Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance Page 3

  He raises his eyebrows, but the grin never leaves his face. “Are you saying he doesn’t?”

  “I… I’m asking a fucking question.”

  He hesitates for a moment. “My brother will handle it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He sighs. “You need to calm down. If you’re worried that your father’s life is in danger, don’t be. We’re not planning on killing him today.”

  “Today?” I croak, my voice going up a couple of octaves.

  He seems unfazed by my reaction. “Your father has quite the reputation, you know,” he mentions offhand. As though that’s news to me.

  I bark out a bitter laugh. “You think I don’t know my father? You think I’m blind to his faults? That I don’t know just how much shit he’s in?”

  I probably should shut my mouth, but something about his slightly curious gaze agitates me.

  And I keep talking.

  “My father’s a drunk, a gambler, and an idiot,” I say, the words spilling out of me like vomit. “He’s been in debt since I was a kid and he’s gambled away every penny we’ve ever earned.”

  I take in a deep breath. Cillian says nothing.

  “I know exactly who he is and exactly what he’s done,” I continue. “But he’s still my father. He’s my family. And at the end of the day, that still means something to me.”

  When I finish my little speech, I realize I’m wheezing heavily.

  I’m dangerously close to tears, too.

  And that is just not an option.

  I will not cry.

  Especially not in front of him.

  His smile has faltered a little. But not because I’ve gotten through to him.

  No, it’s more like I’ve given him something to think about.

  And I’m fairly sure that, whatever it is, it’s not gonna work in my favor.

  “I can respect that,” he says at last.

  “I, uh… What?”

  The smile pops back onto his face. His blue eyes dance slightly under the moonlight.

  “I can respect that you want to look out for your father,” he explains. “Even if he doesn’t deserve it. But I’m under strict orders not to let you in that house until my brother is done talking to your father.”

  I open my mouth but he silences me with a raised hand.

  My jaw snaps shut submissively. That by itself is alarming.

  Since when do I listen when a man—especially a cocky-as-hell, arrogant prick like this guy—tells me to do something?

  “So…” he continues, “if I’m gonna break the rules and let you in there, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

  Shit.

  There’s definitely a catch here.

  “Earn it?” I repeat suspiciously. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  His grin gets wider.

  “How about a little game?” he suggests. “I ask you questions and you answer me. Honestly. For every honest answer you give me, you can take a step towards the house. For every lie you tell me, you have to take a step back.”

  I stare at him in shock.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  He gives me a look of mock hurt. “You wound me. I think it’s a fine idea.”

  “How would you even know the difference?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’d know,” he says, with overbearing cockiness. “One, I’m great at sniffing out lies. And two, you’re terrible at telling them.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Am not.”

  He smiles. “Was that vase really a family heirloom or just a tacky trinket from Penney’s?”

  Fuck.

  “Family heirloom,” I say immediately, infusing as much confidence into my tone as possible.

  “Take a step back, lass.”

  “It’s true!”

  “This game isn’t gonna be any fun if you insist on lying through it,” he tells me with exaggerate patience. “Also, participating is the only way you’re gonna get in that house. Play or not, it’s up to you. But them’s the rules.”

  Right on cue, we hear something crash from inside, and I gasp.

  “Pa!” I scream.

  There’s another crash. Smaller this time.

  And then a very distinct grunt. The grunt of someone in pain.

  “I have to get in there,” I beg. “Please.”

  “Like I said,” he replies with a completely unflappable expression, “you have the power to get in there.”

  I stare at him, trying to determine just how serious he is.

  From the looks of it—really fucking serious.

  “Fine!” I practically yell, throwing up my arms in defeat. “Fine. Let’s play your stupid, twisted, sadistic game, you brute.”

  “Flattery’s not gonna work on me, sweetheart,” he says, throwing me a wink.

  “Don’t wink at me. And don’t call me sweetheart.”

  “Jesus,” he mutters to himself, “no one has a sense of humor anymore.”

  “Are we playing or not?”

  “Okay, first question,” he says. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” I reply immediately.

  He gives me a nod of encouragement. “You can take a step forward.”

  I take the biggest step I can manage and he rolls his eyes and pulls me back a little.

  “Come on now,” he chides. “Don’t cheat.”

  I shake off his hand. “How old are you?” I demand in return.

  “This game isn’t really about me,” he points out. “There’s nothing I want that you can give me.”

  From the way he keeps looking at my body, I’m inclined to disagree.

  But there’s no way I’m going there right now.

  “Typical,” I snap.

  He chuckles. “Okay, okay. If it means that much to you, I’m eighteen as well.”

  I keep my expression disinterested, but I’m actually surprised by his admission.

  Not just by the fact that he’s decided to answer me. But by the answer itself.

  Eighteen?

  He’s exactly my age, give or take a few months. I’d been right in assuming he was young.

  I just never imagined he’d be that young.

  He had the kind of confidence most of the boys I know would kill for.

  “Does that surprise you?” he asks.

  I try to keep my thoughts off my face as I reply. “Not really. Given your cheeks are as smooth as a baby’s arse, I figured you were just a kid. You definitely look like one.”

  I’m trying my hardest to insult him.

  Not very successful.

  He bats his eyelashes like a Hollywood starlet. “That’s the nicest compliment anyone’s ever given me. I hope you say that about me when we’re in our fifties.”

  Problem is, he refuses to be insulted.

  It’s fucking rude.

  “We’re not gonna know each other when we’re in our fifties,” I tell him. “Matter of fact, we’re not going to know each other fifteen minutes from now.”

  He shrugs. “We’ll see.”

  What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

  Before I can ask, he fires off with the next question.

  “Next: on a scale of one to ten, how attractive do you find me?”

  I snort. “What’s less than zero?”

  “Take a step back.”

  “You can be damn sure I’m not lying about that one, gléas.”

  He takes two steps forward until we’re practically nose to nose. He’s so tall that I have to crane my neck back to meet his gaze.

  “Your pupils are dilated,” he whispers to me smugly.

  I grit my teeth together, aware of how hard my heart is beating.

  Although that is considerably less alarming that the strange new beating I can feel between my thighs.

  “So are yours,” I throw back at him.

  If I expect to win the upper hand by throwing his own arousal back in his face, I’m sorely disappointed.

  He owns up to it immediately.

&nbs
p; “That’s because I find you very attractive,” he replies without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “A stone cold ten. If I were rating you on a personality scale, it’d be a very different number. Lucky for you, that comes later.”

  “I… I…”

  How the fuck am I supposed to react to that?

  He smiles down at me. I can feel the heat waft off his body and engulf my own.

  “Answer the question,” he warns me. “Or take a step back.”

  My jaw hurts from how hard my teeth are grinding together. “Five.”

  “Step back.”

  “I—”

  “Now, little liar.”

  The man is fucking relentless.

  But in this case, he also happens to be right.

  I am lying.

  And in this case, I’m actually willing to take a step back to keep from telling the truth.

  “Next question,” I snarl at him.

  He just laughs. “How old were you when you first lost your virginity?” he asks.

  I stop short.

  “That’s too far.”

  “Probably.”

  “Why do you even care?”

  He shrugs. “I’m nosy.”

  “I can see that.”

  His blue eyes crinkle at the corners every time he smiles. I can’t help but think that my attitude towards him would have been the complete opposite if we’d met under different circumstances.

  “Well?”

  “A year ago,” I mumble. “Right after I turned seventeen.”

  It’s a lie. The question is—does he know that?

  He cocks his head to the side and eyes me carefully. I stand my ground and refuse to break eye contact.

  For some reason, this feels like one I cannot lose.

  “You might be lying,” he says thoughtfully, chewing on his bottom lip.

  What would that same lip feel like under my tongue?

  Jesus.

  Did I just think that?

  “You’re blushing.”

  I try and control my expression, but he’s already seen through me. “You keep asking me personal questions.”

  “That’s no reason to blush.”

  “Can I take a step forward or not?”

  He considers me a moment longer. “I think you’re lying… but I can’t be sure.”

  “Some bullshit detector you’ve got there,” I drawl. “Real impressive.”

  He snorts. “I’ll admit, your face is distracting.”

  I frown. “What does that mean?”

  His eyes linger on mine. “It means you’re beautiful,” he answers simply.

  I manage to cow the blush that’s threatening to out me once more. I succeed in turning it into a glare. “Next question.”

  “Boy, you’re not good at taking compliments, are you?”

  “Most of them are insincere.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Not me. I’m always sincere.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe that. Next damn question.”

  Another sound emanates from the house, but I can’t pinpoint what it might be. My father being thrown against a solid wall?

  Being punched in the gut?

  Being hurled into one of the cabinets in the living room?

  “Stop worrying. Sean’s not the sadistic type.”

  Right on cue, there’s a louder grunt from inside the house. I look at him furiously. “You were saying?”

  “You have no idea what that was.”

  “I’ve answered enough of your questions,” I insist. “Let me through.”

  “You can take one step forward,” he acquiesces. “Next question: where do you want to be ten years from now?”

  That question takes me off guard.

  I’m expecting a more invasive question, something crude or inappropriate.

  But this…?

  “You want to know where I wanna be in ten years?” I repeat dumbly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, her hearing is flawless. Give her a round of applause.”

  He’s mocking me. But beneath that, he looks genuinely interested.

  My defenses having been pulled down by the unexpectedness of the question.

  And just like that, the truth spills from my lips.

  “Anywhere but here.”

  He arches an eyebrow and drinks in my answer. “That bad, huh?”

  I look down, breaking the eye contact. Suddenly, I wish he’d asked me some superficial, insignificant question like how much I weighed or what’s my bra size.

  Instead, in a matter of moments, he’s managed to strip me bare.

  “I’ve had enough of your stupid game,” I whisper.

  Fury blurs my eyes as I push past him. I’m expecting resistance and that’s exactly what I get when his arms wrap around my body. He pulls me against his chest and then his hand slams down over my mouth.

  “What the—”

  I struggle, suddenly alarmed with how hard he’s holding me, how rigid his body is against mine.

  “Stop moving,” he whispers urgently into my ear. “Someone’s here.”

  I want to tell him I don’t give a shit, but his hand is pressed firmly down against my mouth. So firmly, in fact, that I can barely even growl at him.

  “Fuck…”

  His tone sounds alarm bells in my head.

  Instinctively, I go still. Cillian’s hand relaxes slightly, though he still keeps it clamped over my mouth.

  “What is it?” I manage to whisper into his palm.

  To my surprise, he lets me go and flips me around to face him.

  “I need you to lie low, okay?” he instructs in a voice completely stripped of laughter. “A group of men just pulled up outside your house and they’re not the friendly kind.”

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  “They’re Kinahans.”

  I can feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Kinahan… as in the Kinahans? The mafia?” I stammer.

  “The bastards is more like it,” he growls. “But yes. Them’s the lads.” He’s peering around the corner of the house where the front garden is on display.

  I can see the vehicle parked outside now. Three beefy men get out, their feet hitting the cracked pavement with violent intent.

  “Don’t worry, a ghrá,” he tells me. “I’ve got this.”

  He looks so fucking confident right now.

  Which can only mean one thing: he’s insane.

  Because there’s no one in Dublin that messes with the Kinahans.

  No one.

  “Are you out of your damn mind?” I gasp, grabbing his arm without thinking and pulling him back behind the house. “If they’re Kinahans, they’re dangerous.”

  “Not compared to me.”

  I raise my eyebrows and shake my head. “Who do you think you are exactly?” I demand. “A fucking O’Sullivan? Because they’re the only other men in the city that have gone up against the Kinahans and lived to talk about it.”

  His grin gets wider as Kinahan voices carry over to the garden.

  “I can see our reputation precedes us.”

  I stare at him for a moment.

  “What…”

  “Cillian O’Sullivan,” he reveals with a gratuitous bow. “At your service.”

  Then he throws me a careless wink and leaves me standing alone in the shadows of the garden.

  3

  Cillian

  Kinahan scum.

  Those bastards have rudely interrupted my little tête-à-tête with the fieriest redhead I’ve ever met.

  Perfect fucking timing.

  My brother is still inside, conducting what should have been a routine cash collection.

  But I can already tell that our simple little errand just got a fuck-ton more complicated.

  I walk down the thin alley that connects the backyard to the front of the house—just in time to see Brody Murtagh step out of the hulking jeep.

  He’s wearing black jeans, an oversized black t-shirt, and a
bunch of thick gold chains draped around his neck. The whole ensemble makes me roll my eyes.

  Looks like the prick sent away to a magazine for “The 21st Century Wannabe Gangster Outfit.”

  I risk a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Saoirse has stayed in the backyard like I’ve told her to. Something tells me she doesn’t follow instructions well.

  Miraculously, I don’t see her.

  I’m more relieved than I should be, considering we met half an hour ago.

  “Brody,” I drawl, positioning myself right in front of the door. “Fancy running into you here.”

  He swaggers forward with two goons at his back. Three Kinahans in total.

  My smile grows a little wider.

  That’s about three too many for my liking. But dealing with these gobshites will be a piece of fucking cake.

  My hand doesn’t even twitch towards the gun in my back pocket. Easy does it. Especially with the Murtagh runt at the helm of this little rebel wannabe clique.

  He can dress like a gangster all he wants, but he’ll never be true mafia.

  He bought his way into the Kinahan organization thanks to his father’s money and influence. Their loyalty is paid for.

  In my opinion, that makes it fucking worthless.

  If loyalty can be bought for a sum, it can be broken for a penny more.

  “O’Sullivan,” he growls.

  The corners of his mouth turn up in a grimace that might be an attempt at an intimidating smile. I’m not entirely sure. The overall effect just makes me queasy.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I sigh with exaggeration. “I’m guessing you already know,” I retort. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Are you the guard dog then?” Brody taunts.

  I shrug. “I’m whatever I have to be when my family needs me.”

  I learned early that one of my superpowers is indifference.

  If you act like nothing bothers you, then at some point, it’s gonna piss off the people who’re trying their damndest to get a rise out of you.

  “Not a very good watchdog if you’re lurking in the back with your tail between your legs,” Brody chuckles.

  Ouch.

  That one actually lands.

  Mostly because I know I’ve been neglecting my role in this little errand.

  I should have been on the lookout for trouble. I should have warned Sean about our unexpected visitors.

  But I’d been preoccupied out back with a certain redheaded siren.