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

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  The Doyles, A Dark Boston Irish Mafia Romance

  Sophie Austin

  Thug: The Doyles (A Dark Irish Boston Mafia Romance)

  The Doyles: Book 4

  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. All brands, proprietary terms, and trademarks are the property of their owners.

  Cover Design: Kasmit Covers

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Where to Find Sophie Austin + Author’s Note

  1. Kieran

  2. Siobhan

  3. Kieran

  4. Siobhan

  5. Kieran

  6. Kieran

  7. Siobhan

  8. Kieran

  9. Kieran

  10. Siobhan

  11. Siobhan

  12. Kieran

  13. Kieran

  14. Siobhan

  15. Siobhan

  16. Kieran

  17. Siobhan

  18. Kieran

  19. Siobhan

  20. Kieran

  21. Kieran

  Epilogue - Siobhan

  Where to Find Sophie Austin + Author’s Note

  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!

  Pronunciation note: The heroine’s name, “Siobhan” is pronounced as “Shi-vawn.”

  1

  Kieran

  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 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.

  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 Escalad
e.

  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.

  Mrs. McCrery is behind the bar, wiping glasses with a dirty rag that can’t really be helping their cleanliness. Maybe I can slide them back in the dishwasher with some soap when she’s not looking.

  Her eyes land on Ronan first, and her lips compress into a hard line. “Your da has been waiting for you,” she hisses, her voice crackling from way too many years of smoking.

  But then she catches sight of me and her eyes light up. In that split second you know exactly why my dad says she was such a heartbreaker back in the day.

  “Sailor!” And before I can duck out of the way, she’s around the bar and hitting my rear with a snap of that filthy towel. Despite myself I grin and duck down to give her a hug.

  I pick her up and spin her around for good measure, and she rewards me with a shriek before she grabs my ear and yanks. I don’t see her often because she works days and I’m mostly here at night, but every time I do she reminds me of my mother. She feels smaller and frailer than I remember, though.

  Seems like a whole generation is just fading away.

  Just at the thought my gut tightens, but I don’t even get to dwell. A voice cuts in, a hard-edged guy I don’t recognize with a heavy smoker’s voice glaring up at me with watery red-rimmed eyes. “You Navy?”

  “Coast Guard,” Mrs. McC says proudly.

  He’s looking me up and down, getting ready to spew some insults, so I beat him to it. Flashing my biggest grin, I ask Mrs. McC, “You know what they say about the Coast Guard?”

  She quirks an eyebrow, like she knows what I’m doing. Trying to stave off a fight. I’m not going to fight a drunk old bastard, and I can tell from the way he’s eying me he’s looking for trouble. All too often I’m dealing with assholes eager to take on the Doyle enforcer.

  Enforcer. Such a stupid outdated word. Occasional thug.

  “What’s that?”

  “You better be over six feet tall so when your boat sinks you can walk to shore.” I’m well over six foot, and for some reason that always makes the joke funnier. The guy gives half a laugh and some of the tension diffuses.

  “Kieran.” My father’s deep gravelly voice cuts through the room, and every eye in the bar moves in his direction.

  He looks good today, but he’s wearing oxygen. His voice is mild, but there’s an edge that reminds me of times when I was too dumb as a kid to listen and got into a heap of trouble. “If you’re done flirting with Maude, come back and see me a minute.”

  She winks as she swipes the remainder of my ice coffee from my hand and slides it onto the bar out of sight.

  My father’s office looks exactly the way it has for the thirty or so years I’ve remembered it.

  “Late night?”

  Ronan’s eyes are going back and forth, trying to read the temperature in the room. He’s always an instigator, but nobody loves my dad more than Ronan. I see the hint of a sly gleam just as he cuts in.

  “Found him in bed with three women, Dad. Took me an hour to drag them off.”

  A long second passes, and then Murph gives a snort. “Stop calling your brother’s dog his girlfriend.” It feels like the old days for a second, and I bite my lip to keep from saying anything. Don’t want to disrupt the magic.

  My father leans back, grabs an empty package of cigarettes, and taps the box on the edge of the table. It takes everything I have not to grab it out of his hand and hurl it out the window. I’ll hate the habit that’s taking him from us until the day I die.

  “Ronan, give us a few minutes,” my father says, nodding to the empty package. In other words, get me some smokes kid. Ronan’s face tightens like he wants to argue, to stay, but he just grumbles and stalks out. The heavy door bangs shut behind him.

  Dad regards me steadily for a few minutes and then gives me a slow grin. “Three ladies.”

  I shrug. “Just trying to keep up with your reputation, Dad.” We both know it’s bullshit. My father was a one-woman man all my life, even after she was gone.

  He’s regarding me thoughtfully, and for a minute I think he might say something personal. But then he shrugs.

  “Job for you. The Carneys.” He’s got the Irish accent but still drops his Rs in true Boston style.

  Fuck. I hate the Carneys. Rich family, got one of the new casino licenses and splashing out a real fancy place. Buying up as much of the city as they can, turning good neighborhoods with good people into overpriced condo farms.

  “What do you need, sir?”

  “How would you feel about a little trip? Take that dog of yours, get out of town for a couple of weeks?” Chills shoot down my spine. There’s nothing I’d like better, but I don’t want to leave. And part of me is still freaked out by how well my dad has always anticipated what I’ve needed.

  “Your uncle Danny called me last night.” Danny Fitzgerald is my mother’s brother, one of the men I looked up to the most as a kid. “He’s got some trouble out on the island. Needs some help.”

  The island. Martha’s Vineyard, where my mother’s family owned some property before it became the summer playground of fancy politicians. And worse.

  “You go have a nice summer vacation. Deal with whatever’s happening, you hear me?”

  He aimlessly taps the empty package against the edge of his desk. “Maybe go see if you can find out anything about their plans here. Hit up the casino, one of their bars. Whatever you’re up for, Kieran.”

  A silence descends, and I’m rocketed back to being eighteen. Standing in this same room, furious and staring into the bright red face of Murphy Doyle, who rarely got angry despite having a gang of stupid sons to deal with.

  My dad bought off some cop or judge to knock the charges I’m facing to a misdemeanor. I’m pissed because, while I’d been doing some stupid shit, I didn’t really think I’d earned an arrest, never mind all the bullshit they say they’ll throw at me.

  Then my dad’s talking about a deal he can cut. Sign up for the service, like actual military service, and no court. No charges.

  “I’m not going into the fucking Army.”

  My mistake hits me before the words leave my mouth. My father served in the Army, and what, I’m too good for it? Fuck, that’s not what I meant. But I can see it on his face, that combination of hurt and disappointment and endless patience that’s like a kick t
o the gut. That makes him such a great father. Such an intimidating man.

  Even in that moment, I know I’m not too good for shit. I’m just eighteen, got too much testosterone. Hate people always wanting to fight me because I’m a Doyle, because I’m just some big thug. Angry all the time because nobody actually takes the time to get to know me or ask what the hell I want. Not that I’d know the answer if they did.

  All I want to do is play some music. Even toured Berkeley College of Music with one of my buddies, not that my grades are good enough to get in, never mind a place like that. Besides, you can’t make a living playing guitar, as everyone loves to tell me constantly.

  “Pop, I didn’t mean…”

  Murphy Doyle has had enough of my shit for one day, and he puts up a warning hand. Stop talking or he’ll give me something to really complain about. Age and size be damned.

  “Kieran, you’re not going to jail. I spent two years of my life in a concrete box and I’d sooner kill someone than let them put you there.”

  Now I feel like more of an asshole. I dip my head to hide the flush creeping over my cheeks.

  “Things are not going well for you right now, son.”

  I start to argue, to say I’ll turn things around. Something. Anything to keep my life from spiraling out of control.

  “You were always a happy kid, a good kid. A pain in my ass, but a good kid.” He looks at me hard. Really hard, and the weight of his stare and his expectations bear down on me. His love too, which is the hardest part.

  “But you’re at a point in your life where I think you need to get away. Get some space. Get your head on straight.”