Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

We don’t have a fucking prayer. Which is probably why the Kinahans don’t seem in a hurry to start the fight.

  They’re the types who want to play with their food before they eat.

  If that’s the case, they’ll find that I’m poison.

  I hear movement behind me, the scraping scratch of one dragging foot. I glance to the side and spot Kian, stepping into place by my side.

  “Are you fucking serious?” I growl, giving him some major side eye.

  He gives me a noncommittal shrug. “You need all the help you can get.”

  I can’t help but glance back towards the window where I left Saoirse. I only allow myself two seconds to look and in that time, I don’t manage to spot her.

  “You’re just gonna die with the rest of us,” I hiss.

  Kian smiles. “Always wanted a glorious death.”

  “What’s glorious about this?” I demand.

  “Fighting alongside my big brother is as glorious as it gets.”

  “Jesus,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re a big fucking softie.”

  “Wonder where I get it from,” he drawls.

  I almost smile. Then I notice the line in front of us start to part slowly to allow someone to pass through.

  “Who is this?” I whisper under my breath.

  The man that emerges from behind the Kinahan line is almost as tall as I am, but he’s slightly hunched so he appears shorter.

  He’s bulky on top, but his narrow waist and tapered legs make him look almost comical. All top-heavy. Hulking.

  And fucking grotesque.

  Half his face is melted, disjointed, and frozen in place. Like someone smashed it to bits and rearranged it again with a blindfold on.

  “Fuck me,” Kian wheezes, his eyes going wide.

  “Do we know this guy?” I ask.

  Kian looks at me in shock. Maybe the expression in his eyes is what makes me realize that I do know this guy.

  Of course I do.

  “Brody fucking Murtagh,” I whisper.

  The boy—though he’s a man now, I suppose—walks forward until he’s standing just a few feet away. His dark eyes run over me as though the very fact that I’m standing straight makes him resentful.

  It appears the rumors are true.

  Brian Murtagh has sculpted the broken remnants of his son into a monster.

  “Cillian O’Sullivan,” Brody says, breaking the pregnant silence. His voice is as hideous as the rest of him. Like dragging shattered glass over concrete.

  “Brody, mate,” I say casually. “Long time no see. How’ve you been?”

  Kian glances at me as though I’ve gone mad. But I can’t help it. I was never one for gravitas. Especially in situations that call for it.

  Always feels a bit too heavy-handed.

  “You stole years of my life,” he growls, ignoring my chipper question. “And when I did finally wake up, I couldn’t walk or stand or talk.”

  I nod sympathetically. “Given that you never had much worthwhile to say, I’d say I did all the people around you a favor.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Kian hisses quietly to me.

  Brody’s face darkens, twists. He definitely can’t fight. He may have gained his wits back. But the capabilities of his physical body are limited.

  Which means he’s only here to give orders.

  He’s here to watch me die.

  “You’re going to die today, Cillian O’Sullivan,” snarls Brody. “You and every single man and woman who fights for you.”

  “I’m flattered you came all the way down here to tell me that.”

  He laughs. At least, I think it’s a laugh. But it’s even worse than his speaking voice. The same broken glass quality, but this time like it’s been chucked in a blender and cranked to high. Makes my fucking skin crawl.

  “Is it true? You came back to Ireland for her?”

  “I came back for my family,” I correct.

  He smiles, but the effect on his half-melted face makes it look more like a grimace.

  “I was surprised to learn that one of our men married the bitch,” he says. “I always knew she’d come in handy one day.”

  “I bet she will. Could help you get stuff off the low shelf, for example, you broke-backed motherfucker.”

  He laughs again and I immediately regret the joke because fuck me that is a godawful sound.

  “Once I’ve killed all your men and dragged her down here, you can watch,” he promises me. “You can watch as I fuck her. And when I’m done with her, Tristan can fuck her. And when he’s done, I’ll hand her over to every single man standing behind me now.”

  I feel sick to my stomach. Sweating with fury and adrenaline.

  But it’s not time to strike.

  Not yet.

  “You can watch it all,” he continues. “And while she’s screaming and begging and pleading for it to stop, you’re going to wish that you just let me fuck her thirteen years ago. It’s time you learned your place.”

  Hot, black rage courses through my veins, and I genuinely feel like I can take them all on single-handedly if it means saving Saoirse from the fate he’s describing.

  “I asked her to leave,” Kian whispers to me again. “She’s probably already gone.”

  I know he’s trying to comfort me. But I also know Saoirse.

  She’d never leave.

  I can still feel her presence up behind that window, watching this all unfold, completely oblivious to the fate that awaits her if we lose.

  Or maybe not oblivious. Maybe she just doesn’t care anymore.

  But I still care. Especially because “when we lose” is seeming a lot more apt than “if we lose.”

  I won’t give up just yet, though. Not when I know what’s at stake.

  I have to win.

  Somehow.

  Somehow.

  “Well, come on then, Brody. Let’s settle this like men. Rock-paper-scissors?”

  “You’re not as funny as you think you are, O’Sullivan.”

  I sigh and let my hand fall by my side. “No one ever wants to settle anything with rock-paper-scissors,” I say sadly. “Big waste of effort to do things the hard way, if you ask me. But fine, fine—have it your way. Fight to the death it is. Boring, but whatever. I just hope it goes better than last time we did this.”

  He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “I don’t make deals with dead men,” he intones. “I’m just here to watch the show.”

  He turns and starts walking back to his men, but he makes sure to give his instructions loud enough for us to hear.

  “Kill everyone. But leave Cillian and the girl alive. I want to give them a show when it’s done.”

  I glance to either side of me as my men get closer. “Let’s go down fighting, my brothers,” I snarl.

  Just as we raise our guns, however, something drops in the empty space between us and the Kinahan troops.

  What the—

  “Is that a smoke bomb?” Kian asks incredulously.

  And right on cue, the bomb detonates with a soft pop, so quiet it’s almost cute. Smoke billows up into the space between us—a massive, noxious curtain of it that obscures us from the Kinahan.

  Then we’re engulfed by men pouring out from the castle doors. I brace for the unexpected assault, ready to die before I even had the chance to pull the trigger.

  But oddly enough, these masked men seem to form a shield wall around us.

  Like they’re… protecting us.

  I turn to take a good look at the armed men in full riot gear. They’re definitely not O’Sullivan troops.

  But they are very fucking familiar.

  I stare at the tall figure who materializes in front of me. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I whisper.

  Artem laughs. “Not quite. But I can see why you’d make that mistake.”

  58

  Cillian

  “So, nothing’s going on in your part of the world, eh?” Artem drawls.

  “That’s not exactly what
I said,” I argue. “How the fuck are you even here?”

  “Really? You wanna have a little catch-up chat in the middle of a fucking battle?”

  “Fair point. Let’s kill these fuckers and then talk. Me first.”

  A few of the Kinahans have clearly been instructed to run through the smoke to try and get to us. Clearly, they assume that the smoke is merely a diversion for us to escape.

  So a few of them look fucking shell-shocked when they pass through the smoke to see a whole army still waiting for them on the other side.

  The smoke’s clearing now, though. No more waiting. Time to act.

  I spot Brody Murtagh.

  He’s standing on the runner board of one of the jeeps, his head raised above the roof so that he can see past the ranks of his own men.

  He’s well-protected, ensconced behind a group of armed guards.

  But I notice the uncertain glint in his eye as he realizes that the playing field is now far more even.

  I charge forward, letting my bullets fly free through the air. I kill three Kinahan men before reaching their broken defense line.

  I’ve already lost track of Artem, not to mention Kian. But now that I’ve got eyes on Murtagh, I don’t want to let him slip through my fingers.

  If I kill this motherfucker once and for all, I defang the snake.

  And the Kinahan mafia will be left flailing once again.

  Two Kinahan fuckers approach me. One fires while the second tries a more personal approach. I manage to dodge the bullet and somersault over the second one before he lands a punch.

  I twist around long enough to fire two bullets at both of them before tearing forward, straight for Brody’s jeep.

  And then something catches my eye.

  Or rather, someone catches my eye.

  Tristan is trying desperately to avoid being seen as he ducks behind one of the other jeeps.

  Except that he’s one lonely man who doesn’t seem keen on the fight. That makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

  I glance towards Brody’s jeep, weighing my options, and then I make an executive decision.

  Tristan dies first.

  Brody can wait his turn.

  Decision made, I change trajectory and sprint for the jeep behind which Tristan is hiding.

  Even as I approach, I can see him desperately loading up his gun.

  The moment I turn the corner, he raises the gun and fires predictably. I jump forward and land on my side on the ground with my arms raised.

  As I go, I fire twice. The first bullet misses, but the second one buries itself in his thigh.

  I bound back to my feet instantly and spring forward, feeling satisfaction surging in my veins.

  Tristan tries to raise his gun despite the pain crippling him, but I get to him before he can level it at me.

  I step on the offending hand as hard as I can. Bones crack under my boot. While he screams, I kick his gun away.

  “Were you going somewhere?” I ask casually.

  I can hear the chaos raging behind me. Gunshots, screams, grunts of exertion, and moans of pain. It’s all white noise to me now. My full attention is on the pathetic worm at my feet.

  “Fuck you, motherfucker,” he hurls at me.

  Because really, what else does he have? He can only hope to fling a few weak insults my way.

  “Any last words?” I ask.

  “Brody will fucking kill you.”

  I smile. “He’s welcome to try. But I think you’ll find I’m like a cat. Got nine lives. I’ve used a few already, but I have plenty left to spare.”

  “It won’t matter,” he snarls, looking at me with eyes that betray his fear.

  He can see his death in my face and he knows there’s no escape now.

  “I’m under her skin and in her head,” Tristan continues. “I’m watching her. I’ve always been watching her and I always will be.”

  “The dead don’t see.”

  “I will live on,” he insists. “I’m inside Saoirse. She’ll never be able to truly be happy with you. I’ve imprinted myself in her fucking skin.”

  “You’re right,” I concede, squatting to the ground in front of him and putting my gun down for a moment.

  He eyes it warily, but he doesn’t make a move towards it. At least he’s smart enough to know that that would be pointless.

  “I’ve seen her scars,” I tell him, pulling out the knife I keep concealed in my boot. “I’ve seen every single fucking scar you’ve inflicted on that perfect body of hers.”

  His eyes go wide, locked on the blade dancing between my fingers.

  “And unfortunately for you, I’ve always believed in poetic justice,” I inform him in a level voice at the same time that I seize his forearm and slice it from wrist to elbow.

  He screams and tries to pull away, but he’s too fucking weak. Blood is getting everywhere, muddying the dirt.

  But I’m far from done.

  “The harder you struggle, the worse it’s going to be,” I soothe. “Just relax. Accept it.”

  I continue to slice across his body, mimicking the scars and wounds I’d seen on Saoirse’s body.

  “This is my love letter to Saoirse,” I tell him, as he continues to scream and yell and squirm beneath my knee on his chest. “I’m a romantic at heart. Not many people know that about me.”

  By the time I get to his stomach, he’s a blubbering mess and the light is starting to fade from his eyes.

  The angry, confident man who’d boomed my name in the courtyard a scant while ago has all but disappeared.

  What I have before me is a dead man breathing.

  “There,” I say, rising to my feet and taking a step back. “My finest work yet.”

  I can only see the whites of his wide eyes as he watches me back away from him.

  “Ki… kill me…” he begs.

  “I already have,” I tell him. “I’d guess you’ve got no more than ten minutes. But that’s a gift, my friend. That’s ten minutes you can use to think about Saoirse and all the evil shit you did to that girl. And as for Saoirse, don’t worry about her in the slightest. I plan on fucking your memory right out of her. In fact… I’ve already started the healing process.”

  I spit on the writhing motherfucker.

  “She screamed my name the last time she came,” I continue, relishing the expression on his bloodied face. “So I think she’s making real progress.”

  Then I turn and walk away from him.

  Better that he dies on his own.

  Do I feel guilty? Remorseful? Squeamish?

  Fuck no.

  I feel fucking alive.

  And there’s no reason to waste that feeling. Which is why I start scanning the war zone for the other man of the hour.

  Brody fucking Murtagh.

  I don’t have to look long to locate him. He’s the most heavily-guarded, the one starting to realize that he might very well lose this particular battle.

  As I hunt, he gets into the vehicle with a handful of his men.

  He’s trying to escape. And no one has realized it but me.

  I make another executive decision.

  There’s no fucking way I’m letting the man behind all this shit flee. If he lives, this will continue. We’ll be locked in a never-ending cycle until either I’m dead or he is.

  And I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.

  Time for action, then.

  I run forward and aim at the tires of Brody’s getaway jeep. Then I start firing.

  I keep firing even when my bullets meet their target. I don’t stop until the jeep has skidded to a complete stop.

  I notice a few Kovalyov men who’ve just finished gutting a couple of Kinahans and I signal them over. They fall in behind me instantly as they reload their guns.

  The Kinahan security detail exits the lifeless vehicle and runs screaming for the hills—only to be gunned down in their tracks by my impromptu firing squad.

  But Brody stays inside in his protective cocoon.


  “What’s the matter, Brody?” I ask, raising my voice to make sure all his men can hear. “What’re you doing hiding in there? It’s easy to talk big when you’ve got numbers on your side, huh? Because you’re awfully quiet now that the field is level.”

  I can feel someone move forward to my side. I don’t have to glance his way to know it’s Artem.

  The fight is all but over.

  We’ve almost won.

  “Where’s Kian?” I ask, realizing that I can’t spot my brother in the small army of men behind Artem and I.

  “Inside,” Artem answers. “He’s unconscious, but he’ll be okay.”

  I have to content myself with that for the time being. I can’t allow myself to get distracted.

  I walk around to the jeep and swing the door wide open. Brody is in the backseat. He’s turned an unattractive shade of purple and he’s looking at me like a caged beast.

  Nowhere to run.

  Nowhere to hide.

  No one to save him.

  I raise my gun and look him right in the eye. “You should’ve stayed dead,” I say with a grim smile.

  Then I pull the trigger.

  Epilogue: Cillian

  Six Months Later

  I fasten the silver cufflinks Ma gifted me a few days ago and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Damn,” I say. “I look fucking good.”

  My little brother rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t I be the one complimenting you?”

  I smile and turn around. “Go right ahead,” I offer, raising my arms to showcase the impeccably tailored black suit I’m wearing.

  Italian-made. Paired with German hand-crafted shoes.

  Or maybe it’s the other way around. Can’t quite remember.

  “You look like the best-dressed waiter in the room,” Kian quips with an evil grin.

  He’s dressed in a navy-blue suit with a razor-thin black tie. His outfit choice is understated, but he looks sharp.

  He also looks better than I’ve ever seen him.

  Probably because, six months after everything that happened at the castle in Crannagogue, all external threats to the clan have been more or less eviscerated.

  Which means that Kian’s had time to heal.

  He no longer walks with a limp. All his wounds have long since scarred over or vanished altogether.