Mafia Wars (Young Irish Rebels: Prequel)

CHAPTER ONE

LUNA

I STARE AT the text message, my hands trembling as I clutch the edge of the counter to steady myself. The word cleaner seems to glare back at me. It’s pathetic, really—four years of nursing school, endless shifts at the hospital, and this is what I’m reduced to. But then again, what choice do I have?

I rub my temples before throwing my head back and staring up at the ceiling. Mark was a charmer, a good guy when I met him; I honestly thought I had struck gold. That was until he slowly started changing. It was in small ways at first, him dictating who I hung out with, asking me to sit in with him instead of going out with my friends; I had just thought it was love. An infatuation that honestly made me feel special at the time. How stupid was I?

Behind me, I hear the heavy tread of footsteps, each one sending a spike of dread into my chest. I don’t turn around. If I meet his eyes, it’ll only make this harder.

“Why the hell are you just standing there staring at the ceiling?” Mark growls. His voice grates against my nerves, low and sharp like the flick of a blade. “You make dinner yet?”

Dinner. Right. God forbid I forget his schedule.

“I—I was going to,” I stammer, snatching my phone closed and shoving it into my pocket. My fingers brush the bruises on my hip, fresh from last night’s outburst, and I swallow hard. “I just needed to grab some things first from the store.”

“You better hurry the fuck up, I’m starving.” He’s close now, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body against my back. I freeze as his fingers trace the curve of my neck, deceptively soft, before they curl into my hair and tug just hard enough to sting. “You’re lucky I put up with you, you know that?”

Lucky. That word burns as much as his grip. I nod stiffly, my eyes glued to the sink, counting the seconds until he lets go.

He finally releases me with a grunt and stalks toward the living room, muttering under his breath about how useless I am. The door slams shut behind him, and I let out a shaky breath; my fingers press against the edge of the counter to keep myself upright.

This can’t be my life. It can’t. I had escaped one hell hole and ended up in another. It’s like bad luck followed me around. Only with Mark, it was a slow cruise down a crumbling road. With my parents, that was different.

My parents were city people—fast-talking, fast-moving, and fast-falling into the grip of whatever had them hyped up that day. The city lights might as well have been needles; the streets smelled of sweat and urine. I was a shadow in their world, a ghost who remained invisible until I wasn’t.

I don’t know what shifted. Maybe it was my body changing, or maybe it was the weight of desperation in my father’s slurred voice. One night, I heard them—whispering, plotting. A new way to score. But it wasn’t drugs they were planning to sell. It was me.

“I’m telling you, she’s ready,” Dad’s voice rasped, wet and raw, like he’d been screaming at the walls. “You just gotta ease her into it, y’know?”

I froze in the dark hallway, the thin carpet rough under my bare feet. My breath caught in my chest, hot and sharp. Ready? Ready for what? Then I heard the laugh—the low, knowing chuckle of his friend, a sound that made my skin crawl.

I didn’t wait for the rest. I grabbed what little I had—a tattered hoodie, a few crumpled bills from the kitchen counter—and I ran. The air outside was biting, but it felt cleaner than anything in that house. My legs carried me faster than I thought they could, through the alleys, past the shouting drunks and flickering neon lights.

I thought I’d escaped. I thought I’d found freedom.

But freedom wasn’t waiting for me at the end of that sprint. He was.

He found me huddled in the corner of a bus station, my hoodie pulled tight over my head, my knees drawn to my chest. His smile was warm, disarming, but his eyes… God, his eyes were empty.

“You look lost,” he said, crouching in front of me. He smelled of something spicy—like cloves, maybe—and something else. Something cold and metallic, like a blade, kept too close to the skin.

I didn’t know what he was then. How could I? I thought monsters were loud, angry, and obvious. But he was quiet. Careful. Patient.

And I ran straight into his arms.

I glance at the clock. He’ll be gone in a few hours, off to whatever shady deal he has lined up tonight. It’s the only time I get to breathe, and even then, the air feels thin, suffocating. I take the phone out of my pocket again and read the message from Becca one more time. A soft noise behind me has me freezing, and I glance over my shoulder, but no one is there. I push the phone back into my pocket, as deep as the fabric will allow.

It’s not the kind of job I’d ever imagined for myself, but if it means I can get out—even for a few hours—I’ll take it. My friend Becca swears it’s safe, or at least as safe as it can be, when you’re working for people like this. Mafia, she said. Big players. The kind of people Mark only wishes he could run with.

I’ve seen enough of his world to know what that means—money, power, danger. But Becca’s been doing this job for months, and she swears they leave the staff alone. “They don’t care about us,” she told me. “As long as you do your job and keep your mouth shut, they won’t even notice you.”

I don’t believe that entirely. People like that always notice. But it’s my only way out. Mark will never let me work as a nurse again—he made that clear the day he slapped me for applying to the hospital without asking his permission. But a cleaning job? A maid? That’s just low enough for him to approve.

The thought makes me sick, but I’ll take it. I have to.

The fluorescent lights in the store buzz faintly. I grab a packet of steak and toss it into the basket, my fingers brushing against the cold plastic. The thought creeps back, uninvited, like it always does— poison. Just a fleeting notion, nothing more, but it lingers longer than I’d like.

"You're crazy," Becca’s voice echoes in my head. "Just leave him."

Easy for her to say. Becca doesn’t have to answer to Mark. She doesn’t have to figure out how to survive with no job, no money, and no family. The day I left was the last day I saw my parents; no one rang the Gardai and reported me as a missing person. That shouldn’t have hurt, but even the thought of it still stings deeply.

“You can live with me.” The conversation with Becca keeps circling around in my mind as I walk around the supermarket.Her flat is already bursting with two roommates, barely enough space for her, let alone me.

But this job…this job could be my chance. If I can hold onto it, save every penny, I could escape. My steps feel lighter at the thought, my chest loosening as I toss a bag of garlic-spiced potatoes and some fresh vegetables into the basket.

I spot her in the next aisle over, a young mother with a boy who can’t be more than four or five. She’s crouched beside him, holding up a box of cereal while he chatters excitedly. It’s not what she’s saying, or even what he’s saying; it’s the way she looks at him—like he’s her whole world. Like nothing else in the store, in the city, in the universe matters except that little boy’s smile.

Pain stabs through my chest, sharp and relentless. I press my hand against my ribs, but it doesn’t help. It never does. I try to look away, to focus on the cans of soup I don’t even need, but the sight of them stays burned into my mind. The boy’s bright eyes. The mother’s soft laugh.

I tell myself to move, but my feet stay rooted. That kind of love, that safety—it feels like something from a dream I’ve forgotten how to have. My throat tightens. I try to swallow, but it’s like the lump in my throat is made of razor blades.

I’ve gotten good at burying my past. Shoving it down, locking it up, and pretending it’s not there. But today, it feels like someone struck a match and set fire to every lock I ever forged. It’s all right there, raging and hungry, refusing to be ignored.

I shouldn’t have stayed out with Becca last night. I shouldn’t have dared to steal a moment for myself, shouldn’t have laughed too long or drunk too much or forgotten, even for a second, what was waiting for me when I got home. But I just wanted one night— one night where I wasn’t watching the clock, wasn’t bracing for the storm.

One night to be me. To remember who that even is.

The boy giggles, tugging at his mother’s hand as she places the cereal in the cart. She leans down, brushing his cheek with her knuckles, her face glowing with love.

I feel hollow, as if something essential has been scraped out of me, leaving nothing but a shell that somehow still aches. I tighten my grip on the basket and force myself to turn away.

Love like that doesn’t live in my world. It never has.

When I get home, the familiar weight of dread sinks into me, but I shove it down. I cook the meal with care—steak perfectly seared, potatoes golden and fragrant, vegetables steamed just right. The aroma almost makes me smile. Almost.

Mark’s lounging on the couch when I bring his plate to him. The TV blares some mindless show, but his eyes land on me with that sharp, dissecting look that always seems to cut me open. My stomach churns.

“Why the nice dinner?” he asks, his voice thick with suspicion.

I force a smile, but it feels brittle, like it might shatter at any moment. "I got a job," I say, hating the way my voice shakes. Weak. Always so goddamn weak.

Mark tilts his head, his fork pauses mid-air. There’s a warning in his narrowed eyes, a challenge I’ve seen too many times. “A job?”

“A cleaner,” I blurt out quickly before he can twist the question into something more dangerous.

He scoffs, the corner of his mouth twitching up in that cruel grin. “Cleaning piss pots?” He lets out a low chuckle, stabbing a piece of steak and shoving it into his mouth.

I swallow hard and nod, keeping my head down. “It suits you,” he says, turning the volume up on the TV.

I stand there for a moment, the tray still in my hands, my jaw clenched so tight I’m afraid my teeth might crack. A small voice inside me, the one that still fights to exist, whispers: One day, I’ll be gone. One day, you’ll choke on that grin.

I turn to walk away, but his hand springs out, his fingers tightening on my wrists; the pain is instant, but I’ve learned not to flinch. “As long as my dinner is on the table, you can take your pathetic job.”

I should thank him; he hasn’t released my wrist; I know he’s waiting for my gratitude.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and he releases my wrists turning back to his TV.

But for now, I retreat to the kitchen, where the knife I used to cut his steak still glints on the counter. The thought brushes past again, tempting. This time, it lingers.