Book: The Nanny Affair
Series: Wicked Game
Chapter One: Chills
Pairing: Sam Dalton (male) x Niamh Kenney (OC)
(meet my OC here)
Rating: M, 18+
Content/Series Warning: NSFW, trigger warning, character deaths, strong language, sexual violence, blood, weapons
Summary: Niamh’s life is far from perfect, but it’s still a whole hell of a lot better than it could be. Until he comes to visit, and everything takes a very drastic turn.
Word Count: 4311
Glossary of Irish Terms | Inspiration Playlist
A/N: I use a lot of Irish words, the glossary will help, for most I will put the translation at first… as I use the words more I will fade the translation out.
A/N 2: Well it’s finally here, the first chapter of a very long journey that I am under taking. I have had this series taking up so much space in my brain for months and I am excited and nervous to finally reveal it. It’s angsty, dark, dramatic, and will be full of all twists and turns. And yes, Marshall Cassian Keane from PBs most hated series is one hundred percent in this story, because they did him dirty in Witness. Thank you to @txemrn for being my ride or die and listening to me drone on and on about this story and never batting an eye, for prereading and brainstorming and just being an all around amazing human being.
Characters and some very minor canon dialogue belong to PB… the rest is all mine.
Without further ado… Wicked Game
The rain pelted against the single pane glass window of my small bedroom, bright, flashing lightning lit up the water-stained walls, and loud, roaring thunder shook our old decaying public housing apartment. I pulled my thin cotton blanket higher under my chin, trying and failing to find some warmth in my cold twin-sized bed. The lightning flashed and lit up the picture on my nightstand, my parents and I dressed up for St. Patrick’s Day, all green face paint and smiling. The thunderous crash didn’t hide the terrifying sound that followed. A scream. My eyes darted to my closed door, and I heard another familiar sound. A gunshot. My survival instinct took over and I shot out of bed, throwing open the door to my bedroom and blindly dashing down the creaking stairs.
I rounded the dark corner into the living room and came to a skidding stop as the truth behind those terrifying sounds came to light. My breath left my lungs in a rush as dread bled through me and the loud sounds of the rain and thunder fell silent. I could feel my heart beating wildly in my chest, loud and commanding as my father’s lifeless body was sprawled on the stained linoleum floor.
“Niamh! Run!”
My eyes slowly slid to my mother, her beautiful face pale and twisted in pain and fear. The lightning lit up the room again, this time reflecting off of a shiny object poised behind her. A knife.
“Niamh, baby, run!!”
I took a single breath before I turned and ran out of the front door, the rain immediately drenching my mussed blonde hair and old pink pajamas. But I ran into the dark, cold, Manhattan night, never risking a glance back. I knew better.
I wake with a jump, my heart pounding hard against my ribcage. I pinch the bridge of my nose with a sigh as I am met with the familiar sounds of Hell’s Kitchen four AM traffic and the distinct smell of stale beer. Rolling over on my thin mattress with a groan, I bury my head under my pillow. Seventeen years later and that night still manages to haunt my dreams. I practice my breathing exercise, in for four seconds, out for four seconds, over and over again until my heart has slowed and I drift back into a restless sleep.
It’s too fucking early when my alarm goes off a few hours later, flinging the stupid old clock across the room, I bring my blanket up and over my head and pinch my eyes closed. I need to stop going to bed at three am. I hear a knock on my bedroom door.
“Go away.” I groan.
“Oh lass, quit your whining and get up.” Hugh chuckles through the thin door.
It makes me smile, despite the pounding headache that is building behind my eyes. I stretch my body out, regretting those last two shots of Jack I did last night before passing out, it didn’t help keep the nightmare away anyways. What a waste. Defeated, I climb to my feet and pad across the room towards my small en-suite bathroom, discarding my tank top and stepping out of my underwear as I go. Flicking on my radio as I pass it, I turn the volume of the rock music up as high as it will go.
I step into the shower, pulling my shoulder-length silver hair back into a ponytail and letting the scalding water run over my tattoo-covered skin. Tattoos that cover scars and tell the story of my troubled, pained, and misspent youth. I try to force my mind to think about anything other than that nightmare, instead, making a mental list of all the shit I have to do today to get the bar ready… for him.
After trying and failing to scrub away all of the anger and frustration, and memories, I get ready in a rush and try to breeze past Hugh who is sitting at the old red card table smoking an Alta Gracia and reading The Times. He looks up at me over the rim of his glasses, his grey hair swept back off of his face.
“Don’t forget-“
“Aye, I know he will be here.” I interrupt him with a sideways glance. “A cigar at nine AM Hugh?”
“Mind your business girl.” His lips curl up in a smile, the laugh lines framing his hazel eyes.
I shake my head while a matching grin spreads on my face. “I’ll see you later.”
He puffs out a breath of smoke in response.
I trudge down the stairs and flick on the lights of the bar. My eyes scan The Irish Exit affectionately, the worn wood floors have a permanent layer of who knows what, making them stickier than a pickpocket’s fingers. This drinking hole is owned by none other than the notorious Hugh O’Donnelly, known far and wide, well at least in this part of Manhattan, as someone protected by the Ceannasaí (boss) himself… Samuel Dalton. My home, for lack of a better word, for the last seventeen years. Somehow I couldn’t make myself leave… This bar was my future, the only hope I had to not end up on the streets. The night I ran away from everything I had ever known, I ran straight here. Hugh took me in, raised me like the daughter he never had. He was my dad’s best friend after they traveled across the Atlantic to the states together as young boys, born in the same small village in Ireland. He was the only one I trusted then… and is the only one I trust today, I owe everything I am to that smug, cigar-smoking, old man.
This beat-up bar has raised me, along with the not-so-straight-and-narrow, mainly criminal and Irish, patrons. It isn’t much to look at, but it is a hell of a place to drink. Oh, and if these walls could talk… My lips turn up in a wry smile as I turn on the old jukebox and get to restocking and tidying up.
A loud knock on the front door catches my attention and I glance at the clock on the wall. Sighing, I march over to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open quickly.
“Sign says closed, asshole,” I snarl but I am met with a handsome smile. I roll my eyes, but I feel my cheeks warm. “Cassian.”
“You really shouldn’t talk to cops like that.” He laughs and looks over my shoulder. “Can I come in, Niamh?”
I rest my hands on my hips and look him up and down, his undercover uniform of jeans and a worn leather jacket doing little to mask his sense of authority. “What happened? I know nothing before you even ask.”
He holds up his hands placatively, “I just want to chat.”
I purse my lips in mock annoyance before stepping back and letting him in with a swing of my arm, closing and locking the door as soon as he steps inside. When I turn around, I find him watching me closely.
“What?”
“Niamh-“
“Cassian, you know I won’t rat on my customers. I don’t know them, I don't know where they live, and I sure as all hell don’t know if they did it.” I cross my arms across my chest and plant my biker boots firmly under me. I try to look menacing, but I’m only five foot four on a good day, with my boots maybe five foot six. But the smart ones know what I’m capable of.
He raises his brow, reaching up and running his hand through his chestnut brown hair. “Believe it or not, that’s not why I’m here this time.”
I breeze past him, his familiar and intoxicating scent momentarily knocking me off guard. I take a few strides away from him, creating enough distance to clear my senses. Turning back to him, I shake my head, “Then why are you here?”
He clears his throat and drops his eyes to the floor. “Ráfla (rumors).” He murmurs quietly.
I stand silently, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I press him, taking a small step back towards him. “Cassian, we’ve known each other for years, cut the shit. What are these rumors about?”
“Look, I don’t know who you or one of your customers pissed off, Niamh, but when my chief tells me to stay away, I do as I’m told.” His brows are dropped as his eyes rise to mine again and his hands find the pockets of his leather jacket.
“Cassian… you do know where you are right?” I breathe a sigh of relief as I gesture around at the bar. We’re untouchable, even you know that. Most of the cops in this city are as dirty as the sidewalk, they know and fear Sam as much as everyone else. Even you.
He closes the distance between us in a few long strides. His face is a mixture of anguish and pain. “Just be careful, okay?” His voice is low.
My eyes widen as I am taken aback by his concern. “Um, yeah… okay,” I responded placatively, my eyes searching his face. What do you know?
We stand staring at each other for another moment before his usual cocky smile warms his face. “So, about what you said earlier, are you sure you don’t know who did it?”
His teasing question manages to assuage my anxiety, even if only for a brief moment. I roll my eyes with a smile and push his shoulder. “Get out of here before my customers think I’m a snitch.”
His eyes dance with amusement as he turns and strides towards the door. When our eyes meet again, his gaze has turned deadly serious. “Don’t forget what I said.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod forcefully. “See you later, Cassian.”
I close the door loudly after he walks out, leaning on the rough wood surface with a strangled sigh. “Fucking hell,” I grumble as I stalk to the bar, pouring myself a shot of Jack. Hair of the dog, right?
I manage to keep myself properly distracted because as soon as I open the doors, we are busy. After a few hours of dealing with today’s first class, yeah right, patrons, I’m refilling the old bastard in front on me’s glass of cheap whiskey when he decides to not think before he opens his mouth.
“Come on little lady, give us a smile.” His lips roll, exposing his yellow teeth as he slurs his words, maybe I should cut him off.
I stop mid pour and set the bottle down on the bar top. It’s really not the day to test me, you decrepit fool.
“I ain’t got nothing to smile about. And neither will you if you keep runnin’ your mouth.” I reach towards the baseball bat that is mounted behind the counter. My trusty steed.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re alive, that should be good enough.” He sneers. “Finish pouring.”
I clench my jaw at his command, drawing in a breath so I don’t lose my god-fearing temper. “Henry, sometimes the worst nightmares are experienced with eyes wide awake. And you need to get your ass out of here before I do something that won’t make you so fucking happy to be alive.”
His eyes travel down to the bat that is now rolling through my hands and he tightens his fat jaw.
“Witch.” He whispers as he gets off of his barstool and though unsteady on his feet, manages to walk his drunk ass towards the door. I let the crude remark slide, normally he isn’t so goddamn moody. His deal must have gone south today, not my problem.
“Good call,” I yelled out to him over the chatter and I put the old bat back in its spot. Fucking idiot.
I duck into the back of the bar for a breather away from the needy and roaming eyes of today’s round of rowdy drinkers. Cassian’s words haunt my idle thoughts, damn cops and their vague warnings. I reach up and press my fingers to my temples, trying to wish the oncoming pressure headache away when Jenny walks up beside me.
“Is everything okay, Niahm?” She sets down a tray of dirty glasses on the counter beside me.
My gaze slowly rises to hers, “Just a headache. Are you doing alright out there?”
She narrows her eyes at me knowingly, but instead of prying like she normally does, she decides not to press it. “I’m fine, why are we so damn busy?”
I laugh drily, “It must be a bad one out there today.”
“Are we still on for Kings tonight? I need to finish this sleeve.” She asks over her shoulder as she walks back through the saloon doors.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I called after her. If I survive the night. I roll my eyes at the morbid thought and step back out onto the bar floor. Get it together, Niamh.
I am piling the trays with dirty glasses when the usual sounds of the bar turn eerily quiet. I pinch my eyes closed and halt my movements. The saloon doors squeak open.
“He’s here,” Jenny murmurs.
“Thanks, Jen… you can go. Hugh and I got it.”
“Are you sure?” Her green eyes flick between me and the saloon doors.
“Please, go, I’ll see you at King’s. Keep the chair warm for me.” I give her a pathetic attempt at a smile, and her returning look is pure pity before she turns, grabs her coat, and walks out of the back door into the alley. I watch her leave, eyeing the back door longingly. The things I do for you, Hugh.
I close my eyes and practice my breathing, in for four, out for four, steeling myself as best as I can. When I feel as ready as I can be, I step out onto the bar floor and instantly feel his gaze on me. Every time we are in the same room together, the atmosphere changes, the chemical shift is unsettling as a shiver runs through my body.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up when his handsome face comes into view. Avoiding his fiery stare, I reach under the counter, where tucked secretly in the back is the stash of uisce beatha (water of life- Irish whiskey). The good shit. The stuff we only bring out… for him. I grab a handful of glasses and set them on a tray, and his dark eyes follow me as I come out from behind the bar. I raise my attention to him, his curly brown hair perfectly mussed on top of his head. I watched as a muscle twitched in his strong jaw as my eyes wandered across the devilish graze of stubble leading to his full lips, he had a mouth I wanted to devour, and something told me that he knew it. His broad shoulders are neatly packed in a perfectly tailored designer suit. He was the biggest, baddest, most ruthless Irish mobster on both sides of the Atlantic.
Samuel Dalton.
He exuded power. Dangerous, lethal, power, and this bar is where he did his business meetings. Usually, the kind where he had to be in a public place to keep himself from doing something… bloody. At least that’s what Hugh always hinted at. I knew my place in these meetings, serve the whiskey, and then disappear.
Letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I approached his table with as much confidence as an injured lamb. The things this man does to me. My gaze is inexplicably drawn to his sensuous eyes which are as dark as night and they draw me in like a moth to a flame. I am finally able to break away from his blistering stare and I scan the other men that are surrounding him at the table. I recognize most of them as his usual muscle, big burly Irish men all donning the same black suits and untrusting stares, but there is a new face. A Russian, if I am not mistaken judging by the snake tattoo wrapped around his neck peeking out from under his dress shirt. He sits directly across from Sam, looking around like a small fish in a pool of sharks.
“The usual, boys?” I manage to hide the shake in my voice as I set the glasses down on the table. When no one responds, my eyes rise to Sam, his gaze still fixed firmly on me. He draws in a breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow before he finally looks away, his attention turning to the Russian sitting across from him. I try to keep my hand steady as I pour the whiskey into the glasses, and each man takes one, except for Sam… and the Russian. Probably not a good sign.
“There has been some chatter on the street, Nikolai. Tell me, why haven’t I heard anything from you?” Sam speaks, his deep Irish brogue working its way under my skin, caressing my body like the finest Chinese silk money can buy. It sends a warm surge of desire through my traitorous body. I turn to walk away and give them the privacy they always demand, but I feel a large and calloused hand wrap firmly around my wrist, sending an electric shock through my arm and down my spine. When I look down, Sam’s tattooed hand firmly holds me in place, the skull-inked phoenix taunting me with it's dark and empty stare. My eyes travel up his long arm, over his bulging bicep, until they rest on his face, his eyes cold and calculating as he stares at the Russian. Not at me.
I swallow hard as fear winds through my body, not daring to fight for my wrist back as I stand rooted to the spot.
Nikolai clears his throat. “There is no news to convey, Ceannasaí (boss).” His eyes fall to his shaking hands in his lap. The Irish word sounded foreign coming from his Russian lips.
I watch Sam take a deep breath as he clenches his jaw in thought. He picks up the whiskey glass, taking a small sip and savoring it in his mouth before he swallows. I watch the motion of his throat, trying to hold onto the feeling of terror and not the thrumming of desire that was building beneath the surface.
“I think you forget where your loyalties are supposed to lie, my friend.” His voice is laced with venom.
“I swear, if I had something to share, I would, it’s all just empty rumors.” Nikolai’s tone turns fearful as he looks around the large round table, raising up his shaking hands in defense.
“What do you think éan beag (little bird)?” Sam’s eyes, the color of dark stout, turn to me and they soften slightly at the corners.
“M-Me?” I stammer as my eyes widen in panic and the corners of his lips fight back a smile of amusement. He knows what he is doing to me.
Someone clears their throat over my shoulder. Saved by Hugh.
Sam drops my wrist but his dark eyes give me a silent command to stay, so I do.
“Getting started early today, eh boss?” Hugh claps Sam on the back and stands on the opposite side of him. Hugh’s eyes find mine, silently asking if I am alright. I nod slightly, my mind dazed by the close proximity of the powerful mobster, as well as this new desire he is expressing to keep me close. Where the hell did that come from?
“Mo Chara (my friend).” Sam extends a hand to Hugh as he turns his head away from me. They speak warmly in Gaelic, my heart pounding in my chest, I practice my breathing again, trying to calm my racing thoughts so I could at least make a halfway decent decision on what my next move was going to be. Do I try to walk away?
“Lass, would you go and grab that box that’s sitting on my desk?” Hugh’s English cuts through my clouded mind and my eyes snap to his. He tilts his head and flicks his eyes towards the back in an urge to usher me out of the room. I took a small stumbling step backward as I felt Sam’s eyes shift to me again.
“Y-yes,” I murmured, turning swiftly on my heels and walking quickly off the bar floor.
Pushing through the green door marked Private, I quickly closed it behind me, eager for a moment alone to try and assemble my bearings.
What the hell just happened? You froze up, Niamh, that’s the kind of shit that will get you killed… or worse.
I scoffed as I fell hard into the old worn office chair, letting my head fall back as my eyes studied the stained ceiling tiles. I run my hand over the handle of the dagger I have strapped to my waist as my mind wanders, and I try my best to avoid the traitorous thoughts I was having towards one of the most dangerous men in this city. I pinch my eyes closed. Not the time for my fucking libido to be getting involved here.
The office door squeaks open and I wrap my fingers around the hilt of my knife before my lip curls in a snarl.
“Oh, Niamh, it’s just me.” Hugh cajoles as he steps into the small space.
I breathe a sigh of relief before letting my head fall back again and I wrap my arms tightly around myself. I hear him slide the box on the desk and I look down at him, only to find him watching me intently.
“What old man?” I give him a small smile.
He laughs jovially and shakes his head. “You were never one to mince words.” Silence settles in the room before he clears his throat and his expression turns pensive. “I think you’re ready.”
“But-” I sit up, my spine straightening but Hugh puts his hand up to stop me.
“Mo pháiste (my child), you said it yourself, I am getting old. It’s time for me to go back to Éire (Ireland) and get away from this hell hole.”
His words hit me like a freight train, and as if he can read my thoughts, he continues.
“I agree that you aren’t ready yet… but be aware, the time is near, and yes, Mr. Dalton is aware.”
I sit back in the chair, my jaw tightening. “You’ve clearly made up your mind.”
“I have.” He nods once in confirmation.
“Do you really think I can do this?” My voice sounds scared and weak. Two things I usually am not.
“Níl aon amhras orm. (I have no doubt.)” His face is soft, his eyes full of the affection I have grown to love and cherish. “We need to get back out there.”
I stare at him for a moment before I shake my head. “This conversation isn’t over.” I pushed myself up and out of the chair, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Yes, it is, lass.” He laughs softly, as he picks up the small wooden box and turns around. He stands off to the side, waiting for me. Before I can open the door, he tells me one of his favorite Irish sayings. “Cuimhnigh, eist moran agus can beagan (Remember, hear much, say little).”
“Yeah, yeah, save your breath.” I flash him a wink before I open the door and lead him back out to the waiting mobsters.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Hugh announces as we draw closer to Sam and his men.
I watch as Sam stiffens in response, his spine straightening, the atmosphere immediately shifting. Then everything went terribly wrong as the glass window at the front of the bar shattered. Other than a gunshot, there is nothing that gets my attention faster. But then it happened, the sound that haunted my waking and sleeping thoughts. The all too familiar sound of gunshots, screaming in my ears. My instincts told me to get low, but something hit me before I could even dive down. I cry out as a hard body smothers me to the floor, covering me from head to toe, my elbow colliding with the hardwood and sending a shockwave of searing pain up my arm. My eyes land on Sam’s face as his dark eyes flare with fear before his hardened mask slides into place.
“Lie flat.” He commands over the deafening destruction, his voice even as if this was just a normal everyday thing for him. Because it probably is.
Somehow I managed to nod my head, trying to ignore the dull ache in my arm and the fear in my chest. The intensely loud gunfire continued, sending my heart into overdrive, I wrapped my fingers around the silk lapels of Sam’s suit jacket, clinging to him as if my life depended on it, because right now, it did, and fuck, I did not want to die tonight. I burrowed my face into his chest, breathing in his intoxicating scent for the first time, which when mixed with my current fear-induced panic, was the most mind-altering drug I have ever experienced. I felt his chest vibrate as a groan rumbled through him.
I heard men yelling in Gaelic, their roaring voices barely registering as the rattat-ta-tat of the gunfire continued to blast through the bar, but now it sounds like they were returning fire. I pinch my eyes closed.
Hugh. My eyes fly back open as I attempt to look around Sam’s large frame in panic, trying to find him amidst the broken glass and upturned tables.
Then silence descended, and my life changed forever.
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