Devil: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  “You’re sleeping on the floor,”

  Ruby’s voice snaps me out of my daydream. I’ve been spending too much goddamn time reminiscing lately. It’s time to focus on the O’Dooleys and taking care of those fuckers once and for all.

  My intel tells me Michael O’Dooley is going to be in town this week, and I need to cut the head off this operation and cauterize the wound so nothing can grow to replace it. Let the stump fucking wither.

  I lean out of the bathroom to see Ruby back on her feet, glaring at me.

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  The main street doesn’t have sidewalks, but it doesn’t really need them. I want to take Ruby past the police station. Give her a distraction from her anger, at least her anger at me. As we approach the building she stops in her tracks.

  “It’s small,” she says.

  “Yeah. Fewer people to keep in your pocket.”

  The building is a square, one-story brick building. Three patrol cars are in the lot next to it, though the chief’s space is empty.

  “Five officers and the chief,” she says, staring a hole in the wall of the building. “Chief Eugene Flesch.”

  “I’m guessing he’s the one in charge of the cover-up. I don’t know how many others are involved. Most have to be, if not all.”

  “How far is the brewery?”

  “Just a five-minute drive. You have to get back on the county road. There’s a more direct connection to the turnpike on the back end of the brewery, but I figured I’d take the scenic route here.”

  “Scenic route,” she says. “Right.”

  She’s still pissed at me. Maybe I should tell her how sexy she is when she’s mad. Tick her off a little more.

  But instead my stomach growls.

  “Skip breakfast?” Ruby asks, turning toward me.

  “I ate, but it’s well past lunch now. Shall we hit up the restaurant?”

  She shoots one last look at the police station before breezing past me onto the street. “Can’t have you getting weak from starvation.”

  I snatch her around the waist and toss her over my shoulder.

  “Who’s weak?” I ask, striding deliberately toward the restaurant.

  “Do you have a death wish?” she hisses. “I swear to God, if you don’t put me down right now…”

  God, I love the feeling of her squirming in my arms.

  And it’s back to the never ending hard-on again.

  What I want to do is smack her round ass. But Murphy Doyle raises me right: I don’t do that without getting permission, and that seems unlikely at the moment.

  Instead I deposit her gently on the ground.

  “Don’t do that again,” she warns, her hands balled into fists.

  “Okay,” I reply, raising my hands in defeat. “I’m sorry.”

  And I am. I like pushing Ruby to the edge, but she’s genuinely upset and that’s not fun. She’s absolutely fuming now.

  Shit.

  I don’t want her to actually hate me. She has to be willing to work with me.

  How can I explain? The way I roughhoused with my brothers as kids? The way people defer to me now, and how it leaves me unsettled?

  How for some inexplicable reason, I look at this tiny dark-eyed woman and feel more like myself than I have in years?

  An instinct I’m very aware could go wrong, and land me in a jail cell, if I forget myself.

  “I grew up with mostly boys,” I offer. “My brothers, of course, lots of male cousins, and my friends are guys, too. We’re always giving each other shit and I forget it’s different with women.”

  “We’re not friends, Ronan.”

  “Well now my feelings are hurt. I thought we had something.”

  Some part of me feels a little sad.

  But if the way my cock responds to her constantly is any indication, though, friendship isn’t exactly what I want either.

  “We’re getting a job done. We need to work together to get it done, and it’ll be a lot easier if you stop being a goddamned fool.”

  We’re at the restaurant now. Clyde’s Bar and Grill. It’s a simple family-style place that you could find in any small town. It galls me, but I stand back and let her open the door. She holds it open for me and I pass through without comment.

  Her rage cools.

  I like that she takes it for the peace offering it is.

  Knows what the claiming and release of power between two people can mean.

  Try to block out the image of her letting me take control in the bedroom.

  Inside the shabby lounge, the young hostess greets us and shows us to our table.

  I’m staring after her when Ruby smacks me with a menu.

  “Don’t be gross, Ronan. She’s a kid.”

  Now it’s my turn to be pissed.

  “No shit, Williams,” I snap. “Don’t fucking make assumptions like that about me. You know better than that.”

  She should anyways.

  She flinches.

  “She reminds me of Emily.”

  We both stare at our menus. I could break the table in half for the fury I’m feeling.

  A man in my line of work earns nothing from deceiving himself. Blind spots and delusions get you hurt, get you killed, get you on the inside of a concrete box.

  Despite the attraction I feel to her, I know she’s a cop.

  I know she decided I’m a no-good Irish mafia son of a bitch long before we ever met.

  There’s no future here.

  There is chemistry.

  There is, despite the differences, common ground.

  But for some reason, despite the things standing between us, I expect her to take me for a decent man at this point.

  Not the kind that eye fucks a twenty-year old half his age.

  I expect her to know that I won’t settle for less than a woman.

  “I do know better,” Ruby says, finally. “I’m sorry, Ronan. We both know how to push each other’s buttons. But that wasn’t fair.”

  I sigh and jam a hand through my hair.

  The way her eyes track its progression tells me that she’s logging my tics, tracking my movements.

  “Let’s try a temporary truce while we’re here. We can get back to making each other’s lives hell when we’re home in Boston, but right now let’s focus on getting justice for Emily. And making sure something similar doesn’t happen to that kid.”

  “Shake on it?” she says, reaching out her small hand.

  Her nails are painted pink now.

  I grab her hand and we shake, firm but not trying to outdo each other, like we would normally.

  “Let’s work out our plan after we eat,” I offer.

  “Let’s not both get patty melts this time, though.”

  “Too suspicious,” I agree with a nod. “Besides, I’m too goddamn hungry for a lightweight sandwich.”

  “Patty melt is lightweight,” she says. “Your takeout bill must be obscene.”

  “Sometimes. More so in the summer. I cook a lot in the fall and winter.”

  “You cook?” She props her chin up on folded hands.

  “Cook,” I say, making air quotes with my fingers. “Mostly I throw a bunch of shit in a Crock-Pot and hope for the best.”

  “I make a mean Crock-Pot queso,” she grins. “The envy of Superbowl Sunday.”

  “Once Owen ate a whole bowl of queso by himself. The aftermath was stunning.”

  “Oh my god.” Ruby giggles now, and making her laugh feels pretty great too. “God bless whatever plumbing faced that challenge.”

  We’re both laughing when the server comes over.

  It’s an interesting thing to find a woman I can be easy with. Most woman focus too much on the Doyle boss thing, and never try to actually get to know Ronan.

  Never thought of it that way until now.

  “What’ll it be, folks?” The server is a middle-aged man and looking at his name tag I see it is Clyde himself.

  “We’ll start with the queso,” I
say, straight-faced. Ruby is choking back laughter.

  “Drinks?” Clyde prompts.

  I wait for Ruby to respond.

  “Um, white wine spritzer?” She shoots me a look.

  Laugh and die, Doyle.

  I raise my eyebrows. We have a truce, don’t we? “Guinness for me. Thanks.”

  There’s a lot here on tap from the O’Dooleys, but I’ve never tasted their beer and I never will. Clyde returns in a few minutes, handing us our drinks. We both order more food, and then I propose a toast.

  “To justice,” I say, holding my beer up.

  In whatever form it takes, I add, silently.

  “Justice,” Ruby replies.

  Our glasses clink as we tap them, and I feel that guilt again at dragging her into this. But the ends justify the means, and it’s time to take the O’Dooleys out.

  8

  Ruby

  I’ve never seen anyone put food away quite like Ronan Doyle.

  To be fair, he’s a massive human. Tall, and a wall of solid muscle, but you’d think maintaining that physique would require a lot of, I don’t know, brown rice and chicken breasts or some shit.

  On top of the shared queso, Ronan had eaten a double bacon cheeseburger, fries, onion rings, and two pieces of pecan pie.

  He’d also picked every scrap of food off my plate I didn’t eat.

  He’d stop just shy of scouting for crumbs.

  Even Clyde is impressed.

  Now we are walking down Main Street toward the church.

  “There’re some walking paths behind it,” Ronan says. “One goes out to a little orchard.”

  This big man is full of surprises. Who knew he likes long walks in the woods? Does he enjoy rainy nights too? Is that mafia stress relief or something?

  Or maybe that’s where they scout body dumping locations.

  Not helpful, Williams.

  I haven’t heard much buzz around the Doyles when it came to murder, but that doesn’t mean it never happens. It just means they’re professionals.

  The truth is that I don’t know how much of the Doyle’s current business is dirty and how much isn’t.

  There’s a lot above board.

  I know, because I’ve spent a lot of time digging.

  Seamus has been just evasive enough to suggest that there’s probably something unsavory around the edges. But I’d heard enough stories about Murphy Doyle turning things around in the old days – getting away from the life after he did a stint in prison, had a bunch of kids, married a woman that a lot people believed would become a famous painter – to think it might be true.

  Mostly anyways.

  I’ve also been around enough to know that old habits die hard.

  Once people get used to taking care of problems the easy way, or making money in the not strictly legal sense, those can be tough habits to break. Right now, though, Ronan looks more like a construction worker than anything else: red plaid flannel over a t-shirt, boot cut jeans and Timberlands. If it weren’t for his size, his appearance wouldn’t draw a second look.

  Okay, that’s not true. He’s handsome. Ruggedly handsome, even.

  Big enough, intense enough, to command a room.

  But right at home in nature.

  Focus, Williams. Focus.

  “So tell me about the O’Dooleys.” I say. We’re ducking into the woods now, safe from prying eyes. “I know they’re a big, powerful family, but do you know anything about how they operate?”

  He holds a branch that’s jutting out into the path, and I push past it. “Thanks.”

  He nods.

  “Like I said, they’re an old bootlegging family. Most of the bootleggers went straight into politics, like our local nobility, the Kennedys. But some transitioned into different business once prohibition ended.”

  “Gambling, racketeering, sex trafficking,” I tick them off.

  “Yeah, but some folks went clean. Real estate’s the big one.”

  A squirrel dashes out but stops in the middle of the path, frozen with fear when he sees us.

  “You have to make a decision, buddy,” Ronan says. The squirrel stays frozen for a few more seconds, and then doubles back.

  “That’s why they always get hit by cars. They freeze and double back, when if they’d just kept going, they’d be on the other side.” Ronan shakes his head.

  “What keeps you safe from one predator will get you killed by another,” I respond, shrugging. “They do that to throw off hawks. Running in a straight line will just get you picked off.”

  He huffs a quiet laugh. “Never thought of that. You’re right.”

  “The O’Dooleys went into drugs?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Clearly Ronan is still thinking about the squirrel. Or maybe the hawk.

  “They were mostly small-time stuff through the fifties and sixties. Then Michael O’Dooley took over from his father. He started investing the money rather than spending it on an extravagant lifestyle. Almost admirable if he wasn’t such a repugnant piece of shit.”

  “But he is a repugnant piece of shit, so instead of going clean he used the investments to grow his drug trafficking business,” I conclude.

  “Yep. Most of his father’s generation is long gone. Pushed out or paved under a parking lot somewhere. He doesn’t share power well. He had a brother who mysteriously died”.” Ronan rolls his eyes. “He has a bunch of cousins, nephews, nieces, the like who do his dirty work for him.”

  “But if he were in jail?”

  “If he’s out of the picture the empire crumbles and its carcass gets picked to death by all the people Michael stepped on during his ascent. His family couldn’t give a shit about him—they know he’d turn on them like he did on the others. No fucking loyalty.”

  The disgust in his voice makes my breath catch in my throat.

  He knows what happened with my father. How I turned him in for being in the pocket of the now former president of the state senate. It had been a career boost for me, but it came with a price I didn’t want to pay. Cop daughter of a corrupt cop – even if she turned him in – is a tough label to carry.

  To fight back form.

  Praised by some, condemned by others, when all I want is to still believe my father is a good man.

  But above all, I took an oath and I kept it.

  And I’d had plenty of time to wonder in the years since if that’d been the right call.

  If justice is always black and white, and if the line is always clear.

  Don’t get me wrong. Crooked cops are bullshit; we’re entrusted to protect people and violating that is unforgivable.

  But still.

  Ronan hasn’t noticed, though. He’s gotten a little bit ahead of me, and I nearly stumble over a root trying to catch up.

  “Sorry,” he reaches out a hand to steady me. “That shit gets me worked up. Anyway, it’s nearly impossible to get to Michael. No one knows where he headquarters himself, and with the cops on his side, and possibly protection from the feds…”

  “We have to eliminate the corruption so we can put pressure on him.”

  “People make mistakes under pressure. Squirrels too, I guess.” He grins. “Even if the pressure is just on his system, someone is bound to slip up and give us the information we need to find him. Find his safe house.”

  The trees are starting to thin out now, and the dark quiet of the woods gives way to a hilly orchard. The sun is bright, and even though it’s no longer summer, a few cicadas buzz hopefully, looking for a last fling before fall first frost.

  “Rumor has it Johnny Appleseed planted these trees,” Ronan says, gesturing at the rows of trees. “I mean someone must have, but more likely it was a farmer who went bankrupt.”

  We walk through the neat rows of trees. It’s hard to believe the woods haven’t overtaken this space yet, but the hilly soil seems better suited to fruit trees. The trees are small, only six or seven feet tall. Their limbs are still heavy with apples, even though dozens already litte
r the ground around each tree.

  Looking up, I slow involuntarily.

  My eyes are burning, and I give one sharp sniff trying to force the feelings back.

  I can’t help myself and I snap one off. It’s the perfect apple—medium sized with red and green skin. It’s firm with no signs of rot.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Ronan’s regarding me thoughtfully. I feel like an idiot. Who gets emotional over an apple for fuck’s sake?

  “Ruby, are you okay?”

  Tears prick my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry. But it’s not about the apple.

  “It looks so perfect,” I manage. “But you could take a bite and still get a mouthful of worms.”

  He takes the apple gently from my hand and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a pocketknife. He cuts the apple in half, and I almost gasp to see its beauty destroyed.

  “No worms,” he says, handing me one half. He takes a bite out of the half he kept. “Pretty good.”

  “I don’t know how you can eat right now.” He’s made me laugh, though, and my treacherous emotions settle.

  “Macintoshes are good dessert apples,” he says, pulling another one down. This one doesn’t have the shiny perfection of the apple I’d found. He takes a bite. “Not bad for eating raw, but better for pies.”

  He’s letting me off the hook, but I want him to understand.

  Need him to understand.

  As much as I wish I could let this go.

  “It’s not that I’m looking for rot everywhere, Ronan.”

  “No, but there is a lot of it.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s hiding under a pretty façade and sometimes it’s right on the surface.”

  He shows his apple to me. There is some discoloration and bruising. “But not everything ugly is rotten, Ruby. There’s a big spectrum between imperfections and worms.”

  It’d be easy to discount how much of life a man like Ronan takes in.

  He finishes the apple and tosses the core behind him. “And you need to trust in your ability to tell the difference. Because I trust you to do that. Imperfect apples still make great pies.”

  “How can you be thinking of pies after you ate half a pecan pie earlier?”

  I appreciate what he’s saying, but I’m not ready to talk about it.