Devil: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

Her emotions are heavy, and I think she’s like me.

  Knows what to do with anger.

  “It’s their cover, Williams. It’s how they move shit around. The O’Dooleys got their start bootlegging back during prohibition, and their bootlegging has just changed shape. They do enough legitimate business to avoid suspicion, and with the cops and possibly one of the feds on their payroll, they’re on easy street.”

  Or so they think.

  My plans involve more than just exposing crooked cops, but I need them distracted while I take care of my own business.

  She’s fidgeting with the crust now, obviously trying to make up her mind. After a few seconds, she takes a big bite, chews slowly, and swallows.

  “I’ll only be able to tell my contact on the corruption task force. And I sure as hell won’t mention you.” The way she says ‘you’ carries a hint of disgust.

  I brush it off.

  “You need a vacation after that car of yours got banged up anyway. Lots of forms to fill out.” I’ve finished a third slice of pizza by now. “Shall we leave this weekend? I’ll pick you up Saturday, let’s say at 10 a.m.?”

  “If my contact tells me it’s a no-go because of the feds,” her voice trails off.

  “Then I’ll go alone.”

  My plan won’t work without her, but she doesn’t need to know that. I don’t waste my time in the Carney’s big casino other than for intel, but I’d put good money on her going regardless of what her contact says.

  She’ll never let me do this alone.

  “I’m not losing my job over some half-baked stakeout, Doyle.”

  “Neither of us could save those people, Ruby.” It’s cruel, but I need this to work. And it’s true. “Maybe it’s not always about what’s legal and what isn’t. Maybe it’s about doing what’s right by Emily, and by those five people whose lives got snuffed out because the O’Dooleys think money matters more than people.”

  She’s staring wide-eyed at me, cherry-red lips parted slightly.

  Gotcha.

  “Saturday,” she says, finally. “If anything changes, I’ll let you know.. Keep the rest of the pizza.” She looks over the box. “What’s left of it, anyway. And don’t forget about that tetanus shot.”

  “Thanks, detective.”

  I watch her walk out, eyes locked on her shapely ass again. I’m not a man that gives much thought to the weekend, but I’m Looking forward to spending more time with her in street clothes.

  6

  Ruby

  It’s nearly 10 a.m., and I can’t believe I’m out on this sidewalk waiting for Ronan Doyle to pick me up for whatever convoluted scheme he’s working.

  He’s up to something. I just don’t know what. Yet. But if working with him gets me closer to shutting down those corrupt cops and the O’Dooleys, it’ll be worth it.

  My contact on the anti-corruption task force was dubious. Hell, I would’ve been too if I were him.

  And how did you learn about this, Williams? he’d asked, leaning forward on his elbows. And for all we know this could already be a DEA operation.

  He wasn’t wrong, but corruption runs deep, especially when there’s money to be made.

  Like with my father.

  Pushing that thought away, I stare down the narrow road, my weekend bag nestled between my feet. It’s been a while since I needed it. Too long. The last guy I’d dated couldn’t handle my erratic schedule. Couldn’t understand that my job came first. Same with the one before that and the one before that.

  If I was a detective, I might sense a pattern.

  God. This isn’t a romantic getaway, Williams. Pull your head out of your ass.

  My contact gave me the okay to do very basic groundwork, though he hadn’t liked the lack of specifics.

  Western Massachusetts. The O’Dooleys.

  I hadn’t told him the part about the brewery. Ronan gave me the location with that detail. Prescott. I’d been tempted to take off on my own, but I want to keep an eye on him.

  I’m sure there’s more he’s not telling me.

  And frankly, if he’s caught up in any way, the best way to find out is a little one-on-one time.

  At exactly 10am, Ronan Doyle rolls up in a bright red Mustang GT.

  Subtle.

  I half expect the huge black Escalade I’ve seen him use for work. Apparently, his personal taste is equally flashy.

  He’s out of the car and grabbing my bag before I can protest, dropping it in the trunk. He opens my door, grinning.

  It’s going to be like this the whole goddamn weekend, isn’t it?

  Push and pull. Fire and ice.

  Sighing, I slide into the passenger’s seat.

  Leather, naturally.

  “It’s roomier than you’d think,” he says, closing my door. He pops around into the driver’s seat. “Not that you need it.” He’s smirking now at my short legs, and I regret leaving my gun in my bag.

  Shifting the car into gear, he zips through the city streets onto the Massachusetts Turnpike. I’d pulled him over for speeding before, just for fun.

  “Not exactly the best way to avoid law enforcement, Doyle.”

  “Why would I want to avoid them?” he replies. “Or maybe it’s you who doesn’t want your pals seeing us together.” He tilts his sunglasses down with a finger.

  “Do I embarrass you, Detective Williams?”

  “Do you mind pulling over at the next rest stop? I need to get my gun out of the trunk.”

  “So violent,” he responds, still with that cheeky goddamn grin. “I’ll keep it close to the speed limit. Wouldn’t want you to lose cred with your friends.”

  Two hours into the drive, we get off the highway at Springfield. It’s the third biggest city in Massachusetts, the economic center of Western MA, and a big point of distribution between New York City and Boston.

  The scenery changes from urban to rural rapidly as Ronan navigates winding county roads. He’s not using a GPS, which leads me to believe he’s made this drive before. Prescott is about ten miles west of Springfield, but it feels more like hundreds—that’s how stark the difference is.

  Houses are few and far between, with forests and the occasional pasture dominating the landscape. This part of the state is hilly, and it’s not always easy to see what’s over the horizon.

  We crest a hill and the car feels like it’s floating just for a moment. Ronan turns to look at me.

  “It’s a great hill when you hit it just right. Like a mini roller coaster.”

  He sounds like a little kid. Dangerously disarming.

  I will that small part of me that’s starting to melt to go back to steel.

  This man is the eldest son of a mob family. Next in line to run things – and that time is coming fast. I have to keep my head on straight. Still, I find myself smiling.

  “I always liked roller coasters.”

  “Me too,” he says, facing the road again. “Did you ever go on the Yankee Cannonball?”

  “The old wooden one up in New Hampshire? Yeah. I thought I was going to fly out of the seat.”

  “Well, you’re petite,” he says, shrugging. “Those lap bars aren’t cutting edge when it comes to safety.”

  A flush washes over me, carried on a tide of annoyance. I’ve always been short, but no one’s ever thought of me as small. I’ve always had an athletic body, curvy and strong. It’s not that I envy the willowy, tiny girls, but men look at me differently. They want to fuck me but marry other women.

  Marriage doesn’t fit into my plans, anyway, but it still feels shitty to be counted out.

  “I’m too tall for roller coasters now,” Ronan says. “Most of them cut off at like six foot four, and I’ve been 6’6” since I was fifteen.”

  A hint of sadness in his voice makes me feel something I don’t want to.

  “Six six?” I reply slyly. “One six away from the number of the beast. Seems about right.”

  He laughs and takes a left too fast onto a road that cuts into the side of
a hill. A valley opens in front of us, a cozy town nestled at the foot of the hill. A white steepled church marks the back end, with the rest of the town filling in ahead of it along one main road, aptly named Main Street.

  I’m gawking at the general store, which has honest-to-god rocking chairs out in front, when Ronan turns into the parking lot of a bed-and-breakfast.

  “It must be so beautiful here when the leaves change,” I say as Ronan turns off the car. There are a few splashes of color here and there, but the foliage won’t peak for another month. When I look over at Ronan, he’s staring at me, his sunglasses pushed back on top of his head.

  Those dark blue eyes.

  There’s something in his look.

  It’s intense, and I feel a lump in my throat.

  “Yeah,” his voice is low and thick. “Beautiful.”

  We sit there in the car for another second before Ronan shakes his head and pops the door open.

  What the hell was that?

  Time to be on guard with this man. Really on guard.

  Climbing out of the sports car, I stretch as Ronan gets our bags from the trunk. I go to take mine and he waves me off. This time I can’t even summon annoyance. Our boots crunch on the white stone of the driveway as we walk up to the front entrance of the B&B. It’s a rustic farmhouse with a wraparound porch, and yes, more rocking chairs. A big golden retriever is sleeping by the front door, and, naturally, I drop to greet him.

  He’s awake in a second, tail wagging and tongue hanging out. I scratch him behind the ears and he rolls over, giving me primo belly access.

  “Who’s a good boy? You are. Aren’t you a good boy?” We’re in full belly rub mode when I notice that Ronan giving me the same look from the car. I can’t deal with whatever that is right now.

  “You don’t like dogs, Doyle?”

  “Of course I do,” he says. He sounds scandalized. It’s great. “It’s just funny seeing you relaxed.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Look who’s talking. No one has a bigger pole up his ass than you, Doyle.”

  “That’s not fair,” he responds. “You’ve met Seamus.”

  It’s true. Ronan’s uptight lawyer brother Seamus is a solid guy with a decent reputation – minus the mob lawyer thing - but he’s definitely one of the most rigid and orderly men I’ve ever met.

  Now we’re both laughing, and he’s crouched down giving the big golden boy some belly rubs too. Our bags sit forgotten on the porch until the door swings open.

  There’s barely a sound, more the intention of the displacement of air.

  Ronan is on his feet in seconds.

  An instinct for danger, not unlike a cop’s. But his weren’t honed apprehending criminals.

  I’m not gentle reminding myself that as I watch the door swing open.

  A woman, probably in her late sixties, stands the door with her arms folded over her chest. Silver hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head, and she’s wearing a food-stained apron.

  “Toby,” she says, “are you bothering our guests again?”

  Toby gets up and whines. It’s pathetic. I love it. He presses his shoulder into Ronan’s leg, and Ronan pets his head gently.

  “He’s not a bother,” Ronan replies. “He’s quite the host.”

  “He’ll have you giving him belly rubs for hours if you’re not careful,” the woman says warmly. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Doyle?”

  He shoots an absolutely wolfish look at me.

  “We are. I’m Ronan. This is my bride, Ruby.”

  I’m so close to my gun right now.

  “I’m Amelia,” she says, shaking his hand. Hers is covered in flour. “My husband still calls me his bride after all these years. We’ve been together nearly forty now.”

  I am too flabbergasted to respond and just shake her hand as well.

  “What’s your secret?” Ronan asks, scooping up our bags.

  “Good communication.” She’s opening the door, and Ronan steps in.

  He has to duck. I follow, and she nudges Toby to keep him from dashing in.

  “You stay there, mister. You’ll have plenty of attention later. I’ve got to check these folks in.”

  The hardwood floor is gorgeous. It’s obviously very old, but well cared for. It’s not the seamless, uniformly colored wood you see in houses now but is all different sizes and full of pretty knots. It’s well polished, though, and clean.

  “Communication,” Amelia continues, stepping behind a low counter. “If there are surprises, they should only be good ones.”

  Right now, I want to surprise Ronan by knocking that fucking smile off his face. That would be good for me.

  “That’s good advice, ma’am,” Ronan says, sounding earnest. “I lost my mother when I was young, but I remember my parents always made sure to have dinner together, even when they were at their busiest.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother, honey. Was it an accident?”

  “Cancer. Leukemia. Happened fast.”

  Ronan had obviously given this answer a hundred times, but his voice hitches even now. It makes me want to kill him slightly less.

  Slightly.

  “A shame,” she said, tsking as she pats his hand. “But I hope you and your wife here carry on that dinner together tradition. Life will always be busy. You have to make time for what’s important.”

  Urge to kill rising again.

  Amelia hands Ronan a key.

  “You’re upstairs. Honeymoon suite in the corner. But I can tell you two aren’t newlyweds. You’ve obviously been together for a long time.”

  Ronan slips his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close against his body. I’m thrown off-balance and grab him around the waist to stop myself from falling. Steely attention keeps me from noticing the muscles that bunch under his shirt.

  “That we have, ma’am. That we have.”

  “You’ve got that glow, though,” she says. “Breakfast is at 8 a.m. There’s only one other restaurant in town, just a quarter mile down Main Street. You can’t miss it. They close at 9 p.m., though, so don’t dawdle. The brewery is open for tours Monday through Saturday noon to 3 p.m. Otherwise there’s plenty of hiking and outdoor fun around here.”

  She pats Ronan on the shoulder. “I hope you’ll have a good stay with us.”

  We thank her, and he lets me go to pick up our bags, handing me the key. I’m imagining different ways to kill him as we climb the central staircase to our room. Our room.

  Jesus Christ this is fucking absurd.

  I manage a stony silence until our room.

  I unlock the door and before I can even peek inside he’s scooped me up and carries me inside. My heart races. Massive arms encircle me, and when he holds me to his hard chest I can feel heat rolling off him in waves.

  What the hell does he think he’s playing at?

  My nipples tighten as his arms shift, one gliding just under my ass. A shock of heat flashes through my core as he takes me all the way to the four-poster bed, placing me down gently. His arms are on either side of me, pressed into the white quilt.

  I curse the DNA that betrays me right now, leaving my body at full attention from this man’s presence.

  His touch.

  The imagined romantic getaway.

  “Mrs. Doyle,” he says, pressing a hot kiss to my forehead. He eases off me and leaves to retrieve our bags from the hallway.

  I look at his thick, muscled legs straining the lines of his jeans.

  He’s a criminal. You’re a cop. This is a job.

  The mantra runs fast through my head, over and over.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  7

  Ronan

  Holy shit.

  What demon brain cells compelled me to carry Ruby over the threshold? As I watched her open that door, her small, elegant hands shaking with barely contained rage, I knew I had to push it even further.

  Take her to the line.

  Tip her over.

  She’
s so goddamn alluring when she’s pissed.

  She’s always in such tight control.

  I love being the thing she can’t seem to manage her temper around.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t brain cells responsible.

  Her arms slid instinctively around my shoulders, and my cock went rock-hard in response. God. I planned to put her down just past the doorway, but I wanted to hold on to her for as long as I could.

  Setting her down on the bed and kissing her just followed naturally.

  “We can hyphenate if you want,” I toss over my shoulder, picking up our bags. “I’m a very modern man.”

  I shut the door and put her bag on the larger dresser in the room.

  “Doyle-Williams or Williams-Doyle?”

  She’s still on the bed, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. She’s scrunched up into a seated position, her legs bent at the knees.

  Something about seeing her on that bed makes me wish I could drop down next to her.

  “What?” I say, tossing my bag on the floor by the smaller dresser. “We’re undercover. I had to make it look realistic.”

  “Great cover names, Doyle,” she spits out. A million nasty curses are at the tip of her tongue, but she can’t seem to get them out.

  It’s satisfying to see her off-kilter.

  “I suppose they could use work,” I reply, opening the door to the adjoining bathroom.

  There’s a shower stall that’s too small and a claw-foot tub that presents a similar challenge. It has a spray attachment on the faucet, though, so I’ll make it work.

  I’m not used to the world being sized for me.

  A window overlooking the expansive backyard and garden. I open the window and a cool breeze flutters the curtains. It smells crisp and clean, like the leaves my brothers and I raked every fall.

  We had a postage stamp yard in Dorchester, but the nearby oak trees shed like crazy, and while we never got the big kind of leaf piles you see kids jumping in, we did have enough acorns to whip at each other until my dad would lean out of the window to shout at us.

  “Someone’s going to end up crying and it’s not going to be me.”

  The threat was enough. As the eldest, I’d corral my brothers back to the task at hand.