Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  I look at him. At those beautiful light blue eyes. At the wavey sunshine gold of his curls.

  It’s so hard to lose myself to old memories when he’s this close. His mere presence is all-consuming. Like he’s crowding out the shadows with the force of his light.

  “Undeserving.”

  I don’t really think about my answer, so when it comes out, it takes me by surprise. I freeze for a moment, but it’s too late to take it back.

  “Undeserving?” Cillian echoes.

  “I… I don’t know why I said that,” I say quickly. “Um, I…”

  I can barely finish my sentence. All I can do is turn away from him to try and hide my scarlet face and my burgeoning sense of vulnerability.

  It’s his damn eyes.

  His damn intoxicating eyes.

  He grabs me by the hand before I reach the window. He swings me around and I almost collide into his chest, but he holds away at arm’s length.

  Almost as though the close proximity is making him just as nervous as it’s making me.

  Still, he doesn’t let go of my hand. “Saoirse, you deserve the whole fucking world,” he rasps. “You deserve a real fucking chance at a future. With the people you choose to include in it.”

  I shake my head. “I lost my chance at a real future when I chose to marry Tristan.”

  “You were forced to marry Tristan.”

  I sigh. “Maybe. But I made my bed.”

  “Fuck that,” Cillian growls, tugging on my hand a little so that I stumble closer to him. “And fuck him. He preyed on you when you were still a child and he made you feel like he was your only option in life. He’s a fucking predator and he needs to be put down.”

  “Cillian, no!” I gasp.

  His eyes focus on me. They grow cautious suddenly. “No?”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “If he’s gone, you’re free,” Cillian says quietly. “Unless… you… love him?”

  He says it like the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind until just now.

  “I don’t want you killing him for me,” I clarify. “I don’t want you getting involved.”

  “Why?” he demands. “Because this is the bed you made?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I rip my hand from his and turn away from him. Behind me, I feel him move closer, but he doesn’t touch me.

  There’s an invisible boundary between us. Even in the absence of tangible proof, I can feel it. It’s a barrier that’s built of lost time, old memories, and new circumstances.

  It’s built of all the things we’re keeping from each other.

  All the things we’re refusing to say out loud.

  All the secrets we’re still clinging to.

  “I’m gonna go ask Fiona to get breakfast ready,” he says, shifting gears abruptly enough to give me emotional whiplash.

  “Okay,” I reply with my back still to him.

  “There are clothes in the wardrobe behind you,” he says. “Take whatever you want.”

  That makes me turn around.

  I noticed the wardrobe yesterday, but I hadn’t had the interest or the inclination to examine my surroundings. I move forward now and throw open the doors, desperate for a distraction.

  “Whoa,” I breath, taking in the wealth of clothes sitting just inside.

  They’re all displayed on black hangers that in themselves look as expensive as anything I’ve ever owned.

  I glance back at Cillian, who’s observing me with an unknowable expression on his face. “You just had a fully stocked wardrobe waiting for me?”

  “It’s more like a preserved wardrobe,” he answers vaguely. “It’s been like this for years.”

  “Years?” I repeat with a frown. “Who do these clothes belong to?”

  When I don’t get an answer, I turn to Cillian, only to notice a veil has settled over his eyes.

  “Cillian?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not a story that concerns you.”

  Something about the way he says it hurts me.

  I realize that a naïve part of me just assumed that he trusts me enough to tell me anything. But of course he doesn’t trust me completely. He barely knows me.

  “Right, well… Fine. I’d like you to leave now,” I say bitterly.

  “Saoirse…”

  “Now. I’d like to be alone.”

  Cillian sighs and heads for the door. He lingers only a moment at the threshold.

  “You have freedom of the grounds. Go wherever you like. But just keep in mind, I can only protect you as long as you remain within the confines of this compound,” he tells me. “If you leave… I can’t guarantee your safety.”

  Then he leaves. The door clicks shut behind him with finality.

  Sunlight streams in through the open blinds.

  So why does it feel like the darkness has seeped back in?

  39

  Cillian

  The Garage Of The O’sullivan Manor

  I stand before the men.

  A few faces I recognize. But mostly, I’m staring out at a bunch of strangers. Men I’ve never spoken to. Never fought alongside.

  They are loyal to the O’Sullivan clan, but that just means they’re loyal to my father. To Kian.

  I’m the black sheep they’ve only ever heard whispered stories about.

  A whole different beast.

  My gaze skitters over their faces, trying to absorb as much information as I can without being obvious about it. I don’t know them and they don’t know me.

  The uncertainty in the air is almost tangible. It reminds me of just how important a don is.

  “The leader sets the tone for everything,” Da used to tell Sean and me when we were boys. “A leader is the difference between life and death.”

  I notice Kian enter the garage from the corner of my eye.

  I’m pretty damn sure the doctor told him—and I quote—to “stay the fuck in bed.” But we O’Sullivans were never much good at listening.

  He’s wearing a full leg cast from foot all the way up to his hip and is sporting dark wooden crutches. Every step draws a wince from him, though he steels his face against the pain.

  Other than that, the kid looks great.

  He moves forward slowly. The men part like the Red Sea. No one says a word as he limps determinedly towards where I stand up front.

  But instead of coming to my side like I expected, he turns to the left before he even reaches me.

  He goes to stand beside Rory and Rhys before focusing his gaze on me, as though he is merely another part of the rank and file.

  I give him a subtle glare. I know what he’s doing and even though I appreciate the gesture, it’s unnecessary.

  “Kian—”

  “Go ahead, Don Cillian,” he grits. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  He should be up here with me.

  Hell, he should be up here instead of me.

  But I know he’s not about to do something he thinks will upstage me. The men need to know where to look, and if he’s standing there next to me, they’ll be uncertain. Divided.

  So yeah, I get it.

  Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  “This is temporary,” I continue. “I’m not don. I’m just… acting don for the moment. Until we get back our leader—and we will get him back—think of me as a proxy. A blonder, taller, better-looking proxy.”

  That get a little laughter from the men.

  I take a breath and continue. “I’m not my father. I will do things differently. Prepare for that. But the one way I am similar to my father is this…” I let the smile drop from my face and the warmth fade from my tone so that’s all that remains is cold steel. “I expect loyalty.”

  I pause and survey their faces. The laughter is gone. In its place is quiet, tempered professionalism.

  These men have been to war for the clan before. They know what I mean when I say “loyalty.”

  “You are the men my father chos
e. And that makes me confident, because I know he trusted every single one of you. So I will do the same. All I ask in return is loyalty. You fight for me the same way you fought for my father, and I will protect you with my dying breath. I swear I will.”

  I let the words hang in the air for a moment longer. I make sure to look each man dead in the eye. Like I’m swearing an individual promise with each of them.

  “That will be all. Dismissed.”

  The men disperse at once.

  I watch as they go. I may not seem like I pay attention, but that’s part of the strategy. It’s easier to spot snakes in the grass when they’re not aware they’re being observed.

  Rory comes towards me, his expression slightly troubled.

  “That was a good speech,” he says.

  “You’re a shit liar, Rory.”

  He smiles. “You’re more like your father than you think.”

  “Let me be the first to tell you that’s not the compliment you think it is.”

  He chuckles and walks away, leaving my way clear to head over to Kian.

  “That was… almost inspired,” Kian says. “Did you plagiarize from someone?”

  “Look at you, using big words,” I shoot back. “Been reading the dictionary on the shitter?”

  Kian gives me a smile that’s reminiscent of—well, me.

  “Why do you look so fucking happy?” I demand.

  “What?” he asks innocently. “I can’t be happy to have my brother back?”

  I frown. “This is something else. You look… younger.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Kian says sarcastically. “I’ve heard that getting your leg shattered has been known to keep you youthful and vibrant.”

  Then it clicks into place.

  “You like not being the one in charge,” I surmise, zeroing in on the real reason behind his easy smile. “You like the spotlight on me.”

  Kian still looks a little too innocent as he shakes his head. “How dare you?”

  I stare at him for a few seconds and then burst into laughter. I lean against the wall and shake my head at the irony of it.

  Kian sighs, sets his crutches aside, and leans with a wince against the hood of the sheet-covered Lamborghini parked in the garage behind him.

  “You know something,” I say, gazing wistfully across the garage, “I was thinking earlier.”

  “That’s dangerous,” he teases. “Hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

  For once, I don’t take him up on the joke. “It was about Da’s legacy.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s always meant so much to him. He has three sons. And it seems none of them want the legacy he built. One disappeared of his own volition. The second was banished. And the third gave up a femur just to avoid being interim don.”

  Kian doesn’t bother to deny it. “It wasn’t the only reason I did it,” he says quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Does Da know?” I ask. “About how little you want to take over for him?”

  “Of course not,” he scoffs. “He sees only what he wants to see.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I reply. “There are two gravestones out back with the wrong names on the front.”

  Kian’s expression turns sheepish. Like he’d decided not to tell me and hoped I wouldn’t ever notice.

  “You saw that then?”

  “My first night here,” I confirm.

  “He did that a few months after you left.”

  “I didn’t leave,” I say harshly. “I was kicked out. I was fucking driven out.”

  “That’s not how Da saw it.”

  I frown. “Explain to me how Da saw it.”

  “Maybe it’s best if you and Da—"

  “Fucking hell, Kian,” I interrupt impatiently. “Don’t make me break your other leg.”

  He sighs. I can tell he doesn’t want to get into it with me. I know I’m being selfish about this.

  But I need to know. It’s an unanswered question that’s bugged me for the last thirteen fucking years.

  “Da… expected more from you,” Kian says without mincing his words. I appreciate the directness, but it still stings like a motherfucker. “He expected you to know the stakes. To act smarter. He felt you chose some random girl over the family.”

  My jaw twitches and I stiffen. “Is that honestly what he thought? What he still thinks?”

  Kian stays silent. He’s watching me like I’m a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.

  But it’s plenty of answer in itself.

  “I didn’t realize it was a choice between her and the family!” I exclaim, throwing my arms up in frustration.

  “It was the Kinahans, Cillian,” Kian says slowly. “It was Brody fucking Murtagh. You stood between them and the girl.”

  “Her name is Saoirse. Not ‘the girl.’”

  “I know what her name is,” Kian says. “Just like I know she’s on the compound right now, under your protection. Again.”

  I jerk my chin up. “You’re saying I should have left her in that cell?”

  “I’m not saying that at all.” Kian sounds affronted by the very notion. “I’m just saying, your priorities were different than Da’s back then. They still are. That’s not necessary a bad thing. It just means that the two of you are not seeing eye to eye. You may never see eye to eye.”

  “And what do you think?” I press. “Do you think that I don’t have my priorities straight?”

  “Does it matter what I think?”

  “To me, it does.”

  Kian nods slowly. “I’ve never been in love,” he says after a long pause. “But I think that if I were—if I felt the things you felt, the things you feel—I would’ve done the same.”

  I stare at him.

  As I do, I lose the boy for a moment.

  I see instead the man that he’s become.

  I couldn’t be prouder. He’s the best of all of us. The best of Ma and Da. The best of Sean and me. The best of all the people we’ve lost along the way.

  In some ways, he is the perfect don.

  Except that he doesn’t want to be.

  “You’re gonna make a fine leader one day, little brother,” I say. “In fact, I think you already are.”

  He snorts. “Don’t ruin the fucking moment and get all sentimental on me.”

  “I’m serious,” I insist. “Maybe things happened the way they were meant to.”

  Kian gives me a secretive smile. “I think we’re talking about very different situations here, Cil.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you’re back,” he says. “That is the right outcome for this family.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask. “I’m here to resolve shit with Ma and Da. This business with the Kinahans threw a spanner in the works. But once I remove and destroy the fucking spanner, I’m going back home.”

  “Home?”

  “Home,” I underscore. “Los Angeles is my home now, Kian. This visit is temporary. I’m going back to the States and when I do, I won’t ever return here.”

  Kian shrugs. “If that’s what you believe.”

  “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?’

  “Acting like you know me better than me.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  I roll my eyes. “Do I need to remind you that I’m eight years older?”

  “No argument there. You’re eight years older and you definitely look it. I’ve just had a lot of fucking time to analyze all the family drama that led us to this moment.”

  “Is that so?” I ask. “And what conclusion have you come to, Oh Wise One?”

  He smiles. “That you got it wrong before. It’s not true.”

  “What’s not true?”

  “That none of Da’s sons want to be don,” Kian points out.

  I frown.

  “You said it yourself, Cillian. Sean left. I was the only remaining option. But you were the one who was banished outright. You left because you were forced to.”


  I stare at him furiously.

  Because he’s right. He’s fucking right.

  I never wanted to leave Dublin.

  I never wanted to leave the family.

  “See?” Kian says with a smile. “I’m the good looks and the brains in the family.”

  For once, I don’t have a witty comeback.

  40

  Saoirse

  I feel like an intruder. A dirty little nobody who’s been dropped into the lap of luxury.

  I can feel the walls staring at me, judging me, accusing me.

  You don’t belong here.

  We can smell it on you, wafting out of your pores.

  Sweat. Poverty. Pain.

  The stink of the working class.

  I did think about sticking to my room, but an hour on my own disabused me of that plan.

  I’ve spent my entire life trapped. For as long as this bizarre fever dream lasts, I might as well explore.

  I start with the floor I’m on.

  The house is luxe and modern. But sporadic elements scattered throughout help temper the cold austereness of the sea of glass and granite.

  The wooden floors stretch endlessly in every direction, gleaming under the light of chandeliers suspended from the barn beam rafters high above. Lush Turkish carpets soften the severity and add washes of color here and there.

  The walls are adorned with violently spiky, abstract paintings. The kind that scream, “This is expensive,” with the ornate frames to match.

  I wander among everything slowly, taking it all in. It’s a far cry from the garbage heap I grew up in.

  I dip in and out of the rooms. Libraries, studies—even a fucking aquarium, to my surprise. I’m mostly content to just look a little and then keep moving.

  But one of the rooms draws my attention.

  It’s a broad, circular space centered around a huge grand piano. I pause in the doorway and look at it reverently.

  When I was eight, I’d desperately wanted to learn how to play. But of course, there wasn’t enough money for classes.

  “Piano?” Pa had repeated incredulously when I’d asked. “What use would that be to you? It’s a waste of time and money. A useless skill for the rich.”

  “I could make music, Pa,” I’d replied. Like that was something worthwhile. Something precious.