Nolan: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Dangerous Doms)

by Jane Henry

  “Keenan.” I’m so in my head, I don’t notice Father Finn standing in the darkened doorway to our meeting room. He’s wearing his collar, and his black priest’s clothes are neatly pressed, the overhead light gleaming on his shiny black shoes. Though he’s dressed for the day, his eyes are tired. It seems Boner isn’t the only one who’s pulled an all-nighter.

  “Father.”

  Though Father Finn’s my father’s younger brother, I’ve never called him uncle. My mother taught me at a young age that a man of the cloth, even kin, is to be addressed as Father. It doesn’t surprise me to see him here. He’s as much a part of the McCarthy family as my father is, and he’s privy to much, though not all, of what we do. It troubles him, though, as he’s never reconciled his loyalty to the church and to our family.

  Shorter than I am, he’s balding, with curls of gray at his temples and in his beard. The only resemblance between the two of us are the McCarthy family green eyes.

  Vicar of Holy Family, the church that stands behind my family’s estate, Father Finn’s association with the McCarthy Clan is only referenced by the locals in hushed conversation. Officially, he’s only my uncle. Privately, he’s our most trusted advisor. If Father Finn’s come to this meeting, he’s got news for us.

  He holds the door open to my father’s office, and when I enter I see my father’s already sitting at the table. He’s only called the inner circle this morning, those related by blood: Nolan and Cormac, my brothers, Boner, Father Finn, and me. If necessary, we’ll call the rest of The Clan to council after our first meeting.

  “Boys,” my father says, nodding to Nolan, Boner, and me in greeting.

  My father sits at the head of the table, his back ramrod straight, the tips of his fingers pressed together as if in prayer. At sixty-three years old, he’s only two years away from retirement as Chief, though he keeps himself in prime physical shape. With salt and pepper hair at his temples, he hasn’t gone quite as gray as his younger brother. He jokes it’s mam that keeps him young, and I think there’s a note of truth in it. My mother ten years his junior, they’ve been wed since their arranged marriage thirty-three years ago. I was their firstborn, Cormac the second, and Nolan the third, though my father’s made mention of several girls born before me that never made it past infancy. My mother won’t talk of them, though. I wonder if the little graves that lie in the graveyard at Holy Family are the reason for the lines around my mother’s bright gray eyes. I may never know.

  I take my seat beside my father, and pierce Nolan and Boner with stern looks. Boner’s fucking right. Nolan’s eyes are bloodshot and glassy, and I notice he wobbles a little when he sits at the table. Irishmen are no strangers to drink, and we’re no exception, but I worry Nolan’s gone to the extreme. I make a mental note to talk to him about this later. I won’t tolerate him fucking up our jobs because he can’t stay sober. I watch him slump to the table and clear my throat. His eyes come to mine. I shake my head and straighten my shoulders. Nodding, he sits up straighter.

  Cormac, the middle brother, sits to my left and notices everything. Six foot five, he’s the giant of our group, and, appropriately, our head Bonebreaker. With a mop of curly, dark brown hair and a heavy beard, he looks older than his twenty-five years.

  He nods to me and I to him. We’ll talk about our concerns about Nolan later, not in the presence of our father. Or any of the others, really.

  “Thank you for coming so early, boys,” my father begins, scrubbing a hand across his forehead. I notice a tremor in his hand I’ve never noticed before and stifle a sigh. He’s getting older.

  “It came to my attention early this morning that Father Finn has something to relay to us of importance.” He fixes Boner and Nolan with an unwavering look. “And since some of you haven’t gone to bed yet, I figured we should strike while the iron’s hot, so to speak.”

  I can’t help but smirk when Nolan and Boner squirm. When Boner’s father passed, one of the few gone rogue in our company, my father took Boner under his wing and treated him as one of his own. I love the motherfucker like a brother myself. Though he’s got a touch of the class clown in him, he’s as loyal as they come and as quick with a knife draw as any I’ve seen, his aim at the shooting range spot-on. He’s an asset to The Clan in every way. When he’s fucking sober, anyway.

  Now, under both my gaze and my father’s, he squirms a little. My father keeps tabs on everyone here, Boner no exception.

  “I think it best I let the Father speak for himself, since he needs to leave early to celebrate mass.” None of us so much as blink, the Father’s duties as commonplace as a shopping list. We’re used to the juxtaposition of his duties to God’s people and to us. We have long since accepted it as a way of life. He has a certain code he doesn’t break, though, and out of respect for him, we keep many of the inner workings of The Clan from him. We give generously to the church, and though God himself may not see our donations as any sort of indulgence, the people of Holy Family and Ballyhock certainly do.

  Father Finn sits on my father’s left, his heavy gray brows drawn together.

  “Thank you, Seamus.” He and my mother are the only ones who call my dad his Christian name. Finn speaks in a soft, gentle tone laced with steel: a man of God tied by blood to the Irish mob.

  My father nods and sits back, his gaze fixed on his younger brother.

  Father clears his throat. “I have news regarding the… arms deal you’ve been working on for some time.”

  My father doesn’t blink, and I don’t make eye contact with any of my brothers. We’ve never discussed our occupations with Father so out in the open like this, but like our father, he sees all. The church he oversees is sandwiched between our mansion that overlooks the bay to the east, and Ballyhock’s armory to the west. Still, his blatant naming of our most lucrative endeavor is unprecedented.

  Though we dabble in many things, we have two main sources of income in The McCarthy Clan: arms trafficking and loansharking. Though neither are legal, Father Finn’s insisted we keep out of the heavier sources of income our rival clan, the Martins from the south, dabble in. They’re known for extortion, heroin imports and far more contracted hits than we’ve ever done. Rivals since before my parents married, we’ve held truce ever since my father took the throne. Both his father and our rival’s former chief were murdered by the American mafia; the dual murders formed a truce we’ve upheld since then.

  “Go on,” my father says.

  Father Finn clears his throat a second time. “There’s no need to pretend I don’t know where you’re planning to get your bread and butter,” he says in his soft voice. “Especially since I’ve advised you from the beginning.”

  My father nods, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. His brother takes his time when relaying information, and my father’s not a patient man. “Go on,” my father repeats, his tone harder this time.

  “The Martins are behind the theft of your most recent acquisitions,” he says sadly, as he knows theft from The Clan is an act of war. “Their theft is only the beginning, however. It was a plot to undermine you. They fully plan on sub-contracting your arms trafficking by summer. They have a connection nearby that’s given them inside information, and I know where that inside information came from.”

  Boner cracks his knuckles, ready to fight. Nolan’s suddenly sober, and I can feel Cormac’s large, muscled body tense beside me. My own stomach clenches in anticipation. They’re preparing to throw the gauntlet, which would bring our decades-long truce to a decided and violent end.

  “Where would that be?” I ask.

  Finn clears his throat again. “I’m not at liberty to give you all the details I know,” he begins.

  Boner glares at him. “Why the fuck not? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The Father holds up a hand, begging patience.

  “Enough, Boner,” I order. There’s an unwritten rule in my family that we don’t press the Father for information he doesn’t offer. I suspect he occasionally relays in
formation granted him in the privacy of the confessional, something he’d consider gravely sinful. Father Finn is a complex man. We take the information he gives us and piece the rest together ourselves.

  “I can give you some, however,” the Father continues. “I believe you’ll find what you need at the lighthouse.”

  I feel my own brows pull together in confusion.

  “The lighthouse?” Nolan asks. “Home of the old mentaller who kicked it?”

  “Jack Anderson,” the Father says tightly.

  The eccentric old man, the lighthouse keeper, took a heart attack last month, leaving Ballyhock without a keeper. Someone spotted his body on the front green of the lighthouse and went to investigate. He was already dead.

  Since the lighthouses are now operated digitally, no longer in need of a keeper, the town hasn’t hired a replacement. Most lighthouse keepers around these parts are kept on more for the sake of nostalgia than necessity.

  The man we’re talking of, who lived in the lighthouse to the north of our estate, was out of his mind. He would come into town only a few times a year to buy his stores, then live off the dry goods he kept at his place. He had no contact with the outside world except for this foray into town and the library, and when he came, he reminded one of a mad scientist. Hailing from America, he looked a bit like an older, heavier version of Einstein with his wild, unkempt white hair and tattered clothing. He muttered curse words under his breath, walked with a manky old walking stick, and little children would scatter away from him when he came near. He always carried a large bag over his shoulder, filled with books he’d replenish at the library.

  Father Finn doesn’t reply to Nolan at first, holding his gaze. “Aren’t we all a little mental, then, Nolan?” he asks quietly. Nolan looks away uncomfortably.

  “Suppose,” he finally mutters.

  The Father sighs. “That’s all I can tell you, lads. It’s enough to go on. If you’re to secure your arms deals, and solidify the financial wellbeing of The Clan, and most importantly, keep the peace here in Ballyhock, then I advise you to go at once to the lighthouse.” He gets to his feet, and my father shakes his hand. I get to my feet, too, but it isn’t to shake his hand. I’ve got questions.

  “Was the lighthouse keeper involved?” I ask. “Was he mates with our rivals? What can we possibly find at the lighthouse?”

  Inside the lighthouse? I’ve never even thought of there being anything inside the small lighthouse. There had to be, though. The old man lived there for as long as I can remember. There’s no house on property save a tiny shed that couldn’t hold more than a hedge trimmer.

  My father holds a hand up to me, and Cormac mutters beside me, “Easy, Keenan.”

  Father Finn’s just dropped the biggest bomb he’s given us yet, and they expect me just to sit and nod obediently?

  “You know more, Father,” I say to him. “So much more.”

  Father Finn won’t meet my eyes, but as he goes to leave, he speaks over his shoulder. “Go to the lighthouse, Keenan. You’ll find what you need there.”

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  The Bratva’s Baby (Wicked Doms)

  Kazimir

  The wrought iron park bench I sit on is ice cold, but I hardly feel it. I’m too intent on waiting for the girl to arrive. The Americans think this weather is freezing, but I grew up in the bitter cold of northern Russia. The cold doesn’t touch me. The ill-prepared people around me pull their coats tighter around their bodies and tighten their scarves around their necks. For a minute, I wonder if they’re shielding themselves from me, and not the icy wind.

  If they knew what I’ve done… what I’m capable of… what I’m planning to do… they’d do more than cover their necks with scarves.

  I scowl into the wind. I hate cowardice.

  But this girl… this girl I’ve been commissioned to take as mine. Despite outward appearances, she’s no coward. And that intrigues me.

  Sadie Ann Warren. Twenty-one years old. Fine brown hair, plain and mousy but fetching in the way it hangs in haphazard waves around her round face. Light brown eyes, pink cheeks, and full lips.

  I wonder what she looks like when she cries. When she smiles. I’ve never seen her smile.

  She’s five-foot-one and curvy, though you wouldn’t know it from the way she dresses in thick, bulky, black and gray muted clothing. I know her dress size, her shoe size, her bra size, and I’ve already ordered the type of clothing she’ll wear for me. I smile to myself, and a woman passing by catches the smile. It must look predatory, for her step quickens.

  Sadie’s nondescript appearance makes her easily meld into the masses as a nobody, which is perhaps exactly what she wants.

  She has no friends. No relatives. And she has no idea that she’s worth millions.

  Her boss, the ancient and somewhat senile head librarian of the small-town library where she works won’t even realize she hasn’t shown up for work for several days. My men will make sure her boss is well distracted yet unharmed. Sadie’s abduction, unlike the ones I’ve orchestrated in the past, will be an easy one. If trouble arises eventually, we’ll fake her death.

  It’s almost as if it was meant to be. No one will know she’s gone. No one will miss her. She’s the perfect target.

  I sip my bitter, steaming black coffee and watch as she makes her way up to the entrance of the library. It’s eight-thirty a.m. precisely, as it is every other day she goes to work. She arrives half an hour early, prepares for the day, then opens the doors at nine. Sadie is predictable and routinized, and I like that. The trademark of a woman who responds well to structure and expectations. She’ll easily conform to my standards… eventually.

  To my left, a small cluster of girls giggles but quiets when they draw closer to me. They’re college-aged, or so. I normally like women much younger than I am. They’re more easily influenced, less jaded to the ways of men. These women, though, are barely women. Compared to Sadie’s maturity, they’re barely more than girls. I look away, but can feel their eyes taking me in, as if they think I’m stupid enough to not know they’re staring. I’m wearing a tan work jacket, worn jeans, and boots, the ones I let stay scuffed and marked as if I’m a construction worker taking a break. With my large stature, I attract attention of the female variety wherever I go. It’s better I look like a worker, an easy role to assume. No one would ever suspect what my real work entails.

  The girls pass me and it grates on my nerves how they resume their giggling. Brats. Their fathers shouldn’t let them out of the house dressed the way they are, especially with the likes of me and my brothers prowling the streets. It’s freezing cold and yet they’re dressed in thin skirts, their legs bare, open jackets revealing cleavage and tight little nipples showing straight through the thin fabric of their slutty tops. My palm itches to spank some sense into their little asses. I flex my hand.

  It’s been way, way too long since I’ve had a woman to punish.

  Control.

  Master.

  These girls are too young and silly for a man like me.

  Sadie is perfect.

  My cock hardens with anticipation, and I shift on my seat.

  I know everything about her. She pays her meager bills on time, and despite her paltry wage, contributes to the local food pantry with items bought with coupons she clips and sale items she purchases. Money will never be a concern for her again, but I like that she’s fastidious. She reads books during every free moment of time she has, some non-fiction, but most historical romance books. That amuses me about her. She dresses like an amateur nun, but her heroines dress in swaths of silk and jewels. She carries a hard-covered book with her in the bag she holds by her side, and guards it with her life. During her break time, before bed, and when she first wakes up in the morning, she writes in it. I don’t know yet what she writes, but I will. She does something with needles and yarn, knitting or something. I enjoy watching her weave fabric with the vibrant threads.

  She fidgets when she’s near a man, especi
ally attractive, powerful men. Men like me.

  I’ve never seen her pick up a cell phone or talk to a friend. She’s a loner in every sense of the word.

  I went over the plan again this morning with Dimitri.

  Capture the girl.

  Marry her.

  Take her inheritance.

  Get rid of her.

  I swallow another sip of coffee and watch Sadie through the sliding glass doors of the library.Today she’s wearing an ankle-length navy skirt that hits the tops of her shoes, and she’s wrapped in a bulky gray cardigan the color of dirty dishwater. I imagine stripping the clothes off of her and revealing her creamy, bare, unblemished skin. My dick gets hard when I imagine marking her pretty pale skin. Teeth marks. Rope marks. Reddened skin and puckered flesh, christened with hot wax and my palm. I’ll punish her for the sin of hiding a body like hers. She won’t be allowed to with me.

  She’s so little. So virginal. An unsullied canvas.

  “Enjoy your last taste of freedom, little girl,” I whisper to myself before I finish my coffee. I push myself to my feet and cross the street.

  It’s time she met her future master.

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  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Jane Henry pens stern but loving alpha heroes, feisty heroines, and emotion-driven happily-ever-afters. She writes what she loves to read: kink with a tender touch. Jane is a hopeless romantic who lives on the East Coast with a houseful of children and her very own Prince Charming.

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