Vicious: A Mafia Romance (Wild Irish Series Book 1)

  VICIOUS

  A WILD IRISH SERIES

  VI CARTER

  Copyright

  Vicious Copyright © 2019 by VI CARTER.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition: June 2019

  Contents

  WILD IRISH

  1. Finn

  2. Finn

  3. Finn

  4. Finn

  5. Siobhan

  6. Finn

  7. Siobhan

  8. Siobhan

  VICIOUS

  Prologue

  1. Shane

  2. Shane

  3. Una

  4. Una

  5. Una

  6. Shane

  7. Una

  8. Shane

  9. Una

  10. Shane

  11. Una

  12. Shane

  13. Shane

  14. Una

  15. Una

  16. Shane

  17. Una

  18. Shane

  19. Una

  20. Shane

  21. Una

  22. Una

  23. Una

  24. Una

  25. Shane

  Claiming Amber

  Enjoy This Book?

  About the Author

  WILD IRISH

  A PREQUEL TO VICIOUS

  She owns the land that I need… to hide bodies.

  Siobhan.

  A city girl with no ties to the land.

  It was supposed to be an easy buy.

  No complications.

  And definitely no conflicts.

  But her sweet lips have me hooked.

  Having her in my bed is all I think about.

  Showing this city girl what a real man can do.

  But she isn’t the reason why I’m here.

  The task at hand is crucial.

  There can be no room for mistakes.

  Family comes first.

  It’s what the O’Reagans have always lived by.

  Returning home without this land isn’t an option.

  Is losing my family worth gambling with my heart?

  1

  Finn

  “Where is your brother?” My father bends over a map that takes up the top of the table. His index finger has stopped moving as I enter. He doesn’t look up at me. Shane stands firmly beside him, arms folded across his wide chest. I scratch my eyebrow in annoyance.

  There is so much I want to say, like, ‘Just because we are twins doesn’t mean we keep tabs on each other.’ Or ‘Do I look like a fucking slave?’ But our motto is carved into the wood that hangs over the dining table that is mostly used for meetings.

  The Irish word ‘Chlann’ has been carved into that piece of wood by our father’s, father, and it is carved into all of us. The family comes first, no matter what. My eyes flicker back to Shane who still stares at me, a shadow of a grin on his face.

  “Probably in bed with a whore,” I rattle off, and that gets my father’s attention. His finger slightly curls.

  “Watch your mouth, Finn.” He speaks but doesn’t look at me. Is he fucking kidding? His mouth spews poison half the time.

  I flicker a glance at Shane, expecting the grin to be visible, but it isn’t, instead, his head tilts slightly towards our father, his way of telling me to shut the fuck up and go and get our brother.

  “I’ll get him now.” With a sigh, I close the door behind me and take the stairs two at a time, slowing down once I reach the landing. I can hear the undercurrent of a beat. Darragh never switches his music off. In his life, the party never seems to stop. I can smell the cigarette smoke before I even open his door, and once I do, a lot of other smells follow.

  “Darragh, get up.” I kick the base of the bed, where three sets of legs hang out. The alcohol fumes in the room have me wanting to open a window. My steel toe boot connects with the bed frame again. A blond pops up like a blow-up doll, mumbling as she looks around the room. Her eyes settle on me, and she slowly grins.

  “Good morning.” A polish accent or maybe Russian—I can’t tell the difference—coats her words.

  “Get out,” I tell her. Her brows furrow as she looks down at sleeping beauty, who I am tempted to kick the shit out of if he doesn’t wake up soon.

  “Darragh, get the fuck up.” This time he does, and the second blow-up doll inflates. Topless. She does a double take to me and then Darragh. “Twins.”

  “You’re a genius. Now, get out,” I say slowly for her. This time they both get out of the bed. The second one yelps as Darragh lands a slap to her arse. I wonder sometimes how we are related. The idea that we shared the same womb is baffling.

  “Da is waiting, Darragh, and he’s pissed.” I don’t blatantly watch the girls as they get dressed, but I can’t help the occasional glance; they are fit, a little too thin for my likings, but still nice. I light a fag as Darragh finally gets off the bed and pulls on a white t-shirt.

  “Pick a different color,” I tell him. I am wearing a white t-shirt, and I’ll be fucked if we are dressing the same.

  “You know who you are like?” Darragh asks while pulling the t-shirt off. I don’t acknowledge him but smoke my fag, hoping by the time I am finished, that Darragh will be ready. “You’re like Da.”

  I snort because I am the furthest from our father, and Darragh knows it. I don’t respond as each girl moves past me and out the door. Darragh promises to ring them later, and they believe him. Our front door has become a rotating one with all of Darragh’s women. None are ever brought back for seconds. He pulls on jeans, and I want to tell him to change them. I’m wearing jeans, but I don’t want to sound whiny.

  “What does he want?” Darragh slaps his face twice, and I am glad that he shaves daily. I’m growing a beard just so we look different. Being identical twins is a pain in the ass.

  “I don’t know. Shane’s with him,” I say as we make our way downstairs and return to the dining room with my brother, like a good little doggy.

  “Close the door,” Dad barks, and Darragh does. Once we all stand around the map on the table, he finally looks up, blue eyes snapping from me to Darragh. My father is a man that many admire.

  For me, I hate him and love him. I hate how he sees me as someone to take care of Darragh, I hate how he treats Connor, my brother. I hate the control.

  My mind moves back to the meeting as Shane kicks it off.

  “Land close by has come up for sale.” Normally Shane doesn’t speak unless father has asked him too, but I can see the irritation in our father's stance.

  The smell of alcohol off Darragh is wafting through the room, and he looks like he smells. Bloodshot eyes blink several times as he slaps himself across the face again. If he keeps it up, he won’t have to slap himself anymore; Dad is ready to flitter him.

  Shane jabs a finger at a patch of green fields circled with a red marker on the map. “11.86 acres has come up. Seven of it is bog land.” We all stare at the green patch that Shane points at.

  “Darragh, I want you to convince the new landowner to sell it to you,” Father cuts in, and Darragh folds his arms across his chest while nodding.

  “She’s only moved back here, she has no family or attachmen
t to the land, and it should be an easy sell.” Shane sits down at the table, his black shirt and slacks make him look like he is going to a funeral. Maybe he is.

  “You go with him,” my father says, cutting me with his sharp eye. Once again I try to hide my irritation at being Darragh’s babysitter.

  “How much?” Darragh widens his eyes, and I wonder if he’s high. I want to kick him and tell him to get his shit together.

  “Offer her a hundred thousand.”

  Darragh nods.

  “For bog land? That’s worth like what, two or three an acre, the good land no more than ten.” I can’t for a second understand why he is over paying.

  “I didn’t realize you were my financial adviser.” Darragh shifts beside me, and I clench my jaw at my father’s words. If Shane gave his opinion it wouldn’t be shot down, but the moment I do, I get a smart fucking answer

  “You both tidy yourselves up. You leave in an hour.” My father dismisses us with a wave of his hand. I am out of there and taking the stairs two at a time. My mind, for some reason, begins conjuring up images of Conor. It’s weird how much you can miss a person. I hate him for abandoning me. But he has always been there for me. Now I feel so out of place in our dysfunctional family.

  Slamming my door feels pretty juvenile, but I need to release some of my anger. I also need to get showered and ready to go and purchase bog land, land that is only good for one thing.

  Dumping bodies.

  SIOBHAN

  ‘Death. It comes to us all.’ That line is from Gladiator, one of my all-time favorite films, and it rings true to me.. Right now, it’s on a loop as I look down at my father. All the wasted time, all the what if’s and why’s. Now they no longer matter. All that matters is saying goodbye and hoping the next time I meet him, we might spend some time together. I might actually get to know my father.

  “Ah, Siobhan I’m so sorry for your loss.” Another farmer who I don’t know takes my hand in his. His other holds a hat that he takes from his balding head. His tweed jacket is worn and looks like if you’d slap it, dust mites would fill the air. But this is their Sunday clothes, funeral clothes. Irish Farmers have their own unique style.

  “Thank you.” I don’t know his name, and there is a pause, like he is waiting for me to say it. His hand tightens on mine. “Michael,” I say. The other part of me wants to say Patrick, but I am wrong either way.

  “Peter.”

  I exhale a breath. “Ah, yeah, Peter.”

  “Peter, you are holding up the line.” Olive, bless her heart, leans in across my shoulder. Peter is a big man, nearly seven foot tall, so being told off by a woman who is small and round is funny. But he moves along the line that just isn’t stopping. The room is now filled with men, mostly farmers, all chatting about how great my dad was.

  My eyes flicker once again to his corpse. Each story I hear makes me wish I had known him. I don’t feel sad, or upset like any normal daughter would. No tears come, I even try to force them by thinking back to burying my mother when I was only fifteen. But I have nada.

  The wake is to last three nights. Three long nights. Honestly, I don’t understand why we have to wait so long, but it’s a tradition, in case he wakes up, but my father isn’t waking up. He’s dead. For sure. “Olive. I’m going to take a break.” I needed to get out of this room of strangers.

  Olive nods, each nod sharp. “Don’t you worry, Siobhan. I’ll keep this show on the road.” I suppress a smile that threatens to appear. She pats me three times on the arm. “You take a wee break. Come back when you’re ready.” I don’t delay. Instead, I move through the house quickly and out into the small backyard, which is walled in.

  Opening the gate I move out into the farmyard. The large slatted shed that housed eighty cattle is now silent. It’s an odd sound. Spending most of my childhood listening to the wails of the cattle, the silence is another reminder that everyone here is gone.

  Swallowing the first sign of tears, I tighten my arms across my chest. It’s freezing outside, my breaths form small white puffs in front of me. The light black dress in’t doing anything to fight off the cold. The wind prickles my skin, making me feel, and I allow it. Standing still with my eyes closed brings back so many memories.

  My mother wasn’t a conventional mother by any means. She would roll up her sleeves and come out and help Dad with the cattle. She would shovel dung, feed them silage, a pair of overalls was something she owned.

  A small laugh bubbles from my lips, accompanied by my first cry. Dad loved her so much. I remember watching him…watching her, thinking one day I hope someone looks at me like that. That is the before. Before she got cancer, before everything changed then, he changed. Our home changed.

  “Siobhan?” My name spoken softly and like a question, which has me wiping my eyes quickly. Two young men—brothers—are standing in the yard. Both are not farmers, and they look out of place in my yard. Like when city slickers arrive and stumble upon our house, either looking to buy it or looking for directions.

  The one who is closer has a soft smile on his face. His black suit fits him snuggly. His freshly shaven face gives him that city slick feel. Blond hair brushed to the side finishes off the look.

  My eyes move to the brother who stands a few paces back. He doesn’t wear black. His jeans and white t-shirt is finished off with a black suit jacket. His wild beard and wild blue eyes do funny things to my stomach. They are both attractive, what an odd thing to think of when my father was laid out a few feet away.

  “Yes, I’m Siobhan,” I finally answer on an exhale.

  “Darragh O’Regan. Knew your father. He was mighty.” The closest one says, and I take his large, and surprisingly soft, outstretched hand.

  “Thank you.” I feel he is smiling too hard, and the smell of alcohol emitting off him has my eyes flickering to his brother.

  “Sorry for your loss.” His voice is deep, and I find myself nodding at him. Darragh still holds my hand, my eyes snapping back to him. “We wanted to know if you had a minute for a chat.”

  It is my father’s wake. But sure why not?

  “What about?” I remove my hand from his and take a step sideways just to put a bit of space between us. Folding my arms across my chest doesn’t do anything to fight off the cold biting into me now.

  “We want to buy your land.”

  Anger that I didn’t expect ripples through me. I unfold my arms and refold them while shifting on my feet I look at both brothers; waiting for what? I’m unsure. Darragh is still smiling while the other is looking around him, like he wants to find somewhere to hide. The fact that he reacts like that makes me like him a small bit more, yet these two brothers have arrived to my father’s funeral to buy stupid land. I push down my anger not wanting to create a stir. “I’m not sure what I’m doing with it.” There is a time and place for everything, and this isn’t either.

  “Thank you for coming,” I add while moving past both men before the second one with the beard stops me with his words.

  “Your father was a good man.” I look at him now. Really look at him, because he sounds so sincere, so honest.

  “Was he?” I find myself questioning. I am sick of hearing what a good man he was. I want to scream that I don’t know the man that was left after my mother died and took him with her. Leaving a shell. Well, not a shell, apparently. Everyone else seems to think he was great.

  His brows pull down and I don’t blame him, he is a stranger, and he doesn’t need to know about our family problems. “Sorry, yeah he was.” I leave quickly and go back into the house. I don’t go to the sitting room that my father is laid out in. Instead, I make my way into the kitchen that also holds a group of farmers eating sandwiches and drinking tea. A big pot of stew sits on the stove. The kitchen is warm and cozy after the cold outside. I settle into an armchair that faces the window and let the room warm me up.

  “Siobhan, sweetheart, will you have a bowl of stew?” I smile now at Teresa. She is a neighbor. Our home is down
what is known as the black lane. It sits at the end by itself. Teresa is the closest, and her house is across the road from the lane. I don’t know her, but when I got back, she was there taking over, and I didn’t mind.

  Everyone in the area is here to help, united in their love for my father. Teresa wears a woolly cream Aran jumper and has red rosy cheeks. Sleeves rolled up to her elbows couldn’t cool her down. That wool is thick; I used to own a few of them. Once I moved to Dublin, I left it all behind. Just like the life I knew before.

  Sandie settles at my feet, another thing I am trying to adjust to. She is my father’s sheepdog, one he had gotten after I’d left. She follows me around like she knows I am her owner's daughter. I wasn’t exactly an animal lover, and I don’t want to get attached. I couldn’t take a sheepdog back to my apartment in Dublin.

  “I’m fine, Teresa,” I tell her. My stomach grumbles, but the thought of eating makes my mouth water.

  “Just a small bowl.” She had kind grey eyes that smile, even when her lips don’t. “A small one then,” I tell her, and her smile spreads fast across her face.

  “A bowl over here wouldn’t go astray,” Peter speaks up from the group of farmers, and a few of them follow suit. Teresa is quick to dish out bowls of stew and smiles as they start to dig in. Compliments on the stew are passed around the kitchen making Teresa’s face redden and her laughther deepen, and it was in that moment that I find this sense of peace. In my family’s kitchen surrounded by strangers, with a dog I don’t own at my feet. The heat of the bowl is warming my hands, but the love of these people is going deeper.