Hustle: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Read online

  Hustle

  The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

  Sophie Austin

  Hustle

  Book 3 in The Doyles Series

  Copyright @ 2019 Sophie Austin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any brands, trademarks, or other proprietary terms are the property of their owners.

  Production team:

  Cover Design: Kasmit Covers

  Editing by: Jessica Snyder

  Proofreading by: Mystique Editing

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Where to Find Sophie

  Author’s Note

  Prologue - Evi

  1. Seamus

  2. Seamus

  3. Evi

  4. Evi

  5. Seamus

  6. Evi

  7. Seamus

  8. Evi

  9. Seamus

  10. Evi

  11. Evi

  12. Seamus

  13. Seamus

  14. Evi

  15. Seamus

  16. Evi

  Epilogue - Seamus

  Epilogue - Evi - Three Years Later

  Preview – Thug

  Where to Find Sophie

  Sign up for my newsletter at Sophieaustinromance.com and get on the list for the free prequel novella to the Doyles series!

  I’m a Boston Irish brawler. A boxer. A soldier. An ex-con.

  Kathleen is sweet, beautiful, perfect. And she’s my dead best friend’s little sister. Too good for me.

  But I'll show her how much I care, what I can give her.

  Because in the end, she's going to be mine.

  Sign up now at sophieaustinromance.com to get the latest news on the Doyles and be first to get a copy of the free prequel novella to the Doyles, Sinner.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you so much for reading this book and exploring the world of the Doyles! The Doyles can be read as standalone stories or enjoyed as a series. Each book has no cliffhangers, no cheating, and steamy, heartwarming HEAs you won't forget.

  A note on the timeline: Each book follows the story of one individual Doyle brother - Ronan, Kieran, Seamus, Connor, and Owen. The stories happen one after another over the course of about a year. The epilogues happen further in the future - after the end of the last book in the series - and don't affect the timelines or characters of these individual stories.

  Now, buckle up and get ready for toughest, big-hearted Irish guys Boston's ever seen and the ladies that steal their hearts along the way!

  Prologue - Evi

  Greedy, corrupt men fighting over things that don’t belong to them? Nothing new. Neither is me opposing them. But for the first time, I wonder if I can do it alone.

  The huge enforcer looms over my desk, dark eyes blazing. Over his head, I stare hard at a framed print of the backpiece I inked for a local guy turned famous actor – an elaborate tableau of the Bunker Hill monument (which people always mistake for the Washington Monument - a dick’s a dick, I guess) – and count silently to ten.

  When that doesn’t cut it, I try for twenty. Breathe. Trying to relax just pisses me off more: mafia corruption bullshit.

  Again.

  His oversized body crowds the lobby of my tattoo shop and I fucking hate him invading my space.

  “Listen, Evi, don’t make me get rough,” the deep voice and heavy Boston accent drip menace.

  His thick, square hands press down on the glossy surface of my desk, and I cringe when his dirty nails scrape against it. His sour breath reeks.

  Bad hygiene. Bad attitude. And bad career choices.

  I force myself to snort up into his face, even as fear and disgust constrict my throat. I won’t let this motherfucker see me sweat.

  “You’re a fucking joke,” I lean forward and stare him down. There’s a deadness to his eyes that tells me what kind of guy he really is, sending traces of cold shivers down my spine. “Coming here to threaten me like some low-rent goon? Get out of my store.”

  He flashes a grin tinged with stained teeth. Someone’s into chewing tobacco. “The Stacys and the fine city of Boston are offering you good deal, sweetheart. I think you should take it. Bad things could happen otherwise. Just be a good girl?” As he leans down, I get a close-up of his waxy, pimple-pebbled face.

  I won’t back up, not matter how bad he stinks. Or how terrified I am.

  “You should try exfoliating,” I gesture broadly with one hand at his face like we’re having a pleasant conversation.

  “And then a toner. Moisturizer, too. People always think the answer to acne is drying out your skin, but really moisturizer is the key.”

  His brow crinkles in confusion. I seize the opportunity to reach under my desk and grab the baseball bat I store there. Peacemaker, as I like to call her.

  Listen, I don’t look it, but my upper body strength is impressive. Working with your hands tattooing clients all day long – and holding the criers – will do that.

  Just kidding on the criers. Mostly.

  His eyes widen and his nostrils flare when I shove the bat hard into his throat.

  “Now, I asked you to leave,” I hiss. “Tell your sleazy bosses that I’ve got connections too. Don’t forget I grew up here, asshole.”

  The bat pushes deeper into his neck, and he swallows visibly as he weighs his options.

  “I could snap you in half, bitch,” he snarls, his face taking on a florid quality that’s not making it more appealing.

  My palms sweat and my heart thunders in my chest, but I won’t break eye contact. No way that son of a bitch will see me flinch.

  “If anything happens to me, this shop becomes the property of my lawyer, Seamus Doyle. You know him, Lurch?”

  Finally.

  There it is. The leverage I’m looking for. His fists clench and sweat’s starting to bead at his temples. Good. He’s not the only one that can throw around names.

  I slide the bat over his Adam’s apple and into the underside of his stubbly chin. He winces.

  “The Doyles are old friends of mine, and they won’t be happy to know you’ve been threatening me.”

  “You’ve been warned, Evi. We’re taking this whole fucking block. This is your last chance to take this very generous offer. Don’t take it? We’ll get your store and you’ll get shit from the city for eminent domain.” His lip curls.

  “And the Doyles don’t have the reach you think they do. Not anymore.”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” I snap.

  “You’re making a mistake.” He glares at me, backing away, until he’s out the front door of my shop.

  “Go wash your fucking face, you pig!” I yell after him.

  Pride doesn’t let me lock the door until he’s out of sight, but once he is, I rush over to flip the locks and turn out the lights. I swallow the lump at the back of my throat.

  Leaning my head for a second against the cool wall above the light switch, my mind races. I could handle this myself, but it couldn’t hurt to have back up.

  But do I ask the Doyles and get stuck dealing with smug, arrogant Seamus? There’s a familiar sensation at his name. Annoyance. Anger. Grief. Longing. A pull between two
tensions: desperately wanting his approval and friendship and hating him for making me want it.

  Then that surge of essential Evi: fuck ‘em all. I can do this on my own.

  Even if I can’t.

  I could just go to their rivals, the Carneys, who also have interest in the neighborhood. They’re not friends, but they’re not Seamus, which is reason enough to solicit their help.

  I need to think about that choice.

  Until then, I slide Peacemaker back under the desk for safekeeping until I need the bat next, and head tiredly upstairs to my loft, suddenly inspired to do some intensive skincare.

  If the Stacys think they can take my shop and my block away, they have another fucking thing coming.

  1

  Seamus

  Empress Tattoo and Piercing seems practically deserted when I barge in. The front door, which needs some WD-40, screams shut behind me. The buzz of a tattoo gun hums somewhere in the background as I stride up to the front desk.

  A young man with green hair and at least four facial piercings tilts his head, assessing, before he finally greets me.

  “Are you lost?”

  I snort. No, I’m never lost in Southie.

  “I’m looking for Evelyn,” I say crisply, trying to rein in my impatience.

  “Evelyn?” The kid wrinkles his forehead in a way that does interesting things to his eyebrow ring.

  “Evi?” It’s still hard for me to call her that, even after all these years.

  His brow ring migrates back to its normal spot as his forehead relaxes.

  “Do you have an appointment? She’s booked through next year.”

  “This place isn’t going to be here next year,” I snap.

  Taking a deep breath, I try to ratchet down my spiking frustration. The challenges on my plate – no matter how numerous, no matter how pressing – are not this kid’s fault. I’m on edge just being in the same building as Evelyn. Part annoyance, part eagerness, part wariness: all electric anticipation.

  Fuck.

  Time for my best professional-lawyer-in-charge voice. “Can you get her, please? I’m in a hurry.”

  His face darkens. “Are you one of those Stacy goons? Why don’t you just go back to Beacon Hill, stick your dick in some caviar, and let us work?”

  I admire the insult, though calling me a Stacy is the biggest insult of all. I’ll have to try a different tactic.

  “No,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Evelyn…Evi and I are old friends. I’m her lawyer.”

  That last part’s technically a lie, but it doesn’t have to be.

  He looks suspicious. His protectiveness of Evelyn makes me like him, actually.

  “Yeah,” he says, finally relenting. “Sure. Let me talk to Evi. Take a seat.”

  He nods to some hard plastic chairs at the front of the shop by the door. The chair squeaks in protest as I sit down reluctantly. I’m too goddamn big for these chairs and too goddamn busy to be fucking around waiting on Evelyn to come to her senses.

  Taking a breath, I look around in an attempt to calm my anger. The lobby is cozy, with Evelyn‘s art decorating the walls.

  And it is art—she’s been talented since we were kids. She could’ve gone to Mass Art or even Rhode Island School of Design and been an architect or a well-regarded painter. Instead, she decided to take up tattooing. A waste of her talents, if you ask me.

  At least, I’d always thought so.

  But looking around, it’s clear that she’s made a success of herself. Even I grudgingly admit I respect what she’s achieved.

  If I recall from when I was in the shop previously, there are three small, clean rooms. Two rooms where the tattoos are done, and another where they do piercings.

  Crossing my arms, I drum my fingers against the fabric of my dark suit jacket. One of the doors opens and I look up. Green Hair Kid gestures at me to follow him. I stand up too quickly and the chair nearly comes up with me.

  The buzzing of the tattoo gun grows louder as Evelyn leans out and looks in my direction.

  “Oh, Jesus, it’s you.” She says drily, gesturing dismissively with the gun while her eyes sweep me up and then down. Something in her gaze is languid, catlike, despite her brittle tone. “I’m busy, Seamus.”

  Heat rushes to my face as I take her in. Christ, she’s beautiful.

  Her hair is dark chestnut, short except for the front which falls across her heart-shaped face. Her wide eyes are a piercing gray, expertly rimmed in purple liner. The tight black tank top she has on hugs her curves perfectly. For a second I forget how goddamn mad I am at her.

  Damn it. She’s always had a distracting effect on me, and interest stirs a lot lower than my heated face.

  “Well?” she demands, eyes flashing impatiently. “I’m finishing up Harold’s ass and unlike you, he didn’t cry the whole time he was getting inked.”

  She looks over at Green Hair Kid. “We almost ran out of paper towels to soak up all the tears when Seamus here had a piece done.”

  They both laugh.

  Despite my better judgment, my gaze flicks to the big biker lying on the table. His pale ass hangs out, partially shaved, with a nearly finished portrait of what looks like a Mt. Rushmore of Muppets.

  Jesus Christ.

  “I should just walk out right now and let the Stacys take this place,” I growl. Frustration boils just below the surface, threatening to run over. Why doesn’t this woman take anything – even a threat to what she’s worked her whole life to build – seriously?

  With effort, I continue. “But I promised my father I’d try to take care of the neighborhoods where I could. Maybe if you could stop being cute for a goddamn minute…”

  Her face softens for just a second at the mention of my father. Murphy Doyle: people either love him or hate him, and there are plenty on either side. But he stepped in as a father figure for Evelyn when her no-good drunk of a dad ran off when she was only six. For the first time, anyway.

  She’s continued to work while we talk and the buzzing of the tattoo gun makes me sick to my stomach.

  Despite the jabs, I definitely didn’t cry when Evelyn did my tattoo—an intricate shamrock that she designed for all five Doyle brothers. But I thought for a second I was going to pass out. Never would have lived that down.

  “Give me a minute to finish up,” she relents, finally.

  “I don’t like to wait,” I snap after her, trying not to notice her absolutely amazing ass as she turns back towards…a less amazing one.

  “Too fucking bad, Doyle.”

  Green Hair Kid shuts the door, shrugging, and heads back to the front desk, picking up his phone and ignoring me all together.

  Typical Evelyn. She’s facing the hardest fight of her life and instead of taking the opportunity to consult with one of the city’s best lawyers, she’s focused on an elaborate ass tattoo. It’s like right after high school. I’m trying to focus on her future – and at that time, I thought, maybe our future. And no matter what I said, how I tried to show her what she could do with her talents, nothing got through.

  I should leave. I should fucking leave.

  But I don’t.

  2

  Seamus

  After she wraps up with Muppet Biker, Evi heads into the lobby and eventually turns in the direction where I’ve been sitting – responding to emails on my phone as fast as they come in – for over an hour.

  Don’t get me started on how much billable time I’m losing today.

  “Let’s get pizza.”

  Evelyn tosses a small leather jacket on over her tank top and tips her head at the door. She reaches out and touches my arm for just a second before her fingers fall away. “You’ll need me to escort you. You look like you wandered in from the financial district. Don’t want you to get mugged.”

  She looks so relaxed, the day’s work behind her. The glossy hair and the leather jacket and the fuck-you makeup. Swallowing hard, I take her in. The aesthetic is all Evelyn. So different from my Italian d
esigner suit. And yet, the edges of my resolve not to get sucked in, not to do more than just talk here in her shop, crack under the weight of that knowing stare.

  “Always thinking of everyone else,” I quip, moving to follow after her.

  She smirks up at me, gray eyes sparkling with mischief. It’s been a long time since we were close friends seeing each other daily. Yet on the rare occasions I see her, she’s free with a hug or an arm squeeze – and a part of me that I don’t think about too deeply warms to her touch.

  “See ya, Toby!” She shouts at Green Hair Kid. “Don’t forget to lock up this time, okay?”

  If this kid neglected to secure the property, Evelyn should’ve fired him. He’s probably one of her strays, though, and it’s not worth the fight.

  Stepping into the early evening, I realize that it’s still warm out, too warm for my suit jacket. But I never sweat: Not in the courtroom, not when my father asks me to sort out his shadier business dealings, and not now.

  As Evelyn and I walk down the sidewalk, the loud din of traffic drowns out the ebb and flow of Boston Harbor, which is just on the other side of Columbia Road.

  “I can see why the Stacys want to buy this property so badly,” I muse, slowing my pace to match Evelyn’s. She’s tall, but I’m taller.

  “Because he’s a self-absorbed gentrifying prick who hates the great unwashed?” she offers, an edge to her voice.

  She’s not wrong.

  “That too. I just wish we could hear the water better.”