Cormac: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance: Dangerous Doms

by Henry, Jane

  The sun rises in early May at precisely 5:52 a.m., and it’s rare I get to watch it. So this morning, in the small quiet interim before daybreak and our meeting, I came to the cliff’s edge. I’ve traveled the world for my family’s business, from the highest ranges of the Alps to the depths of the shores of the Dead Sea, the vast expanse of the Serengeti, and the top of the Eiffel Tower. But here, right here atop the cliffs of Ballyhock, paces from the door to my childhood home, overlooking the Irish Sea, is where I like to be. They say the souls of our ancestors pace these shores, and sometimes, early in the morning, I almost imagine I can see them, the beautiful, brutal Celts and Vikings, fearless and brave.

  A brisk wind picks up, and I wrap my jacket closer to my body. I’ve put on my gym clothes to hit the workout room after our meeting if time permits. We’ll see. My father may have other ideas.

  I hear footsteps approach before I see the owner.

  “What’s the story, Keenan?”

  Boner sits on the flat rock beside me, rests his arms on his bent knees, and takes a swig from a flask. Tall and lanky, his lean body never stills, even in sleep. Always tapping, rocking, moving from side to side, Boner has the energy of an eight-week-old golden retriever. My younger cousin, we’ve known each other since birth, both raised in The Clan. He’s like a brother to me.

  “Eh, nothing,” I tell him, waving off an offer from the flask. “You out of your mind? He’ll knock you upside the head, and you know it.”

  If my father catches him drinking this early in the day, when he’s got a full day of work ahead of him, heads will roll.

  “Ah, that’s right,” he says, grinning at me and flashing perfect white teeth, his words exaggerated and barely intelligible. “You drink that energy shite before you go work on yer manly physique. And anyway, get off your high horse. Nolan’s more banjaxed than I am.”

  I clench my jaw and grunt to myself. Fuck. Nolan, the youngest in The Clan and my baby brother, bewitched my mother with his blond hair and green eyes straight outta the womb. Shielded by my mother’s protective arms, the boy’s never felt my father’s belt nor mine, and it shows. I regret not making him toe the line more when he was younger.

  “Course he is,” I mutter. “Both of you ought to know better.”

  “Ah, come off it, Keenan,” Boner says good-naturedly. “You know better than I the Irish do best with a bit of drink no matter the time of day.”

  I can toss them back with the best of them, but there’s a time and place to get plastered, and minutes before we find out the latest update of the status of our very livelihood, isn’t it. I get to my feet, scowling. “Let’s go.”

  Though he’s my cousin, and I’m only a little older than I am, Boner nods and gets to his feet. As heir to the throne and Clan Captain, I’m above him in rank. He and the others defer to me.

  He mutters something that sounds a lot like “needs to get laid” under his breath as we walk up the stone pathway to the house.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Eh, nothing,” he says, grinning at me.

  “Wasn’t nothing.”

  “You heard me.”

  “Say it to my face, motherfucker,” I suggest good-naturedly. He’s a pain in the arse, but I love the son of a bitch.

  “I said,” he says loudly. “You need to get fuckin’ laid. How long’s it been since the bitch left you?”

  I feel my eyes narrow as we continue to walk to the house. “Left me? You know’s well as I do, I broke up with her.” I won’t even say her name. She’s dead to me. I can abide many things, but lying and cheating are two things I won’t.

  “How long?” he presses.

  It’s been three months, two weeks, and five fucking days.

  “Few months,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Christ, Keenan,” he mutters. “Come with me to the club tonight, and we’ll get you right fixed.”

  I snort. “All set there.”

  I’ve no interest in visiting the seedy club Nolan and Boner frequent. I went once, and it was enough for me.

  Boner shakes his head. “You’ve only been to the anteroom, Keenan,” he says with a knowing waggle of his eyebrows. “You’ve never been past there. Not to where the real crowd gathers.”

  “All set,” I repeat, though I don’t admit my curiosity’s piqued.

  The rocky pathway leading to the family estate is paved with large, roughly hewn granite, the steep incline part of our design to keep our home and headquarters private. Thirty-five stones in the pathway, which I count every time I walk to the cliffs that overlook the bay, lead to a thick, wrought-iron gate, the entrance to our house. With twelve bedrooms, five reception rooms, one massive kitchen, a finished basement with our workout rooms, library, and private interrogation rooms, the estate my father inherited from his father is worth an estimated eleven million euros. The men in The Clan outside our family tree live within a mile of our estate, all property owned by the brotherhood, but my brothers and I reside here.

  When I marry—a requirement before I assume the throne as Clan Chief—I’ll inherit the entire third floor, and my mother and father will retire to the east wing, as my father’s parents did before them.

  When I marry. For fuck’s sake. The requirement hangs over my head like the sharpened edge of an executioner’s blade. No wedding, no rightful inheritance. And I can’t even think of such a thing, not when my ex-girlfriend’s betrayal’s still fresh on my mind.

  I wave my I.D. at the large, heavy black gate that borders our house, and with a click and whirr, the gates open. When my great grandfather bought this house, he kept the original Tuscan structure in place. The millionaire who had it built hailed from Tuscany, Italy, and to this day, the original Tuscan-inspired garden is kept in perfect shape. Lined with willow trees and bordered with well-trimmed hedges, benches and archways made from stone lend a majestic, age-old air. In May, the flowers are in full bloom, lilacs, irises, and the exotic violet hawthorn, the combined fragrances enchanting. The low murmur of the fountain my mother had built soothes me when I’m riled up or troubled. I’ve washed blood-soaked hands in that fountain, and I laid my head on the cold stones that surround it when Riley, my father’s youngest brother and my favorite uncle, was buried.

  We walk past the garden, and I listen to Boner yammer on about the club and the pretty little Welsh blonde he spanked, tied up, and banged last night, but when he reaches for his flask again, I yank it out of his hand and decidedly shove it in my pocket.

  “Keenan, for fuck’s—”

  “You can have it after the meeting,” I tell him. “No more fucking around, Boner. This is serious business, and you aren’t going into this half-arsed, you hear?”

  Though he clenches his jaw, he doesn’t respond, and finally reluctantly nods. I’m saving him from punishment ordered by my father and saving myself from having to administer it. We trot up the large stairs to the front door, but before we can open it, the massive entryway door swings open, and Nolan stands in the doorway, grinning.

  “Fancy meetin’ you two here,” he says in a high-pitched falsetto. “We won’t be needin’ any of yer wares today.”

  He pretends to shut the door, but I shove past him and enter the house. He says something under his breath to Boner, and I swear Boner says something about me getting laid again. For once in my life, I fucking hope my father assigns me to issue a beating after this meeting. I’m so wound up. I could use a good fucking fight.

  “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 t
o 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 information 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 eccen
tric 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.