Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance Page 5
You figure out ways to communicate without being overheard.
I can tell from Sean’s stance that he’s not going to walk away from this and just leave Brody to it.
Maybe if it was only Padraig, he would. That man has dug his own grave.
But Saoirse is what Sean considers an innocent bystander.
And like I said before, the lad has a major hero complex. Thinks he’s a knight in shining armor.
So all it takes is one nod, and both Sean and I have our guns out and raised at the Kinahan scum.
“That’s enough,” Sean snarls.
He’s got his sights set on Brody. I’ve got a gun in each hand, one for each of the Kinahan soldiers providing backup.
Brody frowns. “You don’t want to do this.”
Sean is unfazed. “Wanna fucking bet?”
The Murtagh fucker knows he’s cornered. He’s got all the manic, twitching energy of a rat with his back against the wall.
Which is why he darts to the side, knocks Padraig to the ground, and grabs hold of Saoirse.
She gasps as he tightens a chokehold around her neck, yanking her in front of him.
“Motherfucker!” I bellow, turning my guns on him.
It’s a stupid move.
But rage takes precedence over logic for a moment.
And that’s when it all crumbles in my hands.
The moment I change my focus, the Kinahan stooges unleash their guns.
“Cillian!” Sean roars out a warning. I duck as the sound of gunshots screams through the air.
There isn’t much in the way of coverage, so I’m forced to go on the offensive immediately after rolling out of my crouched position.
I fire back at the two Kinahan soldiers. I manage to hit one in the arm.
He stumbles back with a pained groan as blood spurts out. That gives me the opportunity to shoot him a second time. This one catches him in the leg.
The remaining Kinahan man makes a move for Sean, but my brother’s too fast and too experienced.
He avoids the first bullet and drops low enough to land a punch in the stooge’s stomach. As he stumbles back, Sean straightens up and punches him in the face before kicking the bastard’s gun away.
I move towards Brody, who’s having a hard time keeping the thrashing Saoirse still.
The redheaded spitfire is writhing and struggling in his arms.
She’s actually giving him a real fight.
“Hold still, you little bitch!”
She elbows him in the stomach.
“Don’t,” she snarls, “call me,” with another elbow punch to the gut, “that!”
The last strike makes him lose his grip on her, and she stumbles away from him quickly. Padraig is cowering by the house only a few feet away.
His eyes are trained on Saoirse and he looks worried.
But not worried enough to actually do anything to help her.
“Pa!” Saoirse cries out—just as Brody lunges for the old man, now that he’s lost his first human shield.
Sean makes a judgement call and fires, attempting to shoot Brody before he gets to Padraig.
But it all happens too fast.
Sean’s bullet leaves the chamber.
Brody grabs Padraig.
Pulls the red-faced man forward.
Right in front of him.
And Sean’s bullet hits Padraig in the stomach.
I see the blossom of blood stain the old man’s shirt. At the exact same moment, Saoirse’s horrified scream pierces through me.
She scrambles to her father.
I hear Sean’s muttered curse. Horror soaked in horror.
Brody makes a run for it, scrambling after the two Kinahans who are already fleeing as fast as they can.
I let them go.
I don’t even think about stopping them.
Mostly because of the devastated look on Saoirse’s face as she falls to her knees in front of her father’s limp frame and cradles his head in her arms.
“No,” she says, in anguish. “No, no, no, no.”
4
Cillian
I stand there feeling helpless. Feeling a pull I can’t quite describe.
“Cillian.”
Sean’s urgent tone cuts through my muddled thoughts. I glance at him, but truthfully, I barely see him.
I barely see anything, really.
“Come on,” he says. “We gotta go.”
“Go?” I repeat, looking at him incredulously. “We can’t just leave.”
“Why?” Sean demands. “Because you want to play Prince Charming? Grow the fuck up, Cillian. We can’t be here when the cops arrive.”
His words feel like ice water down my back.
He’s right.
Sean’s bullet is the one that’s buried somewhere in Padraig’s stomach.
And the police are in Brian Murtagh’s pocket.
But the thought of leaving her like this…
It feels so goddamn wrong.
“Pa,” Saoirse sobs below us. “Pa, please stay with me. Talk to me, Pa.”
Tears stream down her face. I notice the way she’s clutching the front of his shirt. As though the strength of her grip can keep him from slipping over to the other side.
Blood sputters around his mouth. His mumbled words are lost in faint, wheezing breaths.
Sean’s hand closes around my arm, pulling me back, trying to get me away from the house.
I still resist.
I just want one more glimpse at her face. At those eyes.
All I see now is a wealth of wild red curls.
“Saoirse.”
I say her name, but it’s swallowed up in the ache of her sobs.
“Fucking hell, Cillian!” Sean explodes, tugging me around so hard that I almost slam into him.
My eyes lock onto his. I see the conflict in them.
In the past few minutes, something has shifted for my brother. Something has changed.
“Sean?”
“We have to fucking go.”
His eyes shift to Padraig. The poor bastard is bleeding out in his own front lawn. His daughter is still clinging to him and sobbing helplessly.
There’s no expression on Sean’s face, but I know my brother.
I know how deeply he feels things.
And how long he’s worked to numb that part of himself.
This time, I’m the one who grabs his arm and pulls him away from the house in the neck of the cul-de-sac.
It’s a walk at first.
Then it’s a run.
Then we accelerate into a full-on sprint. Like we can leave behind all the pain we just caused if only we move fast enough.
* * *
We don’t stop until we’ve cleared the neighborhood.
I pull Sean into an empty street opposite a massive laundromat that looks like it’s seen better days.
It takes a long moment to catch our breaths.
A few civilians walk past us, but apart from a few curious looks, no one pays us any real attention.
“Come on,” I say, gesturing towards a small park just across the street.
There are benches set up right in front of a rusty looking swing set. The moment Sean sits down, he balances his elbows on his knees and covers his face with both hands.
“Sean?” I ask, sitting down next to him. “What’s wrong?”
Sean pulls down his hands and looks at me incredulously.
“What’s wrong?” he repeats. “What’s fucking wrong? What do you think is wrong, Cil?”
“I know shit didn’t go as planned—”
“We were fucking ambushed by the Kinahans,” Sean interrupts. “We failed the pickup. We…”
His eyes dart around as though he’s worried we’re going to be ambushed again. I’ve never seen him look so out of control.
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, “but shit happens.”
“Not shit like this,” Sean growls through gritted teeth. “Not like this…”
“Sean—”
“Uh, you missed actually,” I point. “The fucker got away.”
“Not Murtagh!” he snaps at me. “Padraig Connelly. I shot the bastard.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Did you try telling that to his daughter?” Sean barks at me. His voice cracks with anguish.
“Brother,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder, “you were trying to stop Brody…”
Sean shakes me off without so much as blinking. “He could die right there. Tonight. And if he does, he’ll die in front of his daughter. When she thinks of me, she’ll think of me as her father’s murderer.”
I’ve only ever seen Sean break down once before in my life.
I was seven. He was fifteen.
He had brought home a stray dog he’d picked up off the side of the road. Named him Shark, of all things.
But Shark clearly had some issues, because he barked at everyone except Sean. He wasn’t good at listening to orders and he freaked out when the clan men came and went from O’Sullivan Manor.
The wretch attacked two of Da’s underbosses before Da finally put his foot down.
“Control that fucking animal,” Da ordered. “Or the next time this happens, you’ll have to put him down yourself.”
Sean put his all into training Shark. Day and night, they were together. Sean poured through books, tried every trick he could find to tame the wildness in his companion.
But three weeks later, the same thing happened.
One of Da’s underbosses walked into the house. Shark went nuts. Came at Oisin with his teeth bared. He snagged the man by the trouser leg and was all set to go for the throat before Sean managed to pull him away.
We all thought Da was kidding when he took the rifle off the wall and handed it to Sean. Everyone knew how much Sean loved that mangy animal.
But Da wasn’t kidding.
And so Sean did what he had no choice but to do.
I’ll never forget the sound of that gunshot in the garden.
It was months before Sean seemed like himself again.
Shark’s still buried in the back yard, in a dirt pit I used to play in when I was a kid.
And the look Sean has in his eye right now? It’s the same look he had back then.
“Sean…”
“That makes eight now,” he says in a low, hollow croak.
“What?”
He looks up. His eyes are dry, his expression stagnant. But I know he’s trying to keep his shit together.
“Eight people I’ve killed,” he explains.
“You… you keep count?” I balk. “Why?”
“I can’t forget their faces,” he whispers. “None of them.”
“You did what you had to do.” I’m spewing out words that I think are the right ones to say. But I have no fucking clue, really. I’m just guessing. “And we don’t even know if you killed Padraig.”
“Her sobs… Christ, did you hear her sobbing?”
Of course.
I can’t forget that sound.
“Sean,” I urge, squeezing his shoulder, trying to get him back into the present, “let’s go home.”
“Yes,” he mumbles. “Da will be waiting for a report.”
That’s not where I was going, but I realize that we’re not gonna get away with avoiding Da when we get back to the mansion.
“I’ll come with you,” I say. “To give him the report, y’know.”
“He’ll be expecting only me.”
“Tough,” I say immediately. “He gets both of us this time. I’m his son, too.”
“You’re not the heir.”
I blink at him. “You almost sound upset about that.”
A strange fear creeps down my spine.
Are the changes in my older brother sudden?
Or have they been there the whole time?
These telltale signs that he was reaching his breaking point. The cracks in his armor.
They must’ve been there. Just below the surface.
And I didn’t even notice how close he was to crumbling completely.
“Come on,” Sean says before I can say anything else. “It’s time to go home.”
* * *
It takes us twenty minutes to get back to the Manor, but for me, it feels like a fucking lifetime. Mostly because Sean refuses to talk the entire way there.
I hate when he does this. Shuts down.
It isn’t making me feel any better about his mental state right now.
I’m worried he’s on the verge of doing something very fucking stupid indeed.
As we approach the massive black gates that mark out the O’Sullivan complex, they creak apart, allowing Sean and me to enter.
We’ve got two men on security today. They both nod their heads respectfully from the security booth as we pass through.
I return the gesture, but Sean just keeps on walking with his eyes fixed on the massive structure in front of us.
The house is a feat of architecture, one that Da spent almost a decade perfecting until he was satisfied with the end result.
Of course, no one believes the house is actually complete.
Da’s not the kind of man to ever be satisfied.
But to the untrained eye, the manor sitting in the middle of the one-acre plot of land looks pretty fucking flawless.
Sean and I walk up the private driveway that leads to the main entrance. The granite façade of the house has grown on me in the last couple of years. Sheer, clean, imposing.
As austere as it is, there’s something to be said for making a bold statement.
Almost the moment we enter, Quinn appears from one of the side passageways.
He’s dressed in his usual butler’s suit, pressed to perfection, without so much as a crease. He’s served the family for almost two decades now. Been around since before I was born.
The man might as well be a freaking robot. He never seems to age, either.
His bald head shines, reflecting the glass of the chandelier that hangs over us. His eyes are a light hazel that don’t miss a thing.
Ma jokes about the fact that Da might have his underbosses, but Quinn is his true right-hand man.
I’m inclined to agree.
“Master Sean, your father is in his study,” Quinn says in his creepy monotone voice. “He’s waiting for you.”
Sean makes a left for the study. I follow behind him.
“Your presence is not required, Master Cillian,” Quinn adds.
I give him my best grin. “Are you trying to keep me with you?” I ask. “‘Cause I’m flattered Quinn, really I am. But I’ve got business to attend to.”
“I believe the don wants to talk to Master Sean alone.”
The don.
When I was a little kid, I used to pretend that I was don, and one day, men would use the title on me with the same kind of reverence.
I don’t anymore.
Mostly because I realized it’s not reverence in their tone when they refer to my father.
It’s fear.
I’ve never wanted to be feared.
My father, on the other hand? He’s never wanted anything else.
“Come on now; don’t hurt my feelings,” I say, slipping past Quinn and quickening my pace until I’m right behind Sean.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sean mutters to me as we approach the don’s door.
I shrug. “The television in my bedroom’s on the fritz,” I tell him. “I need some entertainment.”
“You’re an idiot.” He doesn’t crack a smile to soften the comment, but I know he means it with love.
“Again with the compliments,” I tease. “You really know how to make a fellow feel special.”
Sean pushes the door open. We slip into Da’s private study.
It’s every bit as impressive as the rest of the house. If there’s one room in this place that exudes power and luxury, it’s this one. The beating heart of the O’Sullivan Manor. And really,
of the whole O’Sullivan clan.
It all comes back to this.
Bookshelves brimming with leather-bound volumes snake around the room before ending at the full-length windows that overlook part of the garden. Lush carpet mutes all footsteps, and the high ceilings swallow up the rest of the noise.
It’s eerily silent. Eerily dangerous.
Of course, nothing compares to the deadly aura of the man sitting behind the massive teak desk.
Just as the thought flits across my mind, my father’s light blue eyes land on me.
“Cillian,” he says tonelessly. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
I glance towards the fully-stocked liquor cabinet opposite the full-length windows. “Uh, I came for a drink.”
Da narrows his eyes.
“Or perhaps some fatherly advice?”
“Here’s some,” Da replies dryly. “Don’t come until you’re called.”
Sean tenses, but I force myself to keep the smile on my face. “We’ve got a great story for you,” I say, pivoting fast.
“Don’t,” Sean hisses at me, but it’s too late.
“A story?” Da repeats. “Is that right?”
“Stop talking,” Sean growls at me before walking over to Da’s desk.
He doesn’t sit down, though. I have a feeling it’s because he wants to keep his height advantage. It’s what I would do in his place.
“Da,” he announces with a stiff upper lip, “I don’t have the money.”
Da merely raises his eyebrows. The effect is unnerving.
I don’t for the life of me know how his men do it. I’d piss my pants every fucking day I had to see and report to Ronan O’Sullivan. Especially if the news was bad, like it is tonight.
“Padraig Connelly is a middle-aged drunk and a layabout,” Da says in an icy, measured tone. “Explain to me why you didn’t get a simple collection errand completed.”
“It was my fault,” I say, stepping in despite Sean’s warning.
“Cillian!”
I ignore him.
“We went to the house and we cornered the fucker.” I push through, despite the glares I’m getting from both men. “But then his daughter showed up. She had blue eyes and red hair and… well, actually, her hair color is immaterial. Anyway, I grabbed her and took her outside—”
“Cil!”
“…and I was trying to keep her from running back inside and interrupting the shakedown,” I continue on recklessly. “And I didn’t see them coming. That fucker Brody Murtagh with two Kinahan goons. I’m pretty sure they were following us. Well, Murtagh thought he could take me, which of course he couldn’t. And—”