Cormac: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance: Dangerous Doms

by Henry, Jane

  “I know what she fucking likes,” Nolan fairly spits back.

  “He pulled a goddamn blade,” I say to security, my voice thick with anger. For half a pound I’d slice the man’s throat with his own blade.

  He growls and tries to lunge back at Nolan, but the guard holds him back. His shirt rips, revealing pasty white skin and ink I know on sight.

  “Shite,” I mutter, when I recognize the mark of a Martin.

  “Son of a bitch,” Boner groans beside me. “Mother of God. I know who he is.”

  I turn to him. “You know him?”

  He sighs. “Yeah, brother.” He shakes his head. “Meet your future brother-in-law.”

  Chapter 2

  Aileen

  I wake in the middle of the night to the sound of my parents fighting. I do what I’ve been doing since I was a child, grab my pillow and pull it over my head. It isn’t the fighting I can’t stand but my utter helplessness.

  I’ve intervened, all right, but learned quickly that was pointless. I even called the police once when I was a child. They didn’t come after I told them the address, and I spent the next fortnight regretting my call. My father has a cruel tongue and a heavy hand, and he wields both with chilling results.

  I used to feel badly for my mother. Though she’s selfish and shallow, she’s still my mother. But over the years, she’s lost my sympathy as well.

  I hate it here. God, I hate it here.

  If I were anyone else, I could leave this place and never look back. Wouldn’t matter where I went, really, as long as I had a place of my own. But the rules of the Clan are iron-clad. Single women, the daughters of the soldiers, do not leave their parents unless they wed or die. In some cases, it’s nearly the same thing. My father’s a bit of a celebrity, having sired six daughters.

  I start when I hear something crash to the floor in the other room. My heart slams in my chest when I hear my father’s angry, drunken growls. They’re closer to me than they normally are. In my sleepy haze, I wonder if I can find the ear plugs I bought at a concert I snuck into, before I realize they’re still at the bottom of my bag somewhere.

  I sit up straight in bed, wide awake. Though I can’t hear every word, I catch phrases that make my thumping heart come to a stuttering stall.

  “Only choice… wed to the McCarthys.”

  My mother cries, her response barely intelligible. “…gave them all away.”

  Did she… does she… actually have regrets about what they’ve done to her daughters?

  I close my eyes and ball my hands into fists, pushing them into my eye sockets. I won’t cry. I won’t.

  It doesn’t matter that my father gave four of my sisters away to one of the men he worked with. Five, technically. Only one escaped, if you can call it that. My sister Emilie. On her wedding night, she took her own life.

  It was after Emilie’s death that my mother began to protest. Until then, I was convinced she was as complicit as he was. She spent his money with glee. Blood money, I called it, the money they earned from the marriages. I can’t imagine the sizable sum Mack Martin, my father’s chief, has paid for my sisters. Martin only had one daughter, who supposedly took her own life. Martin needed a ready supply of female virgins, like an ancient priest looking for children to sacrifice to the gods.

  I’ve known since childhood that my future was in my father’s hands, not mine.

  But he let me go to uni. He let me get my degree. I’m not sure why, if he only planned to sell me off in the end.

  I drown out my mother’s cries and swing my legs to the side of the bed. I need to find out what’s going on. I knew my time was coming, or I should’ve surmised it anyway.

  I should’ve been paying closer attention.

  I throw on a bathrobe and tiptoe to my doorway, my steps soundless on the thick, plush carpet. I open the door. Dermot, one of my guards, stands just outside. I hate him, but he’ll prove useful right now. I make a hissing sound to catch his attention, and he looks my way. I crook a finger at him. A large, lumbering, ogreish sort, he moves with the elegance of an elephant and speaks mostly in grunts. I’ve wondered why my father gives him a gun. He’d be better suited with a club.

  I whisper so softly I’m mouthing the words more than speaking them. He cups his ear as if to hear me better.

  “What are they arguing about?” I whisper. “Tell me.”

  He gives me a lewd smile. “I know alright,” he says. “But you ain’t gettin’ it for free.”

  My stomach coils with repulsion. I frown. “Fine,” I hiss. “You know I’ll pay up.”

  He grabs at his crotch, the filthy prick. It isn’t money he wants. Bile rises in the back of my throat and I swallow hard, trying to weigh my options. I could find out from him, and pay my dues on my knees, or I could wait and try to find out myself.

  I jump when I hear the sound of crashing glass. Frowning, I clutch at the door knob. My parents are reaching a rare level of brawling.

  I release the tie at my robe, letting it fall open to reveal my bare shoulder, my breasts barely covered by a thin tank top, and watch as the ogre’s eyes go half-lidded. He licks his lips and bends down to me, the smell of stale whiskey and body odor assaulting my senses. For Christ’s sake, he’s disgusting. I hold my breath and listen as he whispers.

  “Supposedly, you’re to wed the McCarthy scum.”

  I stand stock still as ice pulses through my veins. How could this man, who barely knows how to tie his own fucking shoes, know more than I do?

  I keep my wits about me and swallow hard, ignoring the way the room sways a little.

  “When?” I whisper.

  “At the weekend.”

  It’s Wednesday.

  No.

  I hear my mother sobbing and my father’s screams.

  Dermot is already unbuttoning his fucking trousers for me to pay up, but I hardly see him. I see beyond them all, as my pathway’s clear as still water.

  I have to leave. I can’t stay here. I won’t allow myself to be given to the “McCarthy scum.” I don’t think of the repercussions, how I could be caught and how if I am, I’m certain to be severely punished. I don’t think of where I’ll go or how I’ll get there. I’ve only one thought.

  Fly.

  I shut and lock the door behind us, ignoring the way his lewd eyes bulge when he drags his gaze down my robe. I fall to my knees on the carpet as he unbuckles his trousers, and his manky cock springs free. I don’t care, though. He isn’t getting a blow job tonight. Hell, when my father finds out what’s happened, Dermot will pay in flesh. I’ve seen what my father can do to a man, and for once it gives me some consolation.

  I pull off my robe and let it fall to the floor, not only to distract him but to make my escape that much easier. My mind churns, going over my options. Wearing nothing but a tank top and shorts won’t work. I need to get clothes.

  My parents scream on, my mother sobs, my father rails against her. But I drown it out as if it’s white noise. They’re dead to me. I’ve never been a daughter to them but a commodity. Even my looks and brains were assets to them.

  Dermot, the fucking prick, strokes his cock and groans when I get to my knees. I quickly note what I need. His gun, still fastened in the holster that slumps to the floor, and his wallet, hanging out of his pocket and grazing the carpet.

  “Tell me more,” I whisper, needing every detail. “Tell me everything you know, and tonight I’ll swallow.”

  He drags the head of his cock to my cheek. My stomach flips with nausea, but I’ve learned to detach myself, to move my mind beyond my circumstances.

  “Will you now, you pretty little slut?” he groans.

  I give him what I hope looks like a coy smile. “Not for free,” I whisper, wagging my finger at him. “You know better than that.”

  “Mmm,” he groans, stroking himself harder. I want to vomit. “Clan owes them a tribute, you see. Chief’ll pay big for a virgin. Temporary truce between clans comes to an end at the weekend. ’Twas on
ly in place to get you through uni.”

  How generous of them.

  “When will they come?”

  “Not sure,” he says. “But ye won’t come back. And Martin’s complicated things.” He says this last confession with a note of sadness in his voice, not because he’ll miss me, but he won’t be able to use me anymore.

  “What do you mean?”

  He shakes his head and doesn’t answer. What’s complicated?

  I close my eyes and think of England, forming my plan while I draw him under a sex-filled spell, and when I’ve made my decision, I open my eyes. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back, his mouth open like a fish. I’ve got him right where I want him. I grip his hips and work his cock while I unbutton his holster.

  I’m not turning back now. I know what I have to do.

  I wait until my father and mother go for round two, and something smashes in the background, before I lift my head back and slam it straight into his hairy bollox.

  He falls backward, astonished, his thick, ugly cock bobbing as he grabs for his balls. I bring my fist up and slam him right between the legs again. My aim is perfect.

  With a curse and howl, he falls to his knees, but before he’s recovered I’ve got his gun at his temple.

  “Shut up,” I tell him. I spit the taste of him onto the floor in front of me. He’s still gripping his balls, but it’s over now. I’ve got control, and he knows it. “You know I know how to use this gun, and I won’t hesitate. Do exactly what I say, and I might let you live.”

  I couldn’t kill a man, even a filthy loser like him, but he knows my father will. His only chance of survival is to do what I tell him. I lift the gun, then slam it to his temple. He crumples to the floor, still half-dressed. My father will find him like this. He won’t live to see another sunrise.

  I move quickly. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  I take his wallet and open it. My heart gives a little leap. Yes. Must’ve won a bet or something, he’s got a wad of cash, at least a hundred euros. I take the cash and toss the wallet to the side, quickly scurrying to my dresser. I take a bag out of my closet, listening closely to be sure my parents are still at it. By the time I pull the zipper on my bag, they’re still going strong.

  I take one long, last look at my childhood bedroom before I leave, but I don’t feel what I should. No remorse. No sadness. If I’m honest, I’m actually a little relieved.

  Dermot was my only guard tonight, so it’s easy enough to sneak out of my room. I lock it from the outside. It’ll buy me a little time. I creep down the hall, but as soon as I turn the corner, I hear voices.

  I flatten myself against the wall, and swallow my breaths.

  “Saturday,” I hear. I focus, trying to identify the voice. Is it one of my dad’s guards? A new one, maybe? I barely recognize it.

  “Saturday. My mother can fight all she wants, but the plan’s set in stone.”

  I cringe at the sound of my brother’s voice. If he sees me, I’ll be taken back to my room, punished, and locked up until the wedding.

  “Which is it?”

  “Middle brother.”

  “The big one?”

  “Aye, the very same.”

  “The fat, manky son of a bitch ain’t fairly matched to a lass like your sister.”

  I immediately conjure up an image of an overweight, crass bastard that looks like the man I left in my room with his pants around his knees.

  No no no no no.

  I won’t. They can’t make me. I don’t care if I have to scavenge for food or clothes or a place to live. I’d rather be destitute than wed to a man I don’t love. It’s fucking modern-day slavery. I just have to get to England, and then I can easily blend into the masses of people there.

  My heart pounds harder when I hear their voices come nearer. How will I explain the bag over my shoulder? The gun in my hand? Why I’m even out of bed in the middle of night like this? It isn’t allowed.

  They talk about how the wedding will commence, who will facilitate, but I don’t care about what they say. They’re talking of a wedding that will never happen. All I care about is the direction of their voices.

  They come closer. I flatten myself and pray, trembling against the cold white wall. Then at the last second, one of them turns around.

  “Son of a bitch,” my brother says. “My father texted me. Says the Chief wants a late night meeting of all, here.”

  No.

  That means that any moment, this hall will be filled with Martin soldiers, including my father. I tremble, listening to the sound of their fading voices, and as soon as I feel they’re far enough out, I run.

  My bag thumps on my leg and slips off my shoulder as I run, the gun pointed at the floor so I don’t accidentally shoot someone. Though I know how to, I’ve never actually done it with real people involved.

  A door behind me opens, and I hear more voices. The men are coming. They’ve heard the summons, and they’re answering. I get to the end of the hall and head down the narrow staircase that leads to the main floor. I’ll leave by the kitchen exit. It’s safest. Thankfully, the men are preoccupied with Martin’s summons, for no one’s nearby. I run so hard I get a stitch in my side, and I can hardly breathe. I get to the kitchen and yank open the door to the garage.

  I come face to face with my brother Blaine.

  He takes it all in in seconds, his instincts primed and ready. My startled expression. The gun in my hand. The bag on my shoulder. And just as recognition dawns on him and his gaze darkens, he reaches for me. With a scream, I pull the trigger. He howls and grabs at his shoulder. I’m astonished and nauseated when bright red blood stains the white t-shirt he wears. But I have to get away. I shove past him, run to my car that’s thankfully at the very end of the driveway, yank open the door, and toss my bag in as the blare of gunshots ring out. In his anger, he’s shooting after me.

  My brother stumbles after me, leaving a bloody trail behind him, shouting, but they can’t stop me now. The men are on their way to the meeting, so fewer guards are around than usual, and at least one is still hopefully incapacitated and arse-up on the floor of my room.

  No one stops me. No one shoots at me. My brother shakes his fist from the garage, and reaches for his phone. My window is short, only inches of runway before me.

  I fly.

  Chapter 3

  Cormac

  My mother stands beside me, straightening my tie, before she pins a white rose on my lapel. She’s got more gray in her red hair than she did last year, her eyes a bit sadder. But she’s a strong woman, and she’s ready to stand by our sides. Dressed in a lovely gown, she’s ready to face the day.

  “You look so handsome, Cormac,” she says, with a wistful smile. “You all do. Your father would be proud.”

  He would be. I woke today knowing by tonight I’d be a married man. I’m ready to face whatever comes. No matter who she is. No matter how this turns out. I’ll be the man of the house, as I’ve been taught.

  “He’d be proud of many things,” Keenan says. Normally a humble man, his chest fairly expands with pride as he tucks the wee baby wrapped in his arms, sound asleep and swaddled in a soft blue blanket, to his chest.

  “Aye,” mam says. “He would.” She pats my chest, approving of the finishing touch. “How’s Caitlin?”

  “Very good,” Keenan says. “I wanted to keep her home today, but she insisted she come, so I allowed it.”

  “Good girl,” mam says. “She’s a strong one, that woman of yours.”

  “Aye,” Keenan says with a wry smile. “Says someone told her it’s customary for the women of the Clan to greet the new woman.”

  “’Tis,” mam says. She walks to Keenan and holds her arms out for the baby. She takes wee Seamus in her arms, my dad’s namesake, and rocks him, though the lad’s already asleep. “Caitlin’ll be fine, son. She had a baby, not open heart surgery.”

  Keenan’s gaze darkens. “You say that as if it’s nothing.”

  She smiles. �
�I wouldn’t say nothing, but your lass is made of sterner stuff. She’ll want to be there, and I bet she’ll come looking pretty as can be.”

  Keenan doesn’t let mam butter him up, but only grunts.

  “Who’s a good little boy,” she croons to the sleeping baby. “Who knows his Granny?” The worry lines often knit between Keenan’s brows soften a bit, and for the first time since the idea about my wedding came about, I look forward to it.

  I’m to take a wife and raise a family. I’m ready for the job.

  I scrub a hand across my brow, trying to shake off the night before. Boner and Tully, led by Nolan, came to my room and half-dragged me off to the pub for several rounds. My last night as a bachelor, they said. Keenan joined us.

  “She’ll be a virgin, ya lucky wanker,” Boner said. “Fancy that tight, virgin cunt?” I cuffed him good, but the rest of the men guffawed.

  “And she’s a pretty lass, to boot,” Nolan said.

  “She’ll be my pretty virgin, lads,” I told them. “I’ll thank you to keep your manky eyes off her.”

  “The feckin’ Martins, though,” Tully groaned. “Christ but I hate them.”

  We sobered at that. I’m not happy the damned Martins will be my in-laws. They’re the lowliest of Irish mob life, the bottom dwellers. There isn’t a crime they won’t commit for money.

  Keenan came to my side of the table. “You’re doing the right thing,” he said. “Though I don’t envy you. I want you to know I appreciate it, brother. What you’re doing for the good of the Clan. I won’t forget it, Cormac.”

  “Aye, brother,” I told him. “It’s the right choice.”

  And it is. Peace between the Clans matters. It fucking matters.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  “Aye.” As ready as I can be.

  “It’ll right in the end.”

  “It will.”

  Our father was the old-fashioned sort, and he raised his sons to be the heads of house. We lead an army of criminals, the strongest, most well-respected crime ring in all of Ireland. We don’t quail in the face of duty. We do what we must and rule with conviction.