Mafia Prince : Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Young Irish Rebels Book 1) Read online

  “Stay where you are, bitch.”

  “Just tell us what you want.” I can’t look away from Declan as he gasps for air. The man above him grins down with enjoyment. His gaze swings to me, and he spits on my brother like he’s a dog.

  “Declan here owes us twelve grand.”

  The earth beneath my feet shifts, and I need to sit down, but I don’t move. I don’t look at my brother any longer as he whimpers. I want to glance at my mother, who hasn’t said a word, but she’s alert and watching. I can hear her useless breaths from the corner of the room.

  “And if he doesn’t pay?” I ask the dreaded question.

  Blue eyes roam across my chest, and he takes a step closer to me, his gaze fixes on my exposed shoulder. “I was going to send your mother to one of our brothels until the debt is cleared. But now that you are here, I think you would be a very good money-spinner.” His fingers reach out and grip my chin, and I’m ready to step away from him, but I hold still, and his eyes gleam with approval that I don’t want.

  “I could take a test drive before we agree to anything,” the guy standing over my brother sneers.

  “Leave my sister alone, bro. I’ll get your money.” Declan tries to stand, but a large boot is pressed against his chest and pushes him back down. He holds out his thin arms, and I hate how faded he looks. He’s a copy of what my brother once was.

  “Your sister?” I take a step away from baldy as he speaks, and his fingers fall from my face. I didn’t expect him to let me go so easily.

  “This is the deal I’m going to make.” He places the gun in the band of his trousers, and it’s like the room sighs in relief. But I’m not fooled. This man would pull it out in a second. I’m keeping an eye on his friend, who I don’t doubt is packing a gun as well.

  “You have twenty-four hours to get me my money. If it’s not here when I return, I’m taking you.” His eyes bore into mine, and he takes a step towards me. This time when his fingers tighten on my arm, there is nothing gentle about it. I’m slammed against his chest as his other hand roughly dips into my pants. Terror grips me by the throat before I snap out of it, and I’m struggling. I’m trying to push him away as a deep-rooted fear starts to freeze me from the tips of my toes and travels quickly up my body. I don’t want to freeze, I can’t, or he will rape me. His fingers invade inside me, and then I’m free as he steps away and places his fingers in his mouth. Horror ripples through me, and my stomach lurches; It’s over in a second.

  “I’m nearly hoping you don’t have the money. See you in twenty-four hours.” His laughter floats out the door as his friend takes his foot off my brother’s chest and follows him out. The moment they leave, my mother’s cries grow by the second. I want to comfort her, but I’m on my knees, trying not to think about the invasion on my body.

  “Declan.” I’m searching his face. His soft brown eyes—the same as mine—smile up at me.

  “Hi, Kiddo.” His grin has always been a comfort when shit hit the fan, but now that I’m older and have taken a pounding from life, his grin doesn’t comfort me; it just makes me sad, and it makes me remember what once was.

  “Twelve thousand, Declan?” I shake my head, and he lies fully back. His top rises, and I hate how prominent his bones are.

  “When did you last eat?” I take his arm in my hand, and he doesn’t stop me as I turn it over. I expect the fresh needle marks, yet seeing them still dries up any hope that was about to flourish. Each week he makes me the same promise that he will get clean, and when I get back, he’ll be a new man. The stupid part of me wants to dream that he will. I snort at my naive thoughts. Yeah, and maybe my mother will stop drinking, and my father will walk through the door. Why not go wild and let me quit my job that keeps the roof over our heads and food on the table.

  “I’ll get the money.” Declan’s smiling up at me through cracked lips that plead for water, that he doesn’t even know his body is craving. I rise, and my mother continues to wail in the corner. She’s managed to get her cigarettes and lighter out of her pink dressing gown pocket, so she’s not that traumatized. I enter the kitchen, and the smell has me swallowing saliva. Taking down a mug, I fill it with water and return to the sitting room.

  My brother drinks and slowly sits up.

  “You remember that Christmas…” he’s laughing at the memory that hasn’t left his lips yet.

  I examine his face; a cut above his eye is still bleeding.

  “The one where mum knocked over the Christmas tree, or the one where she fell into the bath?” The list was endless, but none of them were funny. Not when you craved your father to walk through the door every Christmas, but he never did. Each year I grow harder until it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, only surviving.

  “The one where you swore you saw Santa Claus.” Declan finally says, and his long arm wraps around his waist like he can keep the laughter in that spills from his lips and fills the room. His laughter fills the room with a small amount of light that I bask in for just a moment. I’m smiling down at my brother. It reminds me of us under his blanket late at night after our mother had passed out from drinking. Declan had a way with words, a real natural storyteller. He would take me away from our home and bring me to the magical lands of Ireland where pots of gold sat at the end of rainbows, and banshees wailed about death. He made me believe for those brief moments that maybe there was something more to this existence than this.

  “It was one of mum’s boyfriends.” He’s still laughing, but his words sober me up.

  The endless stream of men through the door never got old. Each one as much as a write-off as my mother, who still wails in the corner like a fucking banshee from one of Declan’s stories.

  I’m tempted to tell her to knock it off, but I don’t waste my breath. I need to bandage Declan up.

  “Can you stand?”

  I hate how easily I lift Declan from the floor. It’s like a light sack of tinder for the fire.

  “Don’t leave me.” My mother whimpers from the corner. Anger bubbles in my veins, and if it could morph into something more, it would scorch her.

  I leave with Declan. His room is a bare mess. His bed frame is long gone. The dirty mattress on the floor is covered by a sheet that I can not lie him on. He hobbles over, and I stop him.

  “I need to change it, Declan. It has sick on it.”

  “It’s my sick.”

  He’s ready to lie down when I whip the sheet from under him. I don’t meet my brother’s eyes.

  “How are you going to get the money?” I ask the stupid question as I throw the sheet onto the pile of clothes next to his chest of drawers.

  He lies down and groans as I pull open his curtains and let some light flitter into his room.

  “Come on, Maeve, close them.” He slings an arm across his eyes. But I don’t close the curtains. I force open a window to let in some air.

  “Declan, this is serious,” I say while staring out onto our lawn that died a long time ago. My gaze travels further as a group of young people huddles together while one jams to a beat that another makes.

  “I don’t know how I’ll get the money.”

  I step away from the window at my brother’s admission and leave him as I grab the first aid kit in the bathroom. My mother’s cries have ceased as I re-enter my brother’s room and kneel down on the floor beside his mattress.

  “What about Lenny?” I ask and cringe. I hate even mentioning Lenny’s name. But he is a local loan shark.

  My brother turns his face towards me, and I hate the sadness I see in his eyes. It’s like all his pain is swimming in circles and sucking the soul out of him. A force that I can’t stop. My hand touches his dark hair, and I want to plead for my brother to come back to me and help me.

  The weak thought has me focusing on his cut.

  “Lenny broke my legs the last time,” Declan says and hisses as I press down heavily on his cut.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to be raped over and over again.” My words are harsh, and Declan’s lanky frame goes rigid. He’s five years older than me, twenty-nine, but most days, he reminds me of my little brother.

  “I’ll figure something out.” He turns away from me onto his side. I sit with the bloodied cloth in my hand until his breathing evens out, and I know he’s asleep. When he wakes, he might not even remember the threat that hangs over our heads.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JACK

  The jeep sways as I cross the large steel bars that are laid at the entrance to the farmhouse. Rolling down the window, my lungs burn from the cold wind that whips its way inside the vehicle. The air pricks my skin and wakes me up a bit. How many hours had it been since I slept? Thirty-six? I had no idea. I had honestly lost count. I drive up to the red barriers that stop me from going any further. Knocking off the ignition, I reach into the back of the jeep and search for my coat. My hand skims across cold leather; I must have left my jacket in the club. Pulling the keys out, I get out reluctantly. The smell of steel and cut grass circles me as I stuff my hands into my jeans pockets and bend so I can get under the red barrier. The old farmhouse is derelict; the windows boarded up. More grass grows on the roof than in the small patch of dirt that would be considered the front lawn.

  Walking along the side of the house, I make my way to a large shed that must have housed a hundred cattle at one time. It’s empty. The livestock is outside on the green patches of grass in the distance—my breath dances in front of me as I spin around at the purr of an approaching vehicle.

  The job I am doing today has nothing to do with my own work; this is for my father. I stay within the clubs, running them, and maintaining order. Other parts of our operations are run by one of my uncles; they all have their roles to play. But this job today is the start of my trials. I ha
ve to prove my worth before my father passes me the crown. A white jeep pulls up behind mine. I can’t see the driver, but I know who it is.

  Finn, my uncle, gets out, and I curse my fucking father. Finn is nice. He never says a bad word about anyone and is known as the peacekeeper. I wanted to work with my Uncle Shane or even my Uncle Darragh. They all had their hands in the jar that my father held the lid over, ready to close it when he saw fit.

  Finn waves at me, his eyes crinkle at the corners. He opens the back door and pulls out a heavy gray jacket that he slings across his body. At least he had the common sense to bring a jacket. But I couldn’t see Finn any other way, only sensible and prepared.

  “Finn.” I greet him with a jerk of my chin as he gets closer.

  “It’s a cold one.” He pulls a pair of gloves out of his pocket and stuffs his hands inside them.

  “Mighty cold. So, what’s the job?” I hope he knows more than I do, but already the fact my father sent Finn, I’m assuming this is a simple pick up. He wouldn’t send Finn to harm anyone. My uncle would release them or try to talk the rest of us out of hurting anyone.

  He looks so much like my Uncle Darragh. They are twins, but they are both at the opposite ends of the spectrum. Darragh’s a mad bastard, always was, as far as the stories go, that I’ve heard countless times about him.

  Finn is always wrapped in a never-ending circle of pain. They say it’s from losing his wife. I don’t understand his pain. I honestly think if he got laid more, he’d be better off. Of course, I’m wise enough not to voice this; no matter what I think, I have to give my respect to my elders.

  “I have no idea what he sent us here for.” Finn glances around the farmyard while zipping up his coat.

  I pull my hands out of my jeans, and the material burns my skin. Blowing into them does little to fight off the biting cold.

  Finn shrugs snugly in his jacket, and I follow him into the shed. He leans over each small wall and checks out the stalls before moving to the next.

  “So have you spoken to Cian?”

  I move to the opposite side of the shed and start looking into the stalls to speed up the process. I am freezing my balls off here. “No.” I keep it short, but I’m also very aware of my tone.

  Finn isn’t moving anymore, and I tuck my fingers under my armpits to keep them warm before turning to him.

  “He’s …” I’m trying to think of the right words. I want to say a complete jackass, but once again, I know I need to be careful with my words.

  “I know he isn’t easy.”

  I can’t stop the sneer that tugs at my lips. “He’s a red-headed little fucker.” Fuck it. I’ve said it now.

  Finn tries to hide a grin by looking over the next wall. “Don’t let Shane hear you say that.”

  “I’m not stupid,” I mumble.

  “I know. That’s why you will lead us.” Finn’s confidence in me makes me uncomfortable. I’ve known all my life that I would lead as the head of our family. We control all the North-East of Ireland. Every drug trade, every brothel, every delivery of arms, we controlled. My dad and his brothers had built it up from nothing, and the empire that sat before me had hotels, clubs, restaurants, and an endless portfolio of property. I should be ecstatic to be inheriting everything, but it isn’t that simple. Nothing good ever is.

  “Found it.” Finn’s words drag me out of my thoughts, and I bounce across the shed towards him. He steps into the last stall. Of course, it’s at the end, the furthest distance away from the jeeps. I pull back the green tarp, and I stare at the white blocks that are stacked nearly five feet high.

  “That’s a lot of coke. Are we expected to load this into the jeeps?”

  “No. We just stare at it and then leave it here.” Finn’s sarcasm is unexpected, and when he glances at me, I can see he’s ready to apologize. I don’t want his apology.

  I grab two blocks of white powder and turn to Finn. He still wears a grin—the air ripples before warm liquid splatters across my face. Finn hits the ground, and I’m standing frozen as I blink several times. The gurgling at my feet has me dropping the white blocks, and I join Finn on the ground.

  He’s trying to breathe, but he reminds me of a fish out of water, gasping for air. Blood pours from his neck. His hands grip the wound, but blood oozes out far too quickly. I’m waiting for more bullets to rain down on us, but the air is still. The shooter has ceased or has left. I want to find him and make him pay for spilling O’Reagan blood. Already I’m fuelled with thoughts of revenge.

  Finn’s blue eyes are fading, and there is a wild panic in them that I’ve seen before, in dying animals and people.

  “You’re not dying today.” I push a hand down over the wound while getting out my phone.

  My father doesn’t answer, and I curse him before I ring Shane.

  “Finn’s been shot.” I want to add ‘and it’s bad.’

  “I’m on the way.” Shane hangs up and doesn’t ask where we are. They would all know since this was part of the trials. I rub my face into my shoulder to try to get rid of the blood that still coats my face.

  My hand turns red, and Finn’s skin pales even further. All I can think of is that he can’t die on my watch. This wasn’t part of the trials. The blood that runs from him is warm; this isn’t a trick or a test. Someone just shot my uncle. Maybe he wasn’t the target. Maybe I was. I raise my head slightly but can’t see much over the wall.

  “Shane is on his way,” I speak to Finn, and his eyes flutter closed.

  “Stay awake, Finn.”

  His eyes open, but he isn’t with me at this moment. He’s somewhere else.

  “Don’t you fucking stop fighting,” I warn and press my hand down heavier on his neck. All I can do is talk shit to him, to keep him awake. I’m telling him anything I can think of. I’m ten again.

  “I met your dad once. My grandfather.”

  I swear it looks like his eyes widen.

  “He said he just wanted to meet me, get to know me. He looks like you all.” I listen for the purr of a vehicle that I don’t hear.

  Where are you, Shane?

  “He said I was part of An Chlann.”

  Finn gargles as he tries to speak.

  “Shut the fuck up, Finn.” Panic tears through me. I don’t want to hear his dying words. I won’t be the one to watch the light go out in his eyes. A car tears into the yard.

  “See, everything is going to be fine. Shane’s here.”

  Hope doesn’t blossom in Finn’s eyes.

  A car door shuts.

  “The last stall,” I shout. Once again, I’m tempted to say how bad it is, but I don’t. “The shot came from the west. The shooter could still be here.”

  “Is it bad?” Shane’s voice is closer.

  I want to growl and tell him to hurry up.

  “It’s a neck shot.”

  Shane curses, and he appears. He stares at his brother on the ground.

  “Finn.” He kneels down, and his eyes roam across Finn’s face and neck.

  Finn’s still alert, and I don’t know how. You can’t kill a bad thing; that’s what my father always said. Only Finn isn’t a bad person. He was the only good in all of us.

  “We lift him on the count of three.”

  I’m gripping his legs, and Shane takes his shoulders. I hate as we rise how blood puddles on the ground. We leave a trail through the shed and all the way to the car.

  Once he’s loaded into the back of Shane’s car, I’m ready to climb in.

  “Stay here. Darragh will be arriving to help you clean up.”

  “What about Finn?” I can’t see him now because Shane has laid him flat in the backseat.

  Shane pulls the door closed and reverses like the Gardaí are chasing him. I don’t move from the spot for a moment until my phone starts to ring.

  “Shane arrived. He’s taking Finn to the hospital.”

  “Darragh and Cian are on their way,” My father says. I didn’t want to have to look at Cian, but right now wasn’t the time to start mouthing off. I climb into the jeep, leaving bloodied handprints everywhere.

  Any brother would ask how his brother is after he’s been shot, but not my father.