Knockout: The Doyles A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

  Knockout

  The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

  Sophie Austin

  Knockout

  Book 1 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. All brand names, trademarks and 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

  Author’s Note

  1. Owen

  2. Molly

  3. Owen

  4. Owen

  5. Molly

  6. Owen

  7. Owen

  8. Molly

  9. Molly

  10. Owen

  11. Owen

  12. Owen

  13. Owen

  Epilogue – Two Years – Owen

  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!

  1

  Owen

  “Hit me with your best shot, asshole.”

  I’d love to smash my fist into my opponent’s skull. But that’s exactly what he just did to me with a blow to my eye, and now I can’t fucking see.

  Makes aiming those punches a little harder.

  Bell goes off. Break.

  Loud music booms over the sound system and out through the octagon’s overpriced speakers. My left eye still opens enough that I’m blinded by the glare of lights around the fight arena when I squint.

  Not much else.

  Big Bobby Donahue, my manager, pulls me back to my side of the ring and down onto the stool. They’re splashing water on my face and fixing up an open cut on my cheek.

  Just need to slug some water and I’m back out there to take this guy down.

  “You all right, Owen?” he says, loud and close to my ear so I can hear him over the crowd. He talks around the unlit cigar hanging out of his mouth. I haven’t seen Bobby look different in thirty years.

  “Yeah. I can fight.”

  Real fucking convincing too, I bet, while I sit here favoring my bruised ribs and gasping for air.

  There’s a long pause.

  “Buddy, I think you’re going to have to call this one.”

  “I can fight,” I growl louder. The intensity of my own voice sounds out of place even to me. It’s not Bobby I’m pissed at.

  It’s myself, for misjudging this guy’s ability.

  “I got this.” This time I aim for calm, confident, definitive.

  There’s a long silence, even longer this time. Either he didn’t hear me or he’s going to call bullshit.

  But when he speaks, it’s clear from his voice that it’s business time.

  “Sure thing, bruiser. You get one shot, maybe sixty seconds. Next time you go down, next time you take a hit, you’re out. Clear?”

  I don’t like it, but sometimes you have to work with what you get.

  “Clear.”

  Bobby throws some signal, and I’m on my feet again. Shake my shoulders, ball my fists, duck my head. Just keep the footwork going and position yourself for that one shot, Owen.

  Focus.

  I got this.

  The bell sounds and the match is back on. My feet dance around, keeping me on the move. But this guy is a whole different kind of fighter. Usually in my weight class – light heavyweight – my agility gives me the advantage. My bulk is all natural, height and muscle. I keep lean.

  But this guy’s working some serious kicks. Always on the move, hard to track. Like he read my thoughts, he lights off first one kick and then another into the side of my leg. I reposition my body as I stagger back another step.

  One shot.

  He’s got a signature move, and lucky for me, the guy follows a pattern. I’ve studied it and trained for it. He should come in again on the right, with a kick higher up and then aim just above my ankle. That’s my chance.

  His foot hits my thigh with a blast that sends pain rocketing down my leg. Not holding back? Fine then. When his head should be right where I want it, I pull back and follow through with everything I’ve got on the left.

  Either he goes down, or he’ll have all the advantage and Bobby’s right – it’s over.

  My hand makes contact, keeps going. Bracing for retaliation, I wait, unable to see how it went. Then there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor and an explosion of cheers deafens me. Someone grabs my hand and thrusts it into the air.

  Fuck yes.

  The fight’s over. I did it – I’m going on to the big fight in a few weeks. Everything I’ve fought for, especially the prize money.

  Proving I could do it and securing some cash – clean cash – for my future.

  I’m not ashamed to be a Doyle. Not by a long shot. But my family’s reputation in Boston for shady dealings and old mafia ties follows me no matter where I go. I’ve spent years fighting to stay out of that life.

  Now I’ll get my shot: the championships.

  It’s all lining up. It’s so close I can see it. Unfortunately, that’s the only thing I can see right now.

  My hand’s on Bobby’s shoulder as we’re moving to the tunnel that leads out to the big back room. I’m limping, and probably need to get my leg looked at. But for now, I need to get cleaned up and get home. There’s somewhere I need to be in the morning.

  The victory of this night fades away a little, as I think about breakfast with my family tomorrow.

  “Hey, little brother. Nice fight,” my brother Connor’s voice booms.

  “Can we get a medic over here?” demands Bobby. He’s already stuck two ice packs on my face, and put my hands up to hold them in place.

  “Thanks, bro. Appreciate you coming out,” I shoot back.

  “Where else would I be, big guy?” Connor always says that. Always has said it, even when we both were going to get skinned alive for fighting in school. He always had my back, the protective big brother.

  “Good showing, Owen,” comes another voice. Seamus, sounding refined and cool as always.

  “Buddy,” cuts in another familiar voice. “You killed it. Nice work.”

  It’s Sean O’Brien – correction, Officer Sean O’Brien – who has been my best friend since the first day of elementary school. I was too dumb to tie my shoelaces, and he covered for me.

  Not much has changed. He’s been covering for me ever since.

  “Sean, Seamus,” I say.
r />   Where is that medic? My face, ribs and leg are screaming.

  A funny thing happens when both your eyes are forcibly shut. Other senses start to compensate. Can’t see? No problem. Suddenly, you can smell every odor in this place, hear every sound. Usually, in the back of a fighting ring, that’s not a good thing.

  But someone’s moving toward me with a light step. Leaning my head back, I squint up and try to force my better eye open. The swelling is coming down a little thanks to the ice.

  Still can’t see for shit, but I can smell a wave of subtle perfume as it washes over me. Familiar perfume, like blackberries and bay leaves. Suddenly I’m overly conscious of the metallic, pungent smell of my blood and sweat.

  “Well, that was some real eye of the tiger bullshit,” a woman’s low voice hisses into my ear, as the medical supplies bag hits the metal table next to me with an angry bang.

  Molly? Is that Molly fucking O’Brien?

  “Hey, Moll, take care of my boy here,” Sean cuts in, confirming my suspicions. My best friend’s little sister. Shit.

  What is Molly doing here, working the fight? She hates fighting. My whole body tenses. She definitely doesn’t need to see me like this.

  “Hey, Connor, hey, Seamus,” she’s saying, her voice suddenly much warmer.

  Her fingers deftly probe my face, and her touch is lighter than I’d expect. But it still fucking hurts and she is by no means being gentle. She hits one spot and I suck air in through my teeth at the pain, despite my attempts to stay quiet.

  Connor’s voice cuts in again. “All right, Owen. I’ll see you tomorrow. I have to head to the club.” He manages Intrigue, a nightclub, and one of my family’s most profitable businesses.

  “Will you be up for brunch at Dad’s tomorrow?” asks Seamus, sounding concerned. How bad do I look, exactly?

  “I’ll be there,” my voice sounds a little on edge. Too much post-fight adrenaline still surging through my veins. I need to relax. “You think I’d miss it? I never miss it.”

  It’s true – I haven’t missed Sunday brunch with my father and brothers in years. Maybe not ever. And especially not now, not when my father just told us that he’s fighting cancer. Well, he might be a fighter but he’s not coming back from this.

  My face will give us something else to focus on.

  I give my head a shake, ignoring the sudden burning in my eyes. Not the time or place, Doyle.

  As if he read my thoughts, Seamus puts a quick hand on my shoulder. I go to say more, when Molly suddenly swipes alcohol over my cheek and despite my efforts, I let out a growl.

  “Stop moving, or it’s going to hurt a lot worse,” there’s a note to Molly’s voice that I know better than to test. Every Irish kid knows that voice. Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about. Ridiculous. She’s a tiny redhead and I just took a man down with my bare hands.

  Yet, I make myself hold still.

  “Okay, buddy, I’m out,” Sean says. “My shift starts in six hours and I have to get some sleep. Hey, Molly, you coming to dinner tomorrow night?” The famous O’Brien Sunday dinner and football game. An event I try never to miss anytime I’m invited.

  “Ma asked me to make dessert, but I have to work. Molly, you take care of it,” he continues.

  There’s a commanding note in Sean’s voice you don’t hear too often. Some weird holdover from a big brother to only sister thing, maybe? Molly’s body, which is very close to mine I suddenly realize, tenses. She doesn’t like being talked to that way.

  Before I think about what I’m saying or doing, I put a steadying hand on her side and call out, “Hey, asshole. You want dessert, you make it. Hear me?”

  Molly’s body has gone even stiffer, and her breath catches. Quickly, I drop my hand.

  Everything goes silent, and then Sean barks out a laugh. “Yeah, okay, Owen. When the leftovers taste like shit, you remember that.”

  Then he quickly adds, “Hey, Moll, don’t worry about it. I’ll get dessert.”

  She relaxes a bit, her body shifting against mine as she works on my face.

  He’s walking away, and then he pauses, “How you getting home?”

  “I’m driving.”

  There’s a snort. “You can’t see to drive.”

  “I’ll take the subway.”

  “The T’s not running your way tonight,” Molly throws in helpfully. Is that a little glee in her voice?

  “I’ll figure it out.” I just knocked a man out cold. I can get myself home.

  The other guy walks by just then, which is good because it means he’s not on his way to the hospital. “Good fight,” he mutters.

  I call out “You too, man” to his retreating back.

  Sean’s all business. “Molly, you take him home.”

  I’m about to jump in again, say I’m all set, because I expect her to refuse. She hasn’t stopped wiping away the blood.

  “Sure.”

  She doesn’t sound thrilled, but she didn’t say no. Her silky red curls brush my face as she leans down to inspect my eyebrow. Her hair smells like vanilla. Everything about her is delicious. Who needs dessert when I could have Molly? Shit. I have to stop thinking this way.

  “You’re a fucking mess, Doyle.”

  If only she knew.

  Despite the hardness of her tone, her nearness is killing me. It’s not the only thing getting hard, which is unreal given how much pain I’m in. And a boner hitting the edge of the athletic cup I’m wearing? Not pleasant. Post-fight hard-ons have never been a problem before.

  “Here, take these,” she uncurls my right hand with her much smaller ones and drops four ibuprofen pills into my flat palm. At least I assume they’re ibuprofen.

  She shoves a water bottle into my other hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up and get you home.”

  That girl is throwing so much heat, I can feel it rolling off her. Both her hot little body and her terrible temper. The swelling is going down, and I catch a flash of blue eyes peering at me with some emotion. Is that concern? Or maybe focus?

  Wait, no - she’s going straight for my eye with the edge of a Q-tip.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning back, but just barely managing to resist the urge to bat her hand away.

  “Easy, bruiser. You cut the corner of your eye.” This must be her nice nurse voice.

  The one she uses with people she’s not going to tear a new one. Finally, I force myself to relax against the chair and let her finish. But I’m totally aware of how close she is, how good she smells, and am trying to keep my body under control.

  Usually, I hate it when people call me ‘bruiser’. It makes me sound like some big thug, rather than a skilled fighter. A man with a trade, a man with a plan. I don’t just beat people for a living – I have goals. But when she says it, I don’t mind at all.

  There’s one thing I do mind, and that’s the fact that my cock doesn’t seem to be getting the message that my best friend’s little sister is totally off limits.

  2

  Molly

  “Come on, Doyle, we’re over here.”

  I move fast, way too fast, through the parking garage to get to my car. It’s like I’m practically running and if I’m honest that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Run away from Owen Doyle.

  “Slow down,” he mutters behind me.

  He’s got an ice pack to his face and he’s clutching his taped ribs. But the truth is that he’s got a foot on me and his long legs don’t have any trouble keeping up.

  If he gets a little winded, that’s not my problem. He’s the one that went three rounds in the ring.

  Yet despite my thudding heart and rising anger, I slow down.

  Every time I stand next to him, I feel like a kid again. Some tag-a-long little sister that nobody wants and is desperately trying to hide the fact that she’s got a giant crush on her big brother’s friend. Moody, in response to whatever he throws my way.

  Molly Mary O’Brien, I sternly lecture myself. You are no little kid, and you don’t
have a crush on this man. That boy is long gone. This man is a fighter, and you’re twenty-five.

  “You’re going to have to squeeze into my car.” I indicate my scratched up little hatchback. He’s six-five easy, and honestly I have no idea how he’ll fit.

  He looks over in the direction where his giant truck is parked. “Any chance I could get you to drive mine?”

  “Nope.” Didn’t even have to think about it.

  Throwing a bag into the back seat, I watch with some amusement while he pushes the passenger seat all the way back, reclines it, and then still manages to clip his head trying to get in.

  “Damn it,” he curses at the car. I snort. I can’t help it.

  The dark blue pools of his eyes slide to me, and my laughter dies out as my stomach gives a little flip, although a trace of my smile lingers. “That’s what you deserve.”

  The humor flees then, and I just feel cold as I remember watching him get beaten up. And the strange mix of wonder and horror I’d felt as he took down his opponent.

  I knew this is what it would be when I took the assignment tonight. After I found out our emergency care company got the contract and Owen’s name was on the fight card, I couldn’t miss it. I’d just wanted to be there to make sure he was okay, but I’d stepped out from the shadows to watch the fight when no one was looking. Clearly he was skilled. But that was no excuse, and as I knew too well, it didn’t keep you safe either

  Settling into the car, I throw the locks and put on my seatbelt. Looking over at my passenger, I snap, “Seatbelt. Safety first.”

  He’s looking dubiously over his shoulder, squinting, like he can’t imagine contorting to grab the belt and wrestle it over his chest. To be fair, I’m not even sure what he can see around the black eyes and swelling. I raise an eyebrow. With a resigned look he starts to reach for his belt, letting out a hiss of air when he has to twist his body. In frustration, I lean over, grab the belt and yank it down until it clicks into place. My hair brushes his arm, and my fingers graze the hard lines of his abs under his t-shirt.