Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Feck, I’m such an arsehole.
Anger does strange things ta people.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and pulling it out, I swipe the screen. It’s a message from Monster, one of my mates back home. I trust him with my life. He’s known me forever, and he’s the one bastard who never lies ta me.
Monster: Hey Ro, something you should see
As I open the photo attached to his words, I can feel my chest tightenin’.
I tap my thumb on the photo to enlarge it. There on the screen, clear as feckin’ day, is Orla kissin’ another man. I don’t know who he is, and if I’m honest, I don’t want ta know.
I show Orla the image before shoving the device back into my pocket.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice breakin’. “I didn’t want ye to find out like this.”
“I never want ta see ye again, Orla. Walk away and never contact me. Ye hear me?” My words come out confident, filled with anger and drippin’ with pure heartache.
I don’t wait fer her ta reply. Instead, I turn on my heel and walk back to my car. I’m not goin’ta give her the opportunity ta explain herself. There’s nothin’ she can say that will make this okay.
I don’t reply ta Monster.
I don’t reply ta the message from Orla, apologisin’ fer what she’s done. Her excuse about me not bein’ around enough only makes me angrier.
I vow, then and there, I’ll never allow another woman ta hurt me again.
From now on, my heart and emotions will be firmly locked away. They won’t be released ever again. Not fer anyone.
When I get home, I head straight fer my office. There’s only one thing that will make me feel better—a job fer the mafia.
ONE
REBEL
The Past
Twenty-three Years Old
I think about death a lot.
Far more than anyone my age should. I’m in good health, no feckin’ ailments to speak of, yet the idea of dyin’ is on my mind all the time.
I’m convinced my father’s the one who caused those thoughts to invade my mind. My da worked fer the mafia, and when I was growing up, there was never a time he didn’t have blood on his hands. He’d come home from a killin’ and head straight fer the cabinet where he hid his most expensive Irish whiskey.
My da was a good man, even though he did bad things. He was strong, resilient and demanded respect. He was a hero in my eyes, even though he worked with dangerous men—the Cosa Nostra. I looked up ta him, and I knew I wanted ta be just like him when I got older.
My Ma, an Italian chef from Sicily, introduced Da to the mafia, and when I was old enough, I was thrown into the same dark world.
At sixteen, I killed fer the first time. It was life-changing. I was never the same after that. I had a bloodlust that ran through my veins, and I would satiate it with jobs I did fer the organisation.
I loved it.
I revelled in it.
It didn’t last, though. Not when I saw Da gunned down in front of me because he made the Irish Mob angry. They came fer him, and they stole a part of me as well.
I’m still broken from watchin’ Orla’s expression change from the affectionate one I used to know, to a cold stranger. I thought I knew her, but instead, she surprised me with the break up.
By the time I’m headin’ home, it’s dark out. I stopped by the bar where I used to come once I was old enough. Da brought me here and bought me my first beer. I was always lookin’ up ta him, and wanted ta do everythin’ he did.
But when I pull up ta the house, it’s in darkness. I’m pretty sure Ma is asleep already. I’ll talk ta her in the mornin’. She’s goin’ta want ta know about Orla and why she’s not with me.
Perhaps Ma was right – my thoughts are broken by a bright spotlight shinin’ into our garden. It’s not a big property, but it’s always been safe. The moment I get out of the car, I realise there’s somethin’ disturbin’ about the air surroudin’ me. My intuition has always been on point, Da was always pleasantly surprised when I would tell him I felt off about a meetin’, or somethin’ is about ta happen.
“Please,” I hear voices, but the one that’s clear as day is Da’s. I’ve never heard such fear in the old man’s words before. “Don’t hurt them.”
“I think ye need ta tell us when the shipments are comin’ in,” a unmistakable Irish accent comes through loud and clear. “And then I’ll think about keepin’ ye family alive.”
“I-I… Ye know I can’t do that,” Da tells the man who I can now see from my hidden viewpoint. He’s holdin’ a gun on Da, and he had at least five men standin’ guard. Even if I tried ta fight them off, I’m drunk, I’ll end up gettin’ me and Da killed.