Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance Read online

  “I was planning on proposing,” Sean admits suddenly.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Fuck… really?”

  “Yeah.” There’s a moment of silence before he finally bites the bullet and tells me what he’s reluctant to say. “Actually, I did propose.”

  “Fuck,” I breathe. “What did she say?”

  The moment the words are out of my mouth, I feel like an idiot.

  If she’d said yes, I wouldn’t just now be hearing about it.

  Sean gives me a look that’s the closest he’s come to a smile since we left the O’Sullivan Manor.

  Then, in the thickest Irish accent he can muster, he drawls, “Yer a fookin’ numbskull sometimes, Cil.”

  We both snort with laughter.

  “Sorry,” I say when the laughing dries up. “But, uh… did she give you a reason?”

  Sean shrugs. “She didn’t want the life. She didn’t want to be a don’s wife one day.”

  “Did she know that she’d get designer clothes and a fancy mansion?”

  That earns me a glare. All well and good—except that I’m completely serious.

  “She wasn’t the type of woman who cared about that shit,” he tells me. “It’s one of the reasons I wanted to marry her. But at the end of the day, she just didn’t love me enough.”

  It’s the most honest admission I’ve ever heard from my brother.

  Or, for that matter, from any man in my world.

  They’d have all considered it weak to admit something so vulnerable. And vulnerability is one of the seven deadly sins, as far our family is concerned.

  But I recognize the courage in my brother’s words.

  I can see his strength shining through.

  And I can see how much it still tears him up that Orla left him.

  “I’m sure that’s not the reason, Sean,” I tell him with utmost seriousness. “She probably did love you.” I pause, then add, “It was just that wee fuckin’ cock of yours that couldn’t get the job done.”

  Sean frowns as my joke registers amidst the somberness of the subject matter.

  Then he croaks with laughter, a low guttural sound that comes out in a burst and dies almost immediately.

  “You little fucker!”

  I laugh and duck out of reach of his approaching fist. “Hey, the truth hurts.”

  “I’ll tell you what hurts…”

  The words fade away before he finishes.

  As does the glimmer Sean’s eyes. He’s focusing on something past me.

  I turn slowly, following his line of sight. He seems to be staring at a tiny house nestled into a forgotten crook in the neck of the cul-de-sac. Roof crumbling one shingle at a time, window shutters clinging to one rusty screw for dear life.

  It looks depressing as fuck.

  “This is it then?” I ask.

  “This is it,” Sean confirms. “Come on. There’s no reason this should be hard.”

  I let Sean take the lead as he walks to the front door and rings the doorbell. We have to wait almost a minute before I hear heavy, dragging footsteps approaching the door.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, “is he a drunk or a cripple?”

  Sean shoots me a glare.

  He’s back in don mode. I know better than to fuck with him on the job.

  He takes this shit seriously.

  The door creaks open to reveal a stout man with a huge beer belly and blotchy skin. He’s got pale, wispy hair that might’ve been blond in a former life and a desolate, half-grown beard.

  His bloodshot eyes dance between Sean and me with complete bewilderment.

  “Who the fook are you?”

  “Are you Padraig Connelly?” Sean asks.

  His eyes narrow instantly. “Who’s asking?”

  Sean doesn’t seem interested in trading questions any further. He elbows his way into the house, shoving Padraig back in the process. The door bangs into Padraig’s face as I follow my brother inside and shut the door.

  Much to my surprise, the house is reasonably well-kept. The furniture is clearly old, but everything’s clean. Everything’s organized.

  Well, except for the mountain of beer bottles littering the carpet in front of the couch.

  “Who the fookin’ hell are you?” Padraig groans, holding his bleeding nose.

  “Sean O’Sullivan. Does that name ring any bells?”

  Padraig’s glaze over in confusion for a moment. “Uh…”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Sean snaps through gritted teeth. “You really are a pathetic drunk.”

  If the beer bottles on the floor weren’t proof enough, the man also reeks of alcohol.

  “O’Sullivan,” Sean says again, enunciating clearly. “I’m gonna give you one last fucking chance to get your shit together.”

  He steps forward threateningly. Padraig pales.

  Sean’s not exactly a tall man. Not compared with me, anyway. But he’s built like a linebacker and he’s got muscles to spare.

  “O… O’Sullivan,” Padraig nods quickly, realization dawning fast. “I… you’re here for the money.”

  “I’m here for the money,” Sean agrees. “Two thousand euros. In cash. Right fucking now.”

  I can see the wheels in Padraig’s head turning fast.

  One thing’s clear: he doesn’t have shit to give us.

  Sean sees that, too. He curses furiously under his breath.

  He grabs an ugly ceramic vase off the thin table standing beside us and smashes it hard against the wall to create a sharp pattern of jagged edges.

  He backs Padraig into the same wall and pushes the broken half of the vase up to his neck.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he snarls into the man’s trembling jowls.

  I stand back stoically and watch my brother work.

  For a man who claims to have accepted this life under duress, he’s extremely fucking good at it.

  Padraig has turned an unflattering shade of pink. Spittle flies from the man’s mouth as he tries to form an excuse.

  “Mr. O… O’Sullivan… I don’t have… but I will, I will... please. Give me more… more time…”

  I’m guessing Sean has about a minute before his shoes are covered in fear-induced piss.

  “Pa?”

  I freeze.

  So does Sean.

  I didn’t say that. Neither did he.

  Which means…

  The voice floats down again. “Pa, is someone here?”

  A girl’s voice. From up the staircase.

  We thought the house would be empty. Sean had mentioned on the way over that Padraig was once married, but that his wife died a long time ago. Cancer or some shit like that.

  Sean steps back, concealing the broken vase in his hand.

  I know my brother. He’s not sadistic. He doesn’t like unnecessary violence.

  He especially doesn’t like involving the people he considers innocent in the ugliness of our business.

  People like her.

  She appears at the top of the short staircase.

  I see the white t-shirt and the old worn in jeans with holes and rips around the knees. The kind of holes and rips that have been created through wear and tear rather than an intentional fashion choice.

  Then my eyes scale upwards to her face.

  She’s got the reddest hair I’ve ever seen.

  Not ginger. Not strawberry blond. Not auburn.

  But pure, bloody red, like the last gasp of the sunset before it vanishes beneath the horizon.

  It snakes around her shoulders in a mess of wild curls. Gives her the kind of Old World beauty that you don’t see often.

  And the bluest eyes. A deep, velvety, aquamarine blue.

  I was born in Ireland.

  Raised in Ireland.

  I thought I’d seen Ireland through and through. Thought I knew every single nook and cranny.

  But this girl… she is the country come to life. The land itself, if it could live and breathe and speak.

  “Who
are you?” she demands of us. The aquamarine in her eyes turns dark and stormy.

  Sean is about to speak, but for some reason, I can’t let his be the first voice she hears.

  “We’re just here to have a conversation with your father,” I cut in, stepping forward.

  She frowns in suspicion and walks down the steps slowly.

  “It doesn’t look like either one of you came here to talk.”

  I cross my heart with my fingers. “Scout’s honor. This is a friendly visit.”

  “Then why is my nan’s favorite vase broken?” she asks without even glancing at the broken shards on the floor next to Sean.

  I offer a slow shrug. “My brother is clumsy.”

  She gets to the bottom step and turns her attention to Sean.

  “My grandmother made that vase herself,” she says. “It was a family heirloom.”

  “Saoirse!” Padraig bleats in a warning tone.

  Saoirse.

  The name suits her. It’s feminine. Powerful.

  She ignores Padraig completely.

  “I’ll ask again: what are you doing in our home?”

  “Your father owes us money,” Sean explains. I guess he’s given up our thin excuses. “Two thousand euros, to be exact.”

  She doesn’t so much as blink. But she doesn’t look at her father, either. She doesn’t seem all that surprised.

  “Well, then we’re even,” she says without skipping a beat.

  “Excuse me?” Sean asks.

  “The vase,” she explains with a point. “It was worth much more than two thousand euros. We’re even.”

  I burst out laughing.

  When I do, I get exactly what I’m after: her eyes on me.

  “Is something funny?” she asks calmly.

  You’d think she was used to being confronted with two strange men in her home every day.

  “What’s funny is the notion of that thing being worth a damn cent, let alone two thousand euros,” I tell her. “It’s ugly as hell.”

  “It’s a family heirloom,” she snaps.

  I smirk back at her. “Bullshit.” I extend my hand out to Sean. “Can I see that vase for a moment?”

  He hands it to me after only a moment of hesitation. He’s wondering where I’m going with this, but he doesn’t want to question me in front of our target.

  The top of the vase is completely gone, but the bottom is relatively intact.

  I flip it over and take a look at the bottom.

  “Well, would ya look at that?” I drawl, glancing towards Saoirse. “I don’t know many other family heirlooms that come from Penney’s.”

  I can see the fuck in her eyes.

  And my grin only grows wider.

  She opens her mouth to fire a retort back at me, but Sean cuts her off.

  “Cillian, why don’t you take Saoirse outside for a moment? I need to discuss a few things with her father.”

  “Like hell you will!” she rages instantly. “I’m not going anywhere. And certainly not with him.”

  I chuckle. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” I ask. “Scared you’ve met your match?”

  “Cillian. Move.” Sean’s using his no-nonsense tone, so I know he means business.

  In this case, I’m more than happy to jump into action.

  I stride forward towards Saoirse.

  About two seconds before I grab her, she realizes what I’m about to do.

  “No… don’t you dare—”

  But I do dare.

  I very much do.

  I scoop her up and hoist her over my shoulder in one smooth move. She screams, her fists beating hard against the small of my back.

  She’s definitely got fire in her.

  But I’m more than up to the challenge.

  The only slight distraction is the hardening cock in my pants. Chalk it up to occupational hazard.

  “Put me down, asshole!” she screams.

  I carry her out back, kicking the door open ahead of us and emerging back out into the night.

  “I said, Put me down!” she repeats.

  “Have your wish, princess,” I say—and dump her unceremoniously into one of the neglected flower beds.

  She lands in the soil with a thump and a half-realized scream in her throat.

  I match her furious glare with a carefree grin.

  I’d been kinda annoyed when Sean had barged into my room and asked me to join him on his little forced errand today.

  But now I see it for what it is: a blessing in disguise.

  “You fucking bastard,” she snarls at me. Eyes wild. Hair wilder.

  An angel on fire.

  It’s almost enough to make a praying man out of me.

  2

  Saoirse

  I stare up at the cocky son of a bitch, trying to hide the humiliation of finding myself on my ass in front of him.

  Bastard had gone and landed me right in one of the flower beds, too.

  Of course, he’d chosen the only one with actual flowering plants. So much for two months of hard work.

  It doesn’t help that he’s so completely in control, either. He just stands in front of me and grins with all the cockiness of a man twice his age.

  There’s no stubble on his jawline. None at all.

  His face is chiseled, his jawline defined, but there’s no mistaking the fullness of youth that clings to his features.

  His eyes are blue, but they’re different from mine. Bright and piercing. Clear. Mischievous.

  He runs his fingers through his sunshine blond hair, pushing back the few loose curls that are falling against his forehead.

  My own curls form an unruly halo around my face.

  Made all the more chaotic by this asshole’s rough handling.

  Weirdly, my body is hot in all the places his skin had made contact with. That’s not normal… is it?

  “You got a phone on you?” he asks, as though we’re right in the middle of a conversation.

  “Come again?”

  “A phone,” he repeats, enunciating like I’m stupid. “Do you have one on you?”

  I can see the devilish twinkle in his eye, but like a fool, I choose to answer seriously.

  “Not right now. Why?”

  He shrugs. “This would make a great profile picture,” he tells me. “You could caption it ‘getting into some gardening.’ Get it?”

  Is this guy for real?

  When it comes to shaking up drunks for money, I’d expected a considerably more intimidating pair.

  The guy inside looked the part, certainly.

  This one? Not so much.

  There’s definitely an intensity to the older one that’s missing in this grinning asshole.

  But I’m not getting creepy vibes off either one. And usually, my danger radar is pretty damn good.

  It’s had to be.

  I’ve spent eighteen years as Padraig Connelly’s daughter.

  I get to my feet with as much dignity as I can muster. “Are you a debt collector or a comedian?” I demand when we’re at eye level again.

  “A little bit of both, perhaps.”

  I make for the house, but predictably, he blocks my path and forces me to a stand-still.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “I need to use the bathroom.”

  He smirks. “There’s a perfectly good flower bed over there,” he tells me. “Go ahead. I won’t look.”

  “Are you being serious right now?”

  He chuckles. “People always ask me that,” he muses. “I’m starting to think it’s me.”

  “Just let me pass.”

  “No can do,” he says, crossing his hands over his chest.

  I can’t help noticing the way his biceps curl, displaying corded muscle and veins rippling just under his skin.

  This guy takes the term “boyish charm” to a whole new level.

  Not that I’m charmed by him.

  At all.

  “Irritated” is the more appropriate word.

 
“I have to make sure my father is alright,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Your father’s fine.”

  “And I’m supposed to just take your word for it?”

  “You should,” he says. “I don’t lie.”

  I frown. “That right there is a lie.”

  “Geez,” he says, practically whistling out the word. “Someone has trust issues.”

  “My father needs me.”

  “What your father needs is a good AA sponsor. Not that I’m judging or anything. Just some friendly advice.”

  “I don’t need your advice,” I snap at him. “Let me through—”

  I try to shove past him, but those lean arms push me back. I stumble and almost lose my footing, but he catches me in the nick of time.

  One arm wraps around my waist as he hauls me forward.

  “Watch yourself, lass.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re the one who just pushed me!”

  He rolls his eyes as though I’m being dramatic. “I barely touched you,” he says with that one arm still wrapped around me waist. “But maybe you’re right. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

  Scowling with frustration, I push him away from me and move out of his arms.

  I can feel my panic creep up slowly as I glance at the kitchen windows. I can’t see or hear anything that’s happening inside.

  And maybe that’s a good thing.

  But I am scared for Pa.

  I’ve worried about him since I was nine years old. Since I realized that he was one of those broken adults who needed taking care of.

  Once Mama passed, there was no one else to do it but me.

  That’s how I became his caretaker. A thankless job, but hey, someone’s gotta do it. My mother wasn’t up to the challenge, seeing as how she died a long time ago.

  I decide to try a different tack with the blond jackass.

  “Please,” I say, trying my hardest to ignore his devil-may-care smile. “I have to make sure my father is okay.”

  “He’s fine. Sean’s not gonna hurt him. He just wants to sort out some details with your pa.”

  “He owes you money?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Two thousand euros?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then if you came to collect, you didn’t just come to talk.”

  He shrugs. “There won’t be a problem if he has our money.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” I press.