Mafia Games: Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Young Irish Rebels Book 3) Read online

  I am to be a King on a panel of four for the Irish Mafia. This is my father’s first condition. I am like a placemat for a drink or a pawn in his wicked game.

  “So, you just want me to look pretty?” I ask him as I rub my wrists again as though the cuffs have been on them for the full three years and not just minutes. Before I left the asylum, I was handed the clothes I arrived in. Everything is too tight from spending all of my time working out. Exercising kept me sane, or so I hope.

  “Exactly.” My father stops at his Bentley and glances at me over the shiny roof. Everything about him is pristine, from his perfectly brushed dark hair to the tip of his shoes that you can see your reflection in.

  I glance away from his dark eyes, the same as mine, and at Mullingar’s madhouse, my home for the last three years.

  “Leave the past in the past, son.”

  I grin at my father, but my expression holds not one ounce of amusement. “Wouldn’t that suit you?” I say and climb in to the car. I’m sure I hear my shirt tear along the side with the quick movement I make. A part of me wants to shame him for putting me, his son, in an asylum. I glance at him again. I hate that everyone says I am his double. In looks, yes, I have his dark features, but under the flesh and bones, I have a heart. It might be black, but it still beats, unlike his. I glance back up at the drab building with its endless sea of windows looking down on me. I can feel their judgment as a reminder of all the things they see and hear. I want to leave now, but my father takes his time unbuttoning his tailored suit jacket before climbing into the car. “A lot has happened while you’ve been gone. You arriving back with an attitude won’t serve anyone well.”

  I turn in my seat and face him. My anger unleashes itself, its inky fingers reaching out, but my rage doesn’t sink into my father’s flesh. No, my father is made of unyielding steel that I’ve never been able to penetrate. He tried to mold me into a mirror image of him.

  I’m sure I’m a fucking disappointment.

  My own anger and armor dissolve, and exhaustion that I have hidden for so long takes root and drags me lower. “Why?” I’m breathing heavily. The smell of leather, car polish and my father’s cologne fills my lungs.

  My father doesn’t start the Bentley; he’s setting up his phone and putting on his seat belt. I don’t think he’s heard my question. My weak attempt at trying to understand why he took me to this building three years ago. When I walked through the old front doors, I had no idea that I wouldn’t see the light of day for a long time. My gaze is dragged up to the sky. The sun blinks in and out behind a mass of dark clouds that promise a shower shortly.

  “Emotions are dangerous in our line of work. Most times, they are unnecessary. You reacted to your emotions twice, and that is a weakness that I wanted to remove from you.” My father draws my attention away from the looming bad weather. His eyes hold the truth of his words. Or what he believes to be the truth. “Jack will never rule. You will.”

  My gut tightens. “So you locked me up in an asylum for three years?” Rage starts to grow, jump-starting my hunger for blood that I want to feed.

  “First, I put you there so you could see how damaging emotions really are. Every single person in that place drowned in their own emotions, and look where it landed them.”

  “I reacted to a hysterical mother!” I grit my teeth. My defense sounds feeble. I had taken the life of one of our men to stop him from killing a woman. Yes, she was part of the problem but killing her wasn’t a solution. The woman still died that day at my father’s orders leaving behind three orphans. He made sure I watched. I thought that was the lesson. Obviously, I was wrong. I lick my lips, my mouth dry from resentment and lack of water.

  “It doesn’t matter what form they come in. If they are a problem, we take care of it. It’s not always pretty. Women, men, and even at unfortunate times a child may be the sacrifice.” My father turns to me. “Secondly, I didn’t place you there for three years. You killed a nurse, and that’s what kept you there.”

  I want to argue if he hadn’t placed me in the asylum, I wouldn’t have killed the nurse. I wouldn’t have nearly died. I wouldn’t have almost lost my mind. I’d like to say my stay at the asylum didn’t break me, but I’m not sure how much truth is in that statement.

  “I’m not looking for a replacement, Richard. I’m looking for a leader who will carry the O’Reagan name.”

  My father starts the Bentley. Our father/son chat over. Or so I thought.

  “A lot has happened while you’ve been gone.”

  The thought of my siblings and mother is there again in my mind. My father will see it as a weakness if I ask about them. He’s right. I bury my questions under my rage that barks at me, demanding a lump of meat in the form of my attention.

  “We have a panel of four Kings. Jack, Shay, You and me.”

  Fucking great. “Shay?” I question, and I get a kick out of seeing the slight tightness in my father’s jaw. His half-brother Connor is a thorn in his side, so to hear Connor’s son Shay is a King is a surprise.

  “He helped cover up Jack’s mess.”

  I’m sitting up now. This is interesting. My shirt stretches even further at the movement, and I feel it split at my spine. I’ll be shirtless by the time we get home. “What did Jack do?” Jack is three years older than me, but I always look at him as my little brother. I’m taller, bigger, and my father favors me and told me that I would rule, and Jack will be my right-hand man–my crutch- that I honestly don’t need. He will be a crutch I will kick out from under my feet. I have my own men. I know the path I want to go down, and it doesn’t include Jack or Shay.

  “His girlfriend killed Cian.” My father says the words with no emotion attached to them.

  I’m caught between looking out the window at the passing world I get to re-join and trying to hold on to the lessons my father taught me. Jack has a girlfriend, and she had the balls to kill Cian. I already like her.

  Silence filters in, and I’m used to seeing the world with no sound. Looking out the window, I watch the gray buildings fall away, and greenery slowly starts to spring up until it swallows all the gray. Trees line either side of the road, some arch over us canopying the road. That’s when I know I’m going home when fields roll out either side of us.

  The boy in me wants to cry that we made it home— that we survived.

  “Also, your uncle Finn was shot.”

  I glance at my father to gauge his reaction to this; he doesn’t give anything away until his next sentence.

  “He’s in a wheelchair.” Irritation clings to his words, along with a hint of disappointment. As if Finn is a fuck up for getting himself shot.

  As my father continues to fill me in, I wonder, did anyone ask where I was during all of these family tragedies?

  “He’s not happy, and neither am I.” My father states.

  Finn getting himself shot is such an inconvenience on my father, clearly.

  “I need you to kill him.” My father says the words matter of factly as he pulls up to my house. The large black iron gates dominating the entryway start to open slowly. Large, black, marble eagles sit either side of the gates, resting on pillars with outstretched wings as though they might take flight at any second. Their sharp eyes and long beaks make them look threatening. That’s why I fell in love with them. I had them transported from the Czech Republic and restored over here. My mind wants to focus on the eagles, but my father is waiting for an answer.

  “What did he do to deserve your wrath, besides being in a wheelchair?”

  My father doesn’t like being questioned. He’s watching the large gates open. My stomach tightens. I’m home.

  “He’s an inconvenience, and it’s cruel to leave him as he is.”

  I laugh. I shouldn’t. “So you are putting him out of his misery. How noble, father.”

  My father glances at me, his smile like a shark circling blood. “No, son. You are going to put him out of his misery.” My father refocuses on driving as we make ou
r way up the long, swirling driveway.

  I want to ask him, is he sure? Has he thought this through? But I already know my father thinks everything through. That’s why he’s in the position he is in.

  There is no more talk of Finn as my father stops the car at my front door.

  “All your staff have been notified of your return.” My father doesn’t remove his seat belt.

  I won’t thank him. I know the staff is here from the lights that shine from random rooms on all three floors. They never left. I always had communication with my men. I’m sure my father is aware of that fact.

  I remove my seatbelt.

  “Your mother believes you have been in the Czech Republic the last three years.”

  I clench my jaw.

  “So do Jack and Dana.”

  So he had made up a story about my whereabouts. No wonder no one visited me. But, did they not try to contact me and find it odd when I didn’t respond. I want to ask, but I don’t.

  “You will have to make your travels believable, son.”

  I nod without looking at my father. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.” His word releases me, and I’m out of the car.

  The cold iron handle under my fingers ignites more of a loss in me. I don't linger as I open my front door and let it close on my father.

  I might have to bend to his will, but he isn’t welcome in my home.

  Mario greets me in the entry hall with a bow of his head. He’s glancing behind me. “Your luggage, Sir?” He asks.

  “I don’t have any.” I walk past him, my eyes sweeping across every inch of the space. It feels foreign but familiar to me. Dark paintings line the walls. The oak flooring echoes my steps as I pull off the jacket.

  “I need a fresh t-shirt.” I fire over my shoulder at Mario.

  “Yes, Sir.” His dainty steps annoy me as he dashes up the stairs. He isn’t privy to where I was. I keep him around. I know he is one of my father’s many spies.

  I enter the living space, where I saw the light on from outside. The minute I step in, Davy stands up. The leather on the couch behind him remains dented, making me wonder how long he has been waiting. His army green knee-length shorts allow me to see his tattooed legs. A Nazi symbol consumes the front of his thigh, and I know if he turns, I’d come face to face with Adolf Hitler. He adores the man. I don't give a shit who he looks up to, as long as he is loyal to me, which he is.

  His small frame and bald head make him appear non-threatening. That’s why I picked Davy. A black belt in martial arts. He is a weapon, and I gathered many over my time.

  He grips my outstretched hand and pulls me towards him. We don’t hug, but we stand close. There is such respect in his eyes; my own respect for him shines back.

  “Welcome back.” Davy grins.

  “Is it ready?” That’s all I’ve really been thinking about. It’s consumed my mind for the last year, and now that I’m finally home, I get to actually see the final product.

  Davy’s smile leaves his face. He still holds my hand and gives it a shake. “Yes. It’s ready.” I release him, and he fixes the glasses on his nose before leaving the room that I take a quick look at it as if it might disappear. Once again, the feeling that none of this is mine has me peeling off my shirt to distract myself.

  Mario is lingering in the hall, holding a white t-shirt. He looks stiff and half afraid as I take the top and pull it on. The t-shirt is tight, but I don’t fear it tearing at any second.

  “Anything I can get for you, Sir?”

  “I want a meal prepared and ready in one hour. Also, call my tailor I need all new suits.” I speak while walking.

  “Yes, Sir.” Mario’s words reach me as I move under the large arch that takes us into a second hallway.

  Davy’s steps are quick, and he almost skips. He’s excited. Not about the glass box, but about completing the assignment that he’s been overseeing for the last year. He opens a door, and we move down the steps into the basement that has now been transformed.

  Davy flicks on the lights, and one after the other, they come to life, allowing the room to expand, eradicating the darkness.

  “You really built it.” I move off the final step and into the basement.

  “I always follow your orders.”

  Davy moves in front of me. Pride has his shoulders back, his chest out, and a slight smile on his face. “It’s beautiful.”

  I didn’t see beauty in the construction. I step up to the wall of glass and touch the cold, thick wall.

  They had done exactly what I had requested. They built a glass box, complete with a glass ceiling. Inside the box is a king-size bed and a wardrobe filled with clothes; I know this because I asked for it to be filled with white dresses, all size six

  A tub sits in the center, with a toilet and sink to the left. A small table and chairs with a circular rug under them are close to the opening, which I walk around to.

  “This is the only way in or out. It’s exactly as you asked for.” Davy reaches out, and I take the key card.

  Everything inside the box is white, just like I requested.

  “I’m impressed.” I glance at Davy. The box takes up half the basement. They had to build it in this room, and that would have been no easy feat.

  “Now, are you going to tell me what it’s for? I’m assuming it’s some form of torture?”

  “Torture is a good word for it.” I step away from the glass box. Three years in one, and now I will place someone else in mine. I almost feel sorry for them, but that small bit of pity crumbles, and in its place, excitement blossoms. My father really had taught me one lesson in particular very well. Never strike an enemy. You befriend them and find their weakness. That’s exactly what I am doing. I think of Claire in her white summer dress, looking like an angel.

  “Our guest will be arriving tomorrow.” I walk around the glass box. The large King size bed is made up. Everything is ready.

  “A female, I can assume from the clothes.”

  I place the key card in my pocket and turn to Davy. I trust him with my life, but I don’t have to explain myself to him.

  He knows I’m done talking. He points to the left of the room. “The glass coffin.” As he says it, the glint in his eyes looks like he holds a question mark over my sanity.

  I walk over to the other item I had instructed him to have built. The coffin is sitting on large wooden planks held up by concrete blocks. “I wasn’t sure where to place it.”

  I kneel down and run my hand along the top of the coffin. The material is so familiar to my flesh. My fingers turn the small knob, and I slide back a small slot of glass, like a tiny window.

  “It’s perfect. Great job.” I slide the small window closed and stand up. “The crew who built all this?” I ask.

  “Dealt with,” Davy responds. Meaning they are dead.

  “All the men will be ready for duty tomorrow.” Davy continues.

  I have twenty men who are trained with the defense forces but have never seen any combat, so I put all their skills to use.

  “Good.” I return to the glass box that will be occupied tomorrow. “Her name is Claire,” I speak to Davy while staring at the clawfoot tub. The legs are gold, the only color in the box. “The feet are gold,” I state.

  Davy doesn’t answer, and I glance at him. “The legs of the tub are gold. I want them white, and I want it done by tomorrow.”

  “It will be ready.” Disappointment has Davy pushing up his glasses.

  I don’t leave but pat him on the back. “I know it will.” Or heads will roll. I don’t have to threaten him; he’s watched enough of his comrades fall for their deficiencies.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CLAIRE

  “We welcome you here today...” I turn away from the mirror and stop myself before running my hands down the front of my dress.

  I feel so small but force myself to look back into the mirror. Wide blue eyes stare back at me. I appear dazed.

  I look stupid. I can’t do
this.

  I scrape my long blonde hair off the back of my neck and hold it up to try to cool my body down. I’ve been asked to be a keynote speaker at a school tomorrow. The idea that I could give a child advice makes my insides crumble, leaving a puddle of ruins around my feet.

  Worst. Idea. Ever.

  I tried to say no, but the word yes took its place. I want to be a normal nineteen-year-old. I want to be confident. I want to stop being so afraid of everything. I release my hair, and it falls down, stopping at the small of my back. I try out a smile and roll my eyes at myself. I look deranged.

  I leave the mirror with a bad taste of defeat in my mouth. Picking up my phone, I scroll until Rebecca’s name appears, and I hit the text message button.

  I’m sorry. I won’t be able to attend tomorrow. My apologies for the short notice.

  My finger hovers over the send button. I glance up at my fridge. A magnet of the Eiffel tower holds up a picture of the pyramids in Egypt. To the left, four alphabet magnets that were on my fridge when I rented this place hold a multitude of pictures of places, like the Great Wall of China, the Statue of Liberty, all the way to the plains of Africa.

  Anyone who comes here would think I am well traveled. That’s two lies in one thought. No one ever comes here, and I have never left Ireland.

  Glancing back at my screen, I hit send and throw my phone on the counter.

  I want to scream at the thief who’s taken my courage, my backbone; all that I am left with is something that is broken, and like the sands of time, it’s pouring rapidly through my fingers. I thought time heals all wounds, but mine are gaping.

  A knock at my door drives me out of my state of self-pity that I slip into far too often. The knock comes again, and a new fear knots my stomach. Could it be Rebecca? Irrational thoughts plague me as I stare at the front door.

  Rebecca doesn’t know where I live, and even if she did, I had just sent the message. She couldn’t have gotten here that fast. Maybe she’s in the area? But what would she want to talk about in person that she couldn’t speak about over the phone?