cell phone reception. Like a gift from the heavens, I’ve got two full bars and an intermittent third. Good enough to get the job done.

  I send a text to Rory with my location and a request for a lift.

  He texts back almost immediately.

  Stay by the road. I’ll be there in half an hour.

  I turn around and realize that Saoirse has left me and she’s almost halfway to the Rolls.

  “Baothóg!” I curse under my breath as I start to run after her.

  Foolish fucking woman.

  It takes me only a minute to catch up to her despite the sleep-induced stiffness in my legs. When I do, I grab her by the shoulder and whirl her around.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I ask.

  “I’m going home,” she snaps instantly. “You can go wherever the hell you want.”

  “You’re actually going back to a man you don’t love, to continue a marriage you don’t want to be a part of?” I ask, more curious than angry at this moment.

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “You kinda do, if you expect me to let you go off by yourself.”

  She takes a step right up into my face. The fire in her eyes is back.

  And just like that, my cock’s hard again.

  “Let me?” she repeats furiously. “Let me?”

  “Saoirse—”

  “I am not yours to keep,” she hisses. “I am not yours to control. I am not yours to order around. For fuck’s sake, why do men think that’s their God-given right?”

  I reach out to calm her. But she swats my hands away as though she’s afraid of catching on fire.

  “No,” she spits at me. “You don’t have to save me, Cillian. Whatever notions you have about me being a damsel in distress, get rid of them now, because I don’t need a knight in shining armor.”

  “Good. I prefer Brioni suits.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Excuse me. I forgot this is all a big fucking joke to you.”

  “Things can be serious and funny at the same time,” I point out. “In fact, that’s pretty much the only way they can be.”

  “Screw you. Find something funny in that.”

  I have to try really hard to keep my smile from breaking through the surface. It’s kind of perverse how much I love fighting with her.

  I realize that it’s been years—over a decade—since I’ve had this kind of volatile back and forth.

  Since I’ve cared enough to have it.

  The women I’d been with in Los Angeles had fallen into my bed the moment I’d looked their way. Their panties were off when I smiled. The rest of it was fucking child’s play.

  But Saoirse…

  She’s the only woman I’ve come across who puts up a fight.

  Hell, she’s the kind of woman who’ll put up a fight even with her legs spread wide.

  I shake that thought out of my head. Mostly because I really don’t want to get any harder than I already am.

  She ignores the car when she reaches it and just starts walking up the road with a determined hitch in her step. I frown, following behind her at a relaxed pace.

  “Where exactly are you going?”

  “I’m gonna keep walking until someone drives by,” she snaps.

  “Sounds an awful lot like hitchhiking.�
�

  “That’s the plan, genius.”

  “What are you gonna tell your dearly beloved husband when you get home?” I ask. “Or are you just gonna waltz back into that holding cell like you never left?”

  She doesn’t answer, although her walk gets a little more aggressive.

  “Just curious,” I continue. “Not trying to tell you what to do or anything. I don’t want to control you.”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “Can’t help it,” I reply. “Part of the package.”

  She groans, but she doesn’t slow down. I’m not worried, though. It’s a long stretch of road with no end in sight. Rory will find us without a problem.

  “You realize you don’t have to follow me, right?”

  I grin even though she’s not looking at me. “I don’t mind. I like the view from back here.”

  She comes to an immediate stop.

  “Change of plans?” I ask innocently.

  “Cillian O’Sullivan,” she snaps, “I am not your problem.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” I retort.

  She frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She’s so riled up that she doesn’t even hear the sound of the car coming our way. She’s busy trying to remember why she’s staring daggers at me.

  And then it rounds the bend and catches her eye.

  Immediately, her expression floods with relief. She jumps onto the road and waves her hands frantically to stop the driver.

  Not that she needs to. This particular car was always going to stop for us.

  I’ll let her figure that out herself.

  Her hair swims around her face as though it’s got a life of its own. I just stand back and watch, marveling at the undeniable presence of her.

  I can spy Rory in the driver’s seat. He looks mildly amused to see me standing out on the roadside with such a crazed, fiery she-devil.

  As Saoirse runs to his window, he rolls it down.

  “Hey,” she says breathlessly. “Do you mind giving me a ride back into the city?”

  He smiles. “Not at all. Hop in.”

  “Thanks,” she says, rushing around the car so she can hop into the passenger seat.

  She’s so busy buzzing with relief that she doesn’t notice me clambering into the car from the other side.

  Only when our doors slam shut at the same time does she turn around and glare at me.

  “This is my ride.”

  I smirk. “Is it?” I ask before glancing at Rory. I lie across the backseat and kick my legs up so that my feet are leaning against Saoirse’s headrest. “Thanks for picking us up, man.”

  Her eyes go wide with shock as she starts to understand. “Wait… what?”

  She glances between Rory and me.

  “Not even two days back and you’ve already got drama with a girl,” Rory mutters, shaking his head at me. “Some things never change, eh?”

  “Oh my God,” Saoirse gasps. “You called him!”

  “I’m a knight in shining armor, remember?” I say, throwing her a wink. “Consider this my horse.”

  She groans and glances at Rory cautiously. “What are the chances of you letting me out of this car?”

  “Less than zero, love,” he replies without so much as glancing at her.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she scowls before twisting around in her seat, radiating fury. “You can’t just take me wherever you want! It’s called abduction.”

  “I see it more as a rescue operation.”

  “I told you before—I don’t need rescuing.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Why?” she demands. “Because you’re the big swinging dick in Ireland now?”

  “No,” I reply calmly, “because I have the ability to be objective here. And you do not.”

  “I know my own mind, asshole.”

  “Then tell me why you’re going back to an abusive, ungrateful motherfucker,” I say. “And don’t say you’re scared of him. Fear isn’t a good enough reason.”

  Rory must be listening and putting the pieces together, because he looks up at me in the rearview mirror with a panicked gleam in his eyes. “Cillian, tell me this isn’t Saoirse fucking Connelly.”

  I whistle, impressed. “Wow. Your reputation precedes you, Saoirse.”

  “Actually, this is about your fucking reputation, Cillian,” Rory balks, his tone shifting completely. “This is what got you driven out of Dublin in the first place!”

  “Careful, Rory. You’re starting to sound like Da.”

  “The clan needs a man like him.”

  I keep my feet up, but my tone drops an octave and gets icy-cold.

  “I’m not my father, Rory,” I growl. “Nor do I want to be. I may not be the don you’re used to, but I’m the one you’ve got. And for as long as that’s the case, you can keep your opinions to yourself. Is that understood?”

  I don’t blink. Don’t budge. I just stare at him in the mirror and show him with my shimmering eyes that I mean every fucking word of what I just said.

  “Yes, Don Cillian,” he replies softly. “I understand.”

  “Good man,” I say, relenting. “Now drive the fucking car.”

  36

  Saoirse

  The rest of the ride is more or less silent.

  There’s a strange new sense of formality in the air between the three of us. Rory’s eyes are trained on the road, his hands gripped around the steering wheel.

  He seems more reserved now. At least compared to his body language when I’d first gotten into the car.

  It’s amazing how, with only a few words, Cillian has managed to completely change the dynamic between them.

  Of course, you can’t really tell looking at Cillian.

  He’s still lounging in the back seat, his feet kicked up, his legs pressed up against my headrest. He’s humming something under his breath.

  Like we’re on a fucking road trip.

  The man is an enigma.

  * * *

  We end up in a part of Dublin that I’ve only ever heard about.

  It’s filled with lush trees and acres of greenery, not the shithole neighborhoods I grew up in, with crumbling houses stacked on top of each other and trash piling up on the curbs.

  The houses we pass are beautiful. In most cases, that word doesn’t even do them justice.

  I’m slightly confused when the houses fade away and nature takes over fully.

  “Where are we…?”

  And then I see it coming up at the end of the road.

  Large wrought iron gates so tall I can’t see beyond them. Rory gives a little honk as we approach and the gates part faster than I would have thought possible on smooth, silent hinges.

  We drive right through without slowing and onto a private driveway that leads to the most magnificent house I’ve ever seen.

  Actually, the word “house” falls far short of what the structure in front of me feels like.

  Palace?

  Mansion?

  Those words fit a little better.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been in a compound quite like this one. Quite apart from the building itself, every blade of grass in the surrounding gardens looks like it’s been placed there by an artist. Every leaf. Every petal of every flower.

  The attention to detail and the luxury are as stunning as they are overwhelming.

  Rory stops the vehicle in front of the main entrance. Only then are the doors unlocked.

  Cillian is the first one out, not bothering to even so much as glance back at us. But I linger in my seat.

  Rory turns to me, and I’m surprised to see that he looks concerned.

  “Are you okay, miss?”

  “I… I’m not sure.”

  He gives me a gentle smile. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about the O’Sullivan clan. But we don’t bite.”

  “Can you speak for him?” I ask, gesturing to Cillian, who’s up towards the front door.

  Rory smiles
. “Oh, that one? He definitely bites.” Then his smile softens. “Come on, love.”

  Left with no choice, I follow him out of the car and into the mansion.

  The interior is no less impressive than the façade. The ceilings are impossibly high, so much that I have to squint to see the polished rafters above. The floors at our feet are gleaming wood, rich and textured and scrubbed until I can practically see my own reflection.

  The walls are simple—an understated white—but that only serves to make everything adorning them look more glamorous. Art and exquisite wrought lamps and tiny carvings all along the crown molding.

  In the center of the main foyer, a chandelier dripping with jewels in sharp modern cuts reflects light in every direction.

  It’s a marvel.

  Cillian is standing off to the side, watching my fascination.

  “Is this really where you grew up?” I ask in awe.

  He looks around like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Seems a little over-the-top, doesn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  He nods. “You hungry?”

  “What?”

  “Are you hungry?” he asks slowly. “You probably haven’t eaten in a while.”

  He’s right. In fact, I think it’s been longer. I want to be able to turn him down, but now that hunger is a conscious thought, my stomach rumbles.

  “I can eat.”

  His grin gets a little wider as he gestures for me to follow him.

  He leads me through the broad curves of the house. And I realize that there seem to be few sharp angles that I can see. It’s like the entire place has been built in undulating hooks and arches.

  Maybe it was necessary, given all the glass and granite that I can see.

  The kitchen is predictably massive. There’s an insanely huge pantry off in one corner and the entire kitchen counter faces a set of white French doors. Beyond the open doors, a sloping garden ranges down towards a patio that overlooks the lake.

  “Goddamn,” I breathe, moving towards the French doors.

  A moment later, I feel Cillian at my shoulder. “I haven’t been able to appreciate this view in quite a while,” he admits. “In some ways, we’re seeing it together for the first time.”

  “Did you miss it?” I ask.

  “I missed the people more,” he tells me. “But yeah, I missed the place, too. More than I thought I would.”