The Real Deal: A Dublin Nights Novel

by Sahin, Brittney

  The Real Deal

  A Dublin Nights Novel

  Brittney Sahin

  EmKo Media, LLC

  The Real Deal

  By: Brittney Sahin

  Published by: EmKo Media, LLC

  Copyright © 2019 EmKo Media, LLC

  This book is an original publication of Brittney Sahin.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting EmKoMedia@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Editor: Deb Markanton

  Line Editor: Arielle Brubaker

  Proofreader: Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

  Cover Design: LJ, Mayhem Cover Creations

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook ISBN: 9781947717213

  Created with Vellum

  To Deb M. -

  This one is for you. Thank you!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Special Bonus Epilogue

  Preview from The Inside Man

  Playlist

  Also by Brittney Sahin

  Where Else To Find Me

  Prologue

  Positano, Italy - Six Years Ago

  Sebastian

  “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  My gaze moved from the amber liquid in the glass to the Englishman sitting across from me.

  Henry Cuthers. A rich and entitled arse. Dressed in a herringbone check suit circa the Al Capone days, he looked about as vintage as the clothes he was wearing. A .38-caliber revolver hidden in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket would complete the look.

  But no, a man like him wouldn’t carry. He had his bodyguards to protect him so he wouldn’t break his manicured nails.

  Cuthers stiffened with my eyes set on him. His pale skin reddened from the base of his throat to the tips of his too-big ears, letting me know his tough guy look was an act. He was a businessman with too much time on his hands, and now he was showing his cards, his fear. And he should be afraid.

  “I assume you’re calling in a favor, one that violates the rules?” My patience dwindled with every passing second as I waited for him to speak.

  A slight tremor appeared in his hand when he slid half a piece of paper across the table. “My wife wants a divorce. She left me a three-line note to say goodbye before she took off to Rome with another man as if ten years of marriage meant nothing.”

  I didn’t touch the paper as I observed him.

  The whites of his eyes overwhelmed the green color. Lips drawn tight. Fingers curled into his palms on the table.

  Grief and sadness? No.

  Anger and betrayal? Hell yes.

  “And this is a problem because . . .?” I remembered his wife, a classic beauty. She was reminiscent of Sophia Loren in the prime of her career. I’d never understood why she married a man like Cuthers, not even for his wealth.

  “She left me for my competitor. I’m worried she’ll sell company secrets. Screw me over in more ways than one.”

  “What do you want?” I leaned back in the seat, catching a brunette’s eyes at the table off to my left.

  “We’ve worked together in the past, my friend. I heard you were in the area and hoped you would agree to help. You did accept the meeting.” Cuthers motioned to the bodyguard standing nearby, a briefcase clutched at his side, beckoning him to the table.

  The man popped the twin gold locks and flashed the money, then quickly snapped the briefcase shut.

  “Three hundred grand now. Another three after the job is done. Make it look like an accident. An extra hundred if you can set up her new lover, too.”

  “I’m not a hitman.” The words came out like the blunt tip of an unpolished knife.

  “No one would have to know.” The nervous sweat at his brow journeyed down the sides of his clean-shaven face. “Think of the money.”

  Patience now exhausted, I angled my head and brought my gaze to the black-and-white checkered floor for a heartbeat. With swift movements, I rose and lunged toward him before he could react. Before his bodyguard would even know what happened.

  With Cuthers’ lapels in hand, I yanked him to his feet, then twisted his arm behind his back and slammed his face onto the table.

  My hand remained steady on the back of his neck as I held him in place. I swept my gaze from left to right. The red-lipped brunette caught my eyes and smiled.

  Conversation in the room abruptly stopped but only for a moment.

  Most people were well acquainted with who I worked for, so they wouldn’t attempt to intervene. Cuthers’ idiot bodyguard didn’t seem to understand because he pressed the muzzle of his gun against my temple.

  “I suggest you remove your weapon before I kill you and your employer.”

  Cuthers lifted his hand in the air, signaling to his guard to lower his weapon.

  “It wasn’t smart to go around the rules.” I leaned forward and brought my mouth to his ear. “Your membership has officially been revoked. Consider yourself lucky that’s the extent of it.”

  “You’re only a fixer. You can’t—”

  Grabbing a handful of his hair, I lifted his head and slammed his cheek back down onto the table, then bent his arm even farther back, on the verge of dislocating it from the shoulder. “I speak for every leader, not just for La Lega dei Fratelli.” The arsehole needed a reminder that the rules applied to The League of Brothers here as well as elsewhere. The rules were sacred. “No League protection from now on.”

  He moaned when I punctuated my words with one last twist of his arm. “Understood.”

  I released him with a shove and stood to my full height.

  His bodyguard stepped in front of me, a 9mm rested against his abdomen, jaw locked tight. He was itching to exchange blows. And it’d be a waste of his time.

  I wasn’t armed, and I didn’t need to be.

  I snatched the scrap of paper off the table and glanced at Cuthers. “If you send anyone else after your wife, if anything happens to her, I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you.” I held the paper between us. “Do you underst
and?”

  “Why does her life mean anything to you?” He massaged his shoulder and grimaced.

  I ignored him and tucked the paper into my back pocket, and he flinched when I stepped close again. “Don’t make me come after you.”

  Once outside, I sent a quick message to Signore Calibrisi, the leader of La Lega dei Fratelli in Italy, to let him know Cuthers had been taken care of.

  I hopped onto my red Ducati Monster 696 and slipped on my helmet.

  The sun had set two hours ago, so the village off to my left and the pebble beach that lay at its feet were barely noticeable. During the day, the whitewashed houses appeared stacked vertically, nestled into the weathered cliffs like a carefully constructed puzzle. But hidden by the night sky, the only clue they existed were pinpoints of light glowing from within houses here and there.

  Darkness draped my shoulders like a blanket. A comforting sensation. A feeling of home.

  My sins were easily hidden when the sun slept.

  And as I took on the hairpin curves of the twisting roads on my bike, traveling along the Amalfi Coast toward my home—a boat docked at the marina—for one moment . . . one small moment of time, I allowed myself to dream my life was different.

  Dreams were for those who were able to live in the sun—to live in the light of day.

  Those dreams would be wasted on me.

  Besides, I was far too comfortable in the dark.

  * * *

  “You’re a hard man to find.”

  I removed my helmet and tracked the female voice behind me.

  The orange glow of the marina lights revealed a woman wearing a tight-fitting leather jacket leaning against a red BMW convertible.

  Her voice—American?

  “I’m surprised you found me at all.” I set down my helmet and approached the brunette who held herself with the kind of confidence I didn’t see in most men. I certainly hadn’t seen it in that arsehole, Henry Cuthers.

  She pushed away from the convertible and closed the space between us with self-assured strides.

  She reminded me a little of Signore Calibrisi’s daughter, Emilia, with her long dark hair and almond-shaped eyes, but there was something else familiar about her I couldn’t quite map out in my mind.

  “Do you know who I am?” Her voice was softer this time. Hesitant, as if she were fearful of my answer. An interesting contrast to the way she held herself—shoulders squared and chin lifted.

  “No,” I said, even though something inside of me wanted to answer yes. “I’d sure as hell like to, though.” I dragged my eyes from her brown riding boots, doubtful the woman ever rode horses, before my gaze moved to the snug fit of her denim jeans.

  “I would advise against checking me out.”

  I scratched at the scruff on my jaw. “And why is that?”

  “Well,” she began, “because we’re related.” Her words carried a hint of amusement, but I still stumbled back as if I’d been punched in the face by a heavyweight boxing champ.

  “Did Luca put you up to this?” I grinned, trying to find my bearings again. “He’s notorious for his antics.” I’d gone out with Luca in Milan a few weeks ago, too. He probably wanted to get back at me since I’d left the club with the blonde he’d had his eye on first.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.” Her tone had changed, less soft and more pleading.

  And now this wasn’t remotely funny at all. “You have me mistaken with someone else.” I turned, needing to get the hell away from her.

  Whatever game this woman was playing, well, she could find someone else to rope into her sick kind of fun.

  “Wait,” she called out as I continued down the dock, striding past other yachts until I reached mine.

  She was a beauty, my boat.

  A Hatteras Flybridge 53 ED. 1983 model. After I restored her, she ran as good as new, too.

  I climbed aboard, unlocked the cabin door, and moved into the galley.

  When I turned around, she was taking a seat on the couch on the starboard side. She’d drawn a hand at the base of her throat as if struggling to loosen her words free.

  Her fierce confidence had been left on the dock. Inside here, she looked like a lost young girl.

  Now, in the light, I realized she was barely legal. Twenty or twenty-one, at most.

  Dark brown eyes. Brown hair with streaks of red flowed over her shoulders. A strong but feminine jawline. Straight nose. High cheekbones.

  Shit, I did recognize her. “Alessia Romano.”

  Italian in name. American by birth. Richer than rich.

  Her father, Anthony Romano, had died a few months ago. It’d been all over the media. The death of a billionaire always made the news.

  Romano wasn’t League even though, as a billionaire, he would have qualified. League leaders were required to have the kind of wealth most men would never see. However, The League of Brothers had chosen to refrain from crossing the Atlantic to the Americas. They were strictly on the European and Asian continents.

  “You said you didn’t know me.” Disbelief shredded her tone into something small and weak.

  “You’re a Romano. I didn’t notice outside.” I grabbed a bottle of my favorite American drink, Maker’s Mark, and poured two glasses. “Here.” I took the two steps from the galley to the couch and handed her the drink. Eyes locked warily on mine, she brought the glass to her lips and sniffed.

  “It’s not poison.” A Maker’s neat could take getting used to, though, I supposed.

  And when a tiny smile touched her lips, I realized the corners of my mouth had flipped, too.

  She took a careful sip. I downed mine in one quick swig.

  “It’s true, Sebastian, I’m your sister.”

  She knew my name. My real name.

  How in the hell . . .?

  Her words had me feeling like I was twelve again. A kid with everything to lose. And now all I could think about was the moment I’d found my mother lifeless on the floor of our flat in Paris. Drained of color. Too still to even be breathing. I’d screamed for help first in English then French. The medics were too late. She’d been gone before I’d even found her.

  “No, it can’t be true.” I ripped my focus back to the boat and out of Paris.

  I didn’t know anything about my father, except he’d been in Dublin on business when they met, and I was the product of an affair that went on for years before I was born, and it was an affair that ended the moment I came into the world.

  He caused her to become a drunk. The alcohol led to pain pills. And those pills caused her death. He killed her.

  So, no, it wasn’t possible I was his son because if my father was already dead, he’d stolen my chance at payback, which was unacceptable.

  “You’re lying.” The words came out hard and gritty like I’d put them through a meat grinder first.

  “I didn’t know about you, not until my father was on his deathbed, and he told me about the son he abandoned in Dublin.” She stood and dipped her hand into her pocket and produced a photo. “Colleen Ryan is your mom.”

  I was three in the photo. Sitting on my mother’s lap with a smile on my face. We were still living in Dublin at the time.

  “Where’d you get that?” I set my empty glass down and snatched the picture.

  My ma’s blue eyes stared back at me. And the pain of losing her crawled back into my chest.

  “It was the last time your mother sent our father a photo. She gave up trying to reach out to him after that. Well, that’s what Dad said. And he let her give up.” The word sorry was written all over her face as if she was somehow to blame for her arsehole father.

  But no, I couldn’t be Anthony Romano’s son.

  I turned, refusing to look at her. Unwilling to risk seeing someone who did, in fact, look similar to me.

  I set the photo down and moved to the wall alongside the small fridge. I pressed my palms to the cool surface and bowed my head. My heartbeat pumped wildly when it should’ve been steady
. Resolute. Un-fucking-breakable. I was facing a woman who was trying to rip my world apart, and my heart was betraying my mind as it beat a desperate, imploring rhythm . . . You have a sister.

  “I’ve been looking for you since the day he died. We have a family friend in the CIA. It took a few months, but, well, clearly he tracked you down.”

  If the CIA knew my location, I’d have to get the hell out of Italy. I couldn’t let them discover my allegiance to The League.

  “No one else knows who you are, and he vowed he wouldn’t tell anyone about the favor I’d asked to find you,” she said as if reading my mind, a hint of sadness in her voice that I think she was trying to mask.

  I knew a thing or two about favors. “Yeah, and what else did this CIA guy tell you?”

  “You were arrested three times while living in Paris, all before you turned eighteen. Then you disappeared from the grid. The arrests and stuff, is that because of what happened?”

  “What happened?” I whirled around, my anger spiking. I snatched the glass she was still holding and tossed the bourbon back, swallowing hard. “How my mother died, you mean?” I seethed. “How I got bounced around in the system? Lived on the streets?” I slammed the glass down on the counter off to my side.

  She stepped back, fear in her eyes. Smart girl.

  “I’m sorry about everything. I can’t even imagine.” Innocence and a sweetness I didn’t deserve flooded her tone.