by Vi Carter
MAFIA GAMES
THE YOUNG IRISH REBELS BOOK THREE
AN IRISH MAFIA ROMANCE
BY VI CARTER
Other Books by VI CARTER
A BROKEN HEART SERIES
SAVING GRACE
CLAIMING AMBER
TAKING LAURA
WILD IRISH SERIES
RECKLESS (prequel)
VICIOUS #1
RUTHLESS #2
FEARLESS #3
MERCILESS #4
HEARTLESS #5
THE BOYNE CLUB
DARK #1
DARKER #2
DARKEST #3
PITCH BLACK #4
THE OBSESSED DUET
A DEADLY OBSESSION #1
A CRUEL CONFESSION #2
THE CELLS OF KALASHOV
THE SIXTH (NOVELLA)
THE COLLECTOR #1
THE HANDLER #2
THE YOUNG IRISH REBELS
MAFIA PRINCE #1
MAFIA KING #2
MAFIA GAMES #3
MAFIA BOSS #4
WARNING
This book is a dark romance. This book contains scenes that may be triggering to some readers and should be read by those only 18 or older.
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PROLOGUE
CLAIRE
“I have this recurring dream.”
I lie down on the leather couch, placing my hands over my stomach that tightens and squirms beneath my fingertips. I’m afraid each time I speak of the fire. But I know how important it is to talk about it, or so my therapist, Rose, tells me. My lashes flutter closed as I continue to speak.
“I’m back in my bedroom. I’m lying on my bed. The canopy that floats above me hangs down. The small ballerinas that my mother stitched into the fabric are gone, and the rest is going fast with each lick of the flames.”
I shift on the couch, hoping to cool down my burning skin and slow my racing heart.
“You are safe, Claire. This is your safe place.” Rose’s voice is gentle.
I don’t open my eyes but nod and exhale a shaky breath. “I’m frozen, yet I know I should move, but I’m transfixed on the destruction before me. I’m entranced by how the red waves move. It’s not until heat sears me and my nose twitches that I look away from the flames. It’s the smell of burning hair that has my stomach roiling.”
I swallow a lungful of fresh air.
“You’re doing great.” Rose’s voice is closer to me now, and I don’t like that she moved, and I hadn’t even noticed. “This is your safe place, Claire.” Her voice is soft as she speaks, and I picture her wearing her half-smile with her head tilted to the side; it’s her encouraging look.
I should open my eyes and remind myself that I’m not there anymore. That I am safe. That I am not back in my bed. That I am not fifteen again.
“I keep telling myself that I need to move. I need to get out of bed, but my broken legs won’t permit it, and the room is growing hotter.” My eyes snap open. My mind has taken enough for one day. I sit upright on the couch.
Rose is disappointed that I stopped. She tries to recover quickly, but I see how her eyes tighten in the corners, creating lines that showcase her fifty years of age. She taps her pen three times on the page. “You did great.”
I run my tongue along my teeth, trying to find my balance as I reach for the glass of water that sits alone on a small white table. Rose doesn’t speak as I take a large swallow. Then placing the glass back down, I run my hands down my yellow sundress until my fingers glide across my knees.
“Why did you stop?” Rose speaks again while dipping her head so she can see me as I try to hide from her questioning gaze.
“I’m tired.” I won’t meet her stare; instead, I glance behind her at the rows of white bookshelves that coat the wall from ceiling to floor.
“Tired, how?”
My gaze snaps to Rose, and I want to tell her to mind her own business. My sharp thoughts have guilt turning my cheeks pink, and I look away from her before she can read the anger on my face.
“I had a late night,” I lie.
Her pen glides across the page. I have often wondered what she is writing, but no matter what angle I tilt my head, I can’t read what’s on the paper.
The diamond-shaped clock on the wall ticks slowly, like the batteries are dying or time is about to stop altogether.
“In your dream, do you get out of bed?” Rose asks.
I wrap my arms around my waist. My belly aches. “No.”
Rose nods and scribbles more words.
I still have thirty minutes left in this session. I know holding back won’t benefit me. I focus on the scar on my knee. My fingertips trail along the puckered skin as I speak.
“He comes for me.” I don’t peer at Rose but focus straight ahead. “He walks through the flames. They don’t even burn him. They actually part for him.” A smile haunts my lips. I have no idea why. The image is terrifying.
I take a peek at Rose, who gives me an encouraging nod.
“He sits on my bed that is burning, and all the flames go away.” I grind my teeth to try to keep my emotions in check. “He leans in close to me, and I think for a moment he’s going to say something.” My heart starts to race. Fear tightens my throat, cutting off any further words.
Rose waits a beat. Maybe she sees the fear in my eyes; maybe she doesn’t want this to stop. It’s the most I’ve ever willingly said. I want to say it all, but it’s too much.
Silence swallows us, and the clock ticks louder for a while.
“And does Leonard say anything?”
“No.” I sputter out. “No, he laughs.”
He laughs while my parents burn in the next room. While they scream as the flesh falls from their bones.
“He laughs,” I repeat.
CHAPTER ONE
RICHARD
The tennis ball bounces back to me like it has done a million fucking times before. Staying sane in a place like this isn’t easy.
At first, I screamed that I wasn’t mad. When a lunatic, aka mad dog, screamed that he wasn’t mad either, I knew I was rightfully fucked as they dragged me to the back of the asylum. The nurse on duty enjoyed sticking a syringe into my neck a little too much. “This area is reserved for the real fuck ups.” His words were warm on my cheek, and I grinned, even as my body failed me.
The moment they dropped me into a wheelchair, my legs were strapped down. As the nurse strapped my arms to the chair, I opened my sluggish eyes and forced a steady voice. “I’ll remember you.” And I would. Like a sketch artist, my mind took in everything about him, down to the mole under his left eye.
He pulled back instantly, and fear latched onto him like a starving person to a hot meal. I stared at his face as long as I could before whatever the fuck was in the syringe did its job.
I tried to stay aware as they wheeled me down a half-lit corridor.
“You’re as white as a sheet. Lighten up.” A male voice behind me broke through my foggy state.
“He didn’t tell you; he’d remember you.”
“He’ll be secured in a glass box for his duration here. So relax.”
“He’s on suicide watch?” Shock laced mole man’s words, his fear erased as this knowledge settled in.
“Yep. Director said we have to keep a close watch on this one.”
Light moved across my lids, and I half opened my eyes as the wheelchair was spun fully around, the nurse moving backwards through a set of double doors.
Mole man stumbles when he sees my eyes open.
“He’s still awake.”
The man steering my wheelchair laughs. “I put enough in the syringe to knock out an elephant.”
I grinned, or I hoped I did. That’s the signal I sent to my lips as I stared at the nurse.
“I’m telling you, Gerard. He’s fucking smiling at me.”
We stop moving, and I wished I was more alert. I relaxed my face and let my eyes close. The squeak of shoes halted in front of me.
Gerard tuts. “This is going to be a really long shift if you keep this up.”
“He was smiling at me a minute ago.”
“He’s out cold. So stop fucking around.”
We are moving again. I am tempted to open my eyes, but the drugs that raced through my veins have taken over. My will to stay awake is no match for the shit in my veins.
***
The tennis ball hits the glass wall before coming back to me. Rodger, in the next room, is screaming. His mouth agape as he tears at his hair. I throw the ball again, and he goes wild, frothing at the mouth. My lip twitches as he throws himself against the glass wall that divides us. His large body that has been deprived of anything healthy has no impact on the glass. These glass boxes were built to keep us in. I know this already. I have tried every single thing to escape in the three years I have been here, but this place is tighter than a nun’s gee.
My tennis ball hits the glass again, and he loses his shit. I should really stop, but this is my only entertainment. This is what I have been reduced to. Torn black hair floats to the ground as Rodger continues to have a psychotic breakdown. His room turns red from the swirling light over his door. On instinct, I glance at mine. I’ve only ever seen it lit up once before.
After stuffing the tennis ball down between my bed and the only stone wall, I get up and walk to the far wall that’s made of glass, too.
My glass coffin holds a single bed, a piss pot, and a small locker with no door.
Three nurses, all wearing protective clothing, line up outside Rodgers' room. They look like they are ready to enter into a violent crowd. Rodger backs away and starts pointing at me. When he glances at me, I wink at him, setting him off again. He launches himself against the wall just as the door opens. My gaze flickers to the nurses who are entering. I don’t want Rodger to get sedated too quickly. What was the fun in that?
He follows my gaze and dives away from them. He’s quick; I have to give the fat fucker that much. He races to his bed and stands on it; the mattress dips with his weight. They try to pull him down, but he’s kicking his short fat legs and screaming. I’m grateful as I watch the madness that there’s no sound. The red light stops swirling, catching my attention. When I look back, Rodger is restrained on his bed as a sedative is injected into his ass.
Shows over, folks.
I turn my head and come face to face with Lenny, the piece of shit. I salute him, and he juts out his chin while wearing a toothy smile. He holds his fist to the glass, and I mirror the action. We fist bump as if we were friends. Not in my world, but in this morons world, we are friends.
There is nothing memorable about Lenny. He looks like a regular guy. I’d even go to the extreme and say a happy regular guy. That is the furthest from the truth. Lenny is the type of man you think of when places like this are built. Some of us don’t deserve to be here, but he does—every single ounce of him.
He’s all my anger and hate stuffed into an overgrown body. Sometimes when I look at him, I start to drown in my hate, and I have to remind myself that my revenge will be the sweetest thing I have ever tasted.
I let my lip drag up. He nods his head as his gaze moves past me. I turn as Rodger is carried from his room. The door closes behind the three nurses as they wheel him somewhere deeper and more fucked up in this building.
My body is tight, and I don’t want to turn to Lenny. I don’t want him to see a snippet of my truth, so I walk away and sink to my bed. I throw my arm across my eyes. It’s a do-not-disturb sign or an out-of-service sign. I lay still for a while and picture her.
She’s smiling, but I can tell the emotion isn’t real. Her long piano fingers shake as she lowers them to the table; it’s her tic. She clutches her hands together to stop the tremble, but the tremor never really leaves her fingers, and yet he never sees it. I do. I see everything.
The buzz is subtle, but I know what it is. I don’t move even as my door opens. I don’t shift my body, but every cell in me is alert and awake.
“Richard, you got yourself a visitor.”
Hope surges, but it’s stamped into the ground by anger that I don’t display as I sit up. William keeps his hand on the door. His mop of red curls obstructs his vision. He blows hair out of his eye only to have it fall back. I glance behind him to where two more nurses stand. One steps in, holding a pair of chained cuffs. I’m tempted to smile at Gerard. His gaze narrows, his stance stoic, as he steps to the left of my room.
I rise off the bed and hold my head high. At six foot four inches, I tower over most of these men. Holding out my arms in front of me, I spread my legs slightly and wait as they circle me. I want Gerard to use the cuffs he holds. His left-hand keeps touching the baton that’s strapped to his side.
William takes the cuffs from Gerald’s hands, much to my disappointment. The third nurse has moved to my right. A drop of sweat makes a pathway down the side of his face.
“Hold your arms still,” William states as he approaches.
I don’t blink as he clasps the cuffs on me.
“Aren’t you going to ask who your visitor is?” He asks once I’m cuffed and deemed non-threatening.
My gut clenches, but I refuse to allow any emotions to enter my features. “Who is it?” I ask. William smirks at me with bravery that he shouldn’t own. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
I ignore his laughter as I glance at Gerald. He’s watching me. There is no laughter or amusement on his face. His fingers still rest against his baton. He knew chains wouldn’t hold me back if I really wanted to hurt someone. A lesson he learned the hard way.
Right now, I didn’t want to hurt anyone. They had me curious about the visitor.
We leave my glass box, and the air is different. It’s poisoned by the smell of shit.
“What the fuck is that smell?” It’s Gerald who asks. William clutches my chains and moves me along like I’m a dog on a leash.
“It’s Derek. He covered his room with feces again to prevent us from seeing him.” This tactic I had seen used before. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, considering you were stuck in a glass box with the smell of your own shit.
I know the moment we are coming to the front of the building. The floor under my feet is tiled, the walls painted and not flaky.
They steer me right, and we move down another hallway that I have been down only once before. “Is this where visitors are taken?” I ask, knowing full well they aren’t. There is only one room down here.
“Yes.” William’s voice carries humor, and when I glance at Gerard behind me, he’s watching me. I turn back around as William stops at the door and knocks.
“Come in.”
William brings me in and reaches for my cuffed hands.
“Leave the cuffs on.”
I should have a million feelings right now, but I have none as William steps aside and my father, Liam O’Reagan, head of the Irish Mafia, comes into view.
He’s seated behind the director’s desk, sipping a cup of tea.
“Sit down.” He puts his cup down on the desk as he speaks to me.
It’s been three years since I’ve seen him and not even a “how are you?” Or an explanation as to why my mother or siblings never came to see me, I keep it all in I move to the desk.
“You can leave.” My father speaks as I sit down.
“Are you sure?” Gerard speaks up.
“Yes.” My father still watches the men over my shoulder. It takes twelve seconds for the room to empty and the door t
o close.
His dark gaze swings to me. “Son. You look good.”
He looks slightly older. His dark hair peppered lightly at the front. His suit sits perfectly on his straight frame. My father gives away nothing as he waits for me to speak.
“What do you want?”
Disappointment flashes in his gaze, and it pisses me off.
“You show your hand too quickly.” He picks up his tea.
I slam my cuffed hands on the table. “You came all this way to teach me a lesson?”
“No. But it is a lesson you clearly haven’t learned. Contain that anger, Richard, before it consumes you.”
Contain. I am barely breathing because of how fast the anger is pumping through my veins.
“Why are you here?” I ask, gritting my teeth.
“I’m here to take you home.”
His words should have me smiling. I’ve fought to get home for three years, but right now, at this second, I want to be taken back to my glass box where I plot against them all. Leaving here would put everything into motion. It would have me spilling all the blood that deserves to be spilled.
“Let’s go.” I raise my chained hands in the air, testing him.
“Your freedom has a price.”
I control the darkness that threatens to blanket my mind. Let me introduce you to my fucking hateful father. Everything has a price, most of what he has given me has cost me way too much, and I am pretty sure this time will be no different.
Working with my father had already cost me my freedom and landed me in this madhouse.
CHAPTER TWO
RICHARD
I drink in the taste of freedom as my father and I leave the asylum. I rub my wrists like a weight has been removed from them. It’s a false sense of security. An even heavier weight has been placed on my shoulders at my father’s words.