Hustle: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  She looks almost shy as she says it. I understand what a gift this is, and kiss her deeply, slowly.

  Hank’s angry meows break the moment, and Evi pulls away, her face lit up with a beautiful smile.

  “Ronan is going to love Hank,” she says, reaching into the back seat to comfort the cat through the mesh of his carrier. “Where should we go?”

  “Let’s just drive north until we can’t drive anymore,” I say, already feeling ten years younger at the thought of the open round. “We can go to Nova Scotia. It’s gorgeous up there.”

  Hank growls.

  “Very remote, too,” I add, just a note of wicked promise edging into my voice.

  She leans in for another kiss, and then pulls back to regard me with those piercing gray eyes. “I take it this isn’t your first time to Nova Scotia?”

  My eyes cut toward her beautiful face, then down to her mouth. Out of habit, I hesitate, but let it go. I can open up, just a little bit, with Evi. “The stories are true. I stole Murph’s car senior year for a getaway, and Nova Scotia has been one of my favorite destinations ever since.”

  I couldn’t wait to share it with her. We’re going to enjoy everything from the best hotels in Halifax to the windblown beaches of Cape Breton.

  Naked. Oh, yes.

  I stroke her soft hair, taking her all in. Evi was right that it’s never going to be easy with us. But who needs easy when you could have Evi, just as she is?

  We kiss for a few moments before unloading her bags. I go to grab her luggage, but she presses Hank’s carrier into my hands.

  “I need my two favorite men to get along,” she says, as Hank makes a noise that sounds more like a cow than a cat.

  “Hmph,” I grunt, shifting the cat into one hand and taking the roller bag with the other. “I hope you’ve told him that too.”

  She nods, looking back at me coyly. “I did. I think it’s the start of a beautiful relationship.”

  I know what she means.

  Epilogue - Evi - Three Years Later

  The icy cold is settling into Boston, but it’s that beautiful time of year where the snow’s still a powdery optimistic white and holiday lights twinkle on the trees.

  And up here in the penthouse, wrapped in a huge fuzzy blanket with Hank snoring on the back of the expensive sofa he claimed long ago, I feel at peace.

  Mostly. Something I never expected to feel.

  Glancing at the clock, I slide the book of art I’ve been thumbing through back onto the coffee table and grab my phone. It’s getting late, and I should probably think about ordering something for dinner.

  Thai? Sushi?

  A text from Seamus, received a few minutes before, forecasts his arrival seconds before the key turns in the lock.

  Familiar sounds. Door unlocking, door opening, door locks sliding closed behind him. The Doyles take their security seriously.

  Even now.

  His keys hit the dish where he stores them, and there’s a click of his phone sliding into its docking station by the door. That’s the rule – you can work long hours. But when you’re home, I get you all to myself.

  Even if it’s just for a few hours. Delicious, delicious hours.

  “Evi?”

  There’s a note of something in Seamus’ voice that has me freezing at the edge of the sofa, where I’m poised to stand. It’s a little off, like he’s nervous.

  Seamus is rarely, if ever, nervous.

  “In here,” I say softly, staying where I am.

  He walks into the room, immediately filling up the space. Damn. That man can fill out a suit, and his dark grey suit and dark shirt mold to muscles in a way that has me contemplating skipping dinner and going straight for dessert.

  Our eyes meet, and that anxious look melts into a warm smile.

  “Are you free this evening?”

  I walk over to where he’s standing and start to pull him toward the bedroom.

  Definitely free.

  But when he hesitates, I turn back and look at him again. There’s that slightly worried expression before it drops behind the polished mask.

  “Not that,” he says and that quickly amends, “Well, yes. But actually, I was hoping to take you out tonight.”

  I look down at my loungewear and start to question him, but I stop myself.

  Seamus being spontaneous? Yeah, I’m not crushing that.

  With a quick kiss to his lips, I say, “Give me ten.”

  I’m not exactly the wash and wear type, but I pull it together and then Seamus leads the way downstairs to his SUV which has been idling with the doorman. It’s a short drive in silence that has me nervous.

  Things have been going well. I mean, we have our moments – it’s still Seamus and me after all – but on the whole, we’re both happy. More than happy. Better than I dared to hope. But the way that he’s acting tonight, I get that familiar creeping sensation.

  Doubt.

  Worry.

  Fear.

  Maybe it’s not going as well as I think. I shift in my seat to look at Seamus and he’s staring straight ahead, looking resolute. He seems to sense my discomfort and reaches out for my hand reflexively, though.

  In a few minutes, we reach our destination. Boston’s contemporary art museum. But they’re closed this late? My mind races to see if I’ve forgotten some gala, some event.

  They happen occasionally, but I don’t think I’d forget one here.

  The setting would take the edge off having to mingle with Seamus’ business associates. I still get a odd glances even after the last few years of being on his arm.

  People are always surprised I’m his type.

  But one appreciating glance from him and it’s obvious: I’m exactly his type.

  Seamus comes around and opens my door.

  “Have I told you that you look gorgeous tonight?”

  I reward him with a kiss, that’s interrupted by a very well-dressed valet. “Good evening, Mr. Doyle. Ms. McCallum.”

  Up the stairs and we’re inside the museum. And I just freeze.

  The atrium is a work of art, with colorful hangings making a stunning visual display. It’s called “Love Infinitum” if I remember correctly. Another exhibit circles the walls at eye level.

  But I’m not registering what’s there.

  I’m looking at a single table with a candle in the middle of the room, and the small orchestra that’s standing patiently to one side.

  Seriously, there are like eight musicians. Is that a French horn?

  “I came here, you know,” Seamus says softly from behind me. “Back when your art first went on display as part of that exhibit. Back when we were dealing with the Stacy family about your shop. Just came here and stared at it for hours, trying to see if it would help me understand you better.”

  I spin around, my brain still struggling to catch up with what’s happening.

  “You’re so talented. Everything you do, making the world a more beautiful and amazing place.”

  Somewhere, out of sight, the tiny orchestra begins to play.

  Seamus isn’t where I expect him to be standing. He’s down on one knee, looking up at me with hopeful eyes. They’re so blue. And his hair is doing that thing that it does when it gets too long and flops down over his forehead.

  I can’t help myself. I reach down and brush it away.

  He looks very serious.

  “The thing I’ve learned about art and about life,” he says very carefully, annunciating every word in a way that tells me despite the words, he’s practiced this a hundred times, “is that you can’t always anticipate where you find the magic. And you don’t always know what creates it.”

  My throat is closing. I won’t cry.

  Fuck.

  The orchestra is getting louder, as the music fills the space.

  “Spend your life with me, Evi,” he says simply.

  That’s Seamus. Patient. Thoughtful. Honest. A good man. The kind of man that doesn’t make anything about himself, but
instead invites you to grace the rest of his life with yours.

  He slides a ring out of his pocket, nestled in a little black box. It’s a showstopper, glittery under lowered lights. As I peer at it, suddenly unable to speak, he glances down at the ring.

  “It’s an antique. Art deco,” he says, looking up at me almost shyly. “If I got it wrong, if you don’t like it, we can get something else…”

  His voice trails off.

  Another beat of silence.

  He’s starting to look concerned. “If it’s too soon. Or….”

  He doesn’t get to finish that, because I rocket myself into his arms with a little cry of pure joy. Thankfully, he anticipates it – like he always does – and rises fast to catch me.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, fuck yes.”

  The orchestra begins to play in earnest.

  “Do you want to look at some art?” he asks a few minutes later. His breath is hot against my neck.

  When I look back at the table, at the musicians, he grins. “We’ve got all night. Well, until 1:59am, anyways.”

  I snort.

  I lead him down a side hall, where we can get a little privacy, and push my fiancée – I think I might love that word – up against the wall.

  After checking that there’s no art, of course.

  My lips are barely on his before someone clears their throat.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Doyle?”

  It’s the man I thought was the valet. “There’s another…..guest that has arrived.”

  For some reason, my mind flashes improbably on Seamus’ brother Ronan inviting himself to dinner.

  It makes me laugh out loud, until I see Seamus looks flustered.

  “Maybe I didn’t sequence this right,” he’s muttering.

  “What?”

  But then he catches my hand, feels the ring on my finger – it’s a perfect fit, of course, because it’s Seamus – and then tugs me back toward the atrium with a huge smile.

  A young woman in a winter coat stands holding a box.

  As we get closer, I see that it’s a pet carrier. For one horrible second, I wonder if Seamus had someone bring Hank to enjoy the moment together.

  And how that person survived trying to get Hank into a carrier.

  But then a very tiny, very un-Hanklike mewl comes from inside.

  “I thought maybe Hank would enjoy a sister,” he says, lifting a tiny orange puffball with huge green eyes from the carrier. Despite its small size, its huge paws and floof tell me this Maine Coon kitten is going to be a huge cat.

  Oh my heart.

  “You know I love Hank,” he says quickly, “But I wanted us to adopt her together.”

  My eyes go back and forth between the tiny cat and the big man. She sinks all ten of her front claws into his suit-covered arm and I can see from here that she’s managed to shed half her fur onto his suit in just seconds.

  “A family of four,” he says softly.

  And when I reach for the little cat that I’m definitely naming Empress, she goes positively beatific. Seamus looks relieved, both to have her claws out of his arm and that I’m holding her.

  “I love her,” I say, keeping my voice light. But I can’t resist adding, “You know this cat is going to grow to be like 50 lbs. right?”

  His eyes are widening with a sudden dawning horror.

  Hank is going to hate her. But then? He’s definitely going to love her.

  And me?

  I’m going to love every minute in this wonderful little family of ours.

  Thank you so much for reading Hustle! Can’t wait for more of the Doyles? Check out Kieran’s story, Thug, on Amazon now. Want a preview? Read on for the first chapter of Thug!

  xoxox,

  Sophie

  Preview – Thug

  Preview – Thug

  The hammering on the door keeps tempo with the hammering in my head.

  One part buzzy remnants from last night’s music being too loud, one part leftover fog from too much whiskey while we played.

  And then there was the fist I took to the side of the head when I was having a “conversation” with some asshole who tried to hit his wife in the Kildare. My knuckles are still skinned raw from that encounter.

  I don’t put up with that caveman bullshit. Not in my neighborhood and definitely not in my family’s bar.

  The sound of splintering wood pierces the air as my bedroom door bangs off the exposed brick wall. I rocket into a seated position, dragging my slow thoughts into the present moment.

  Head swims. So much regret.

  Fuck.

  “Time to get up, shithead!” my brother Ronan’s voice booms as he invades my bedroom, wrenching up the blinds and grinning wickedly as a flood of the brightest light I’ve ever seen pours into my bedroom.

  Maybe I groaned a manly groan. Maybe I squeaked. Who can say?

  Trying to shield my eyes isn’t really helping. It’s that kind of painfully bright Boston June light that blasts you with an unrelenting optimism, when it seems like the summer sun and warm weather will last forever.

  When I’m not hungover I live for days like this. Today, though? Not so much.

  “You hear me?” Ronan roars again, from somewhere closer by.

  Words don’t come out when I try to talk, just a deep growl of displeasure.

  An answering groan sounds from Boru, my massive Bernese Mountain Dog who swings his head in Ronan’s direction. He does the canine equivalent of “oh, it’s just that fucker” before lowering his dark head with a dramatic sigh and closing his eyes.

  Good thinking, buddy.

  The Doyles are all big men, but no one is bigger than Ronan and I realize he’s moving toward me with a speed that my lizard brain registers as a potential threat.

  I drag a rough hand across the scruff on my jaw and through my dark hair. It’s standing up everywhere.

  “Come on. Dad’s waiting.” He’s half a second away from ripping the blankets away, the last thin shield between the heaven that is my bed and the hell that is sure to be this day. Not a patient man, my brother.

  My hands go up in surrender. “Easy, buddy. Give me five minutes.”

  Then his words register with a full-bodied start of fear. “Wait. Dad. Is everything okay?” I’m already swinging my legs over the edge of the bed in a panic.

  The harsh lines of Ronan’s face ease for just a second, but then he shuts it down and gives me a curt nod.

  “Yeah, he’s fine but he’s pissed. Been up since five a.m. waiting on your ass.”

  His eyes cut toward the clock. “It’s afternoon. Almost two o’clock.”

  Shit.

  “Shower.” I need a shower to wash away the last of the previous night and wake up enough to function for the day.

  The blankets fall to my waist and then away as I stand, stretching out every inch of my bunched muscles. I’m not that old but I can’t take the beatings I used to and it’s been a rough few months for the Doyles. Never mind sitting on ancient barstools jamming my nights away for hours.

  Who am I kidding? I’ve been keeping too many late nights, blowing off steam by playing whatever music gigs I can get.

  My back, my knee, and other parts of my body let me know they’re accounted for. Good thing my little brother Owen’s marrying a doctor because mob life doesn’t come with health insurance. Come to think of it, neither does bar rat musician.

  “Fuck!” Ronan just realized I’m not wearing pants, and I’m sporting full morning wood.

  I close the distance in long easy strides to my bathroom, roaring with laughter. Actually, I’d say croaking.

  “Sorry, big brother. Some day you’re going to have to face facts that I got the best of the family jewels.”

  The bathroom door swings shut behind me just in time to take the brunt of whatever Ronan hurls at it. He snorts though, which is about as close as he gets to humor these days. I’ll take it. Good to see the big man feeling anything other than tense or furious lately.

&
nbsp; Ten minutes later the icy cold shower works its magic. I drag on jeans and a t-shirt, steel-toed boots and dark glasses. Can’t do shit about my hair though. Even wet after a shower, that mop has a mind of its own.

  I’d rather be wearing sweats, but if my father wants me to work, I need to be ready to bust some faces. Or knees. Or doors. Ronan takes pity on me and rolls through the Dunkin’s drive-thru for an ice coffee in his huge, black, conspicuous-as-all-fuck Escalade.

  Extra ice, extra cream, extra sugar.

  “I don’t know how you drink that shit without turning into a fat old man,” he growls. “Finish it before we get to the bar or Dad will have your ass.”

  He’s right. Murphy Doyle drinks his coffee black, and so do other real men. At least that’s what he tells us.

  But I like to relax a little, enjoy life. It goes by fast whether you’re happy or not, so why not have a little sugar and joy along the way?

  We tip the girl on the window eight bucks on a two-dollar coffee, because her dad’s out of work and she’s pulling too many shifts to pay for college, and then head for the Kildare so I can find out whose kneecaps I’m supposed to break today.

  Or whatever task my father has in store.

  Rolling through the streets of Boston, neighborhoods rocket by. Triple deckers with too many people crowded in, a mix of storefronts, gentrified old Victorians with their perfectly painted trim and manicured lawns. My jaw tightens.

  I love this city, but I feel like it’s closing in around me. Not for the first time lately, I find myself wishing I could just get away. Not happening, buddy. Between my father’s terminal illness and the Carneys trying to move in on our neighborhoods, it’s been all hands on deck all the time. Where else would I go anyways?

  So I crack my neck, take a deep draw on my sweetass coffee, and close my eyes to see if this headache will ease up at all.

  The Kildare’s interior is dark as we come in through the back door. A few ragged patrons sit at the bar, despite the early hour, and some golf bullshit plays wordlessly on the screen.

  Looks like most of these guys are staring off into the distance, at missed dreams or remembered regrets.