Knockout: The Doyles A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 3

  “She’s not ‘that woman,’ Owen,” I say to myself, pushing out of bed finally and ignoring the stab of pain that shoots down my leg. “She’s Sean’s little sister, Molly.”

  I go through the motions, getting ready for brunch. My brothers call it that as a joke. None of us - except possibly Seamus - are bougie enough to have real brunch, but people judge you if you drink at breakfast, so an inside joke is born. We have too many inside jokes to keep track of, so that it’s hard for anyone outside the family to catch up.

  Molly already knows them all.

  I can walk to the Kildare, our family’s bar, which is in Southie. Because, of course it is – even the tourists know South Boston from all the mafia movies. I’d roll my eyes about what a cliché my family is, but an Irish fighter’s nothing new either.

  It’s gray out. The sun sits low in the sky, barely breaking through the thick clouds. Normally this time of year’s fucking depressing, but I’m grateful for it today. My eyes aren’t ready for balls-out sunshine. The air smells crisp, like it’s going to snow.

  Watching the cars weaving in and out of the tight streets, my thoughts drift back to last night. Don’t like the idea of Molly driving in the Boston winters with that tiny matchbox car of hers. I should probably talk to Sean about it.

  The door creaks as I enter and I see I’m the last one to arrive. The Kildare looks like every other fucking Irish bar in Boston: wood floor, paneling halfway up the wall with the rest painted red. Framed pictures of the Kennedys and James Joyce decorate the walls, as if any of the idiots here, including myself, read Joyce. Big heavy booths with cracked vinyl seats line one side of place, with a long wooden bar on the other side. It’s only ten thirty, but the bar is lined with regulars who’ve been coming here since I was a kid bussing tables.

  They turn as I walk past them to the back booth where my family sits. I get several whistles of approval for my busted face, and a full round of applause from my brothers.

  “What an improvement!” My brother Ronan gives me a standing ovation, and wraps an arm around my shoulders before slapping me on the back and pushing me towards the booth. I wince, but know better than to say anything.

  “Hilarious,” I say, “I’m starving. What’s for breakfast?”

  The server brings out the full Irish: sausage, bacon, eggs, baked beans, toast and potato hash. We do the Boston version and skip the grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. Nothing against vegetables, especially as someone who needs his body fighting fit, but grilled tomatoes and mushrooms for breakfast is a fucking travesty. Ketchup, however, is not only allowed but required.

  “How you feeling, Dad?” I ask, between mouthfuls of salty hash.

  “Fuckin’ wonderful.” He waves a bony hand dismissively at me, and I see he’s lost weight already. When he was younger, he was a fighter himself, tall and muscular like me, like his other sons. Is it hard for him to look at us, at me? Suddenly, it’s hard to swallow my mouthful. Grabbing Ronan’s beer, I take a swig to force the lump down. I’m the only one who can get away with that.

  A regular patron stumbling by to use the bathroom shouts, “Ah, Murph is gonna live forever, that old bastard. Too mean to die!”

  “Awfully early to be that pissed, you fucking drunk,” my dad tosses back.

  “See what I mean, boys? Too goddamn mean.”

  His laugh follows him into the bathroom.

  “I hope his old lady knocks him on his ass when he gets home,” my father says, waving him off as he had me moments earlier. “Owen, I need to you help me with some things after breakfast.”

  “Brunch,” Seamus automatically corrects, looking up from his nearly empty plate of egg whites and turkey bacon.

  “Why are you wearing a suit?” I wipe up some eggs with my toast and shove it into my mouth. “You look like a dumbass.”

  “I’m not the one talking with my mouth full,” Seamus replies.

  “Jesus Christ, you boys will kill me before the cancer does. Owen?” Dad’s voice is rough from years of smoking. He never let us smoke, and had thrashed Ronan once when he’d caught him lighting up with one of the O’Brien boys, Declan. Declan’s dad had done the same to his son.

  “Yeah, Dad,” I say. “I’ll help you.”

  “Good boy,” he replies, nodding. “I’m going to the back room to do some work. Find me once you finish eating.” It’s hard to see him struggle to stand up. Connor’s whole body tenses and his hands fly up to help, but he pulls them down just as quickly, knowing how mad Dad would be to see it.

  We try to keep the conversation as light as possible, but it’s not really working. My brothers leave one by one, and I’m left drumming my hands on the wooden table.

  “Go see your father, you chickenshit,” I say out loud finally. Lifting up the flip-up counter on the bar, I give a wave to Maude, the bartender. She’s older than my dad by a decade and tough as nails. I wouldn’t want to face her in the octagon.

  The kitchen smells like bacon, and I grab a slice from the pile sizzling and spitting on the grill. It burns, but I’m not a quitter. It’s slightly burnt, just how I like it, and I crunch on it as I make my way to the office. Knocking on the doorframe, I wait. Dad always makes us knock.

  “Owen, come in.”

  It’s weird that even as a grown-ass man who knocks out other grown-ass men for a living, I still feel like a little kid in this bar and especially in this office. My father sits behind the same beat-up table he’s used as a desk for decades, and I lower myself in the chair across from him, taking care not to disturb my ribs.

  “Won your fight last night,” he says finally.

  I nod. “Almost didn’t.”

  “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” One of his favorite expressions. “You closed the deal.”

  “By punching someone in the face,” I confirm.

  “That’s how a lot of deals get closed. Ask Ronan.” He laughs at his own joke, then starts coughing. I stand up and he shoots me a look that causes me to drop like a load of bricks back into the seat.

  Ow. Fucking ribs.

  “I need you to find someone for me, Owen.”

  I scrunch my face up, confused. The pain in my eye tells me not do that again.

  “Name’s Jamie Smith. I lost track of him and I need to know where he is. I can give you his birth date, but that’s about it. I’d do it myself, but there’s not enough time.”

  My chest tightens, as I feel a different kind of pain at his words.

  “Who is he?” I ask, clearing my throat.

  “None of your business, kiddo. Just find him. Can you do that?”

  The tips of my ears heat up like they always do when he calls me that. But then, I realize there’ll be a time when I miss hearing it – sooner than later. My throat feels slick and the lump of meat in my gut threatens to come up.

  “Yeah, Dad. Give me all the information you have and I’ll find him.”

  “Good boy,” he says. He writes Jamie’s name and birthdate down on a scrap of paper and hands it to me. We’re both quiet for a minute. “I’m proud of you, Owen.”

  The words seem pulled out of him. Dad is never one for feelings. “Proud of all you boys. Now get the fuck out of here. You’ve got work to do.”

  It’s a few days later, until I can meet up with Sean to ask for his help finding this guy. He has access to a lot of information I don’t, being a cop.

  He’s been working a lot of doubles, and I catch him at his apartment after a shift. The place is small and dated, but it’s absolutely spotless.

  “I’ll do the best I can, Owen. I just gotta be careful.” He pauses. I know why.

  “We’ve been friends forever, Sean. You know I don’t want you getting into any shit helping my family. If your gut tells you this stinks, then just leave it.”

  Sean focuses intently on the paper clenched in his hand. He looks guilty. I’m the one who should feel guilty after what happened with his sister. I hadn’t called her after she helped me. It’s better
to keep my distance, stay focused on what’s in front of me. My feelings for Molly, whatever they are, are dangerous and it’s best not to engage.

  “Seriously,” I insist. “You know I don’t get wrapped up in that shit either. If it were business-related, he’d ask one of my brothers.”

  Sean relaxes at that, the creases leaving his face. He has red hair, like Molly, but none of her freckles.

  I need to stop thinking about Molly, especially with the main reason it won’t work standing right in front of me.

  “Okay. I’ll run a report and get it to you as soon as I can. How’s your dad?”

  I don’t want to talk about it, and it shows.

  “Want to hit the gym?” Sean asks, stuffing the paper in his pants pocket.

  I nod. I’ll take the exhaustion from training over shitty feelings any day.

  4

  Owen

  I clutch the manila folder Sean gave me as I climb into my truck. He slid it to me under the table at his family’s Sunday dinner. Molly wasn’t there because she’s working, and I’m still not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

  “I had one of our clerks pull these,” he says. “I didn’t look at the data. Plausible deniability.”

  He pauses, as if checking to see if I’m angry, but I’m not. I don’t want Sean getting into trouble for me. He seems to understand, and nods.

  “You get it. But this is all the information we have in our databases. The clerk said it wasn’t much. I’m sorry, Owen. If there are any indications of arrest warrants, though, Seamus could probably pull the original copies from the judge who issued them.”

  We leave it there, but I feel the weight of my family’s business today. I try to stay out of it. Hell, I’m pretty sure that most of the Doyle Enterprises these days are above board. Most of that mafia shit is in the past.

  But reputations like that die hard, and it just takes a bit of suspicion to taint someone like Sean that’s supposed to be upholding the law.

  Leafing through the pages, I see that the documents are mostly arrest records for drugs, with one sad-looking mugshot of a man ravaged by what looks like meth use.

  Why would my father be interested in a drug dealer? The family business is hardly above board, but Dad never fucks around with drugs.

  Sean’s clerk wasn’t kidding. There’s jack-shit here. I comb over the arrest records, and see an address that appears a few times.

  It’s in Dorchester, not terribly far away from my place. Shifting into gear, I back out of the O’Briens’ driveway. Seamus would tell me to wait until morning, but nobody will mess with me.

  I feel like I’ve been to this neighborhood before, but then again a lot of neighborhoods in Dorchester look alike, with tight rows of triple-decker houses lining narrow streets. I squint, looking for number 265. There’s a dim porch light on. I park my truck in front of the house and decide to get out and take a look around.

  My breath comes out in little ghost clouds as I reach the shitty chain-link fence surrounding the tiny yard. I could easily step over it, but the gate isn’t locked so I just walk through. Jamie Smith needs better security, especially if he’s a meth head.

  The porch steps groan under my weight as I climb up to the front door. Three rusty mailboxes are bolted to the siding. The names are scratched out on one, and as I’m reading the second, my stomach drops. O’Brien. I don’t get to the third.

  Now I know why this neighborhood looks familiar. Sean had taken me through here once, before his little sister had moved in. We hadn’t known which house her apartment was going to be in at the time, but I sure as fuck know now.

  A car door slams down on the street, and an angry voice calls out.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Christ almighty. Why hasn’t Sean hasn’t fixed the lock on the gate, for her safety, but at this moment, mostly for mine?

  “Molly. I didn’t see you at dinner.” Smooth, Doyle. Real smooth.

  She slams the gate shut. It clangs pitifully and pops back open. I watch, helpless as she storms up the walkway.

  “Get off my porch, Doyle,” she hisses.

  I want to do what she says, but instead I stare at her, her face a pale blur in the dim light. She stares back at me, as if daring me to stay. I step closer, wanting to see if her hair still smells like vanilla and if her mouth still tastes delicious. My imagination is already on to what other parts of her taste like. My cock strains against my pants and my tongue darts across my lips as I imagine her scent on them.

  This woman sends me to the outer edge of my self-control. It’s not good.

  “I told you to fuck off unless you were ready to handle this situation like a grown man,” she says, her voice less insistent this time. A silky red curl has come loose from her ponytail and even in her scrubs, every dangerous curve seems like it beckons me in. Almost involuntarily, I stroke her temple with the back of my knuckles, and twist the curl gently in my fingers.

  We still stare at one another.

  My mouth hovers just above hers now, and right as she starts to close her eyes, I whisper, “Fifteen seconds…”

  She flinches, her eyes snapping open.

  Shit. I fucked up. I fucked up bad.

  The weight of it hits me like a kick to the gut. That amazing kiss, the feel of her body moving against mine. The look of disappointment in her eyes, and how I’d felt like shit for days after that happened.

  I can’t, won’t, let that happen again.

  She jerks away from me. “Leave,” she points at the walkway.

  “I’m sorry, Molly.” Christ. I can’t seem to do anything right with her. Not even when she gives me explicit instructions.

  Red-hot heat radiates from her, despite the cold. She looks ready to march me off the porch by my ear, and it’s more of a turn-on than I’d like to admit. My opponents would laugh at me if they knew how much power this tiny firebrand has over me.

  “Go.” Her voice is steely now, and I mumble another apology before scrambling off the porch, closing the useless gate behind me. Back at the safety of my truck, I turn the key in the ignition and flip on the lights. I still watch to make sure she’s safely inside before I drive off.

  What the fuck just happened?

  Whipping down the one-way streets toward home, I turn on some loud classic rock to drown out the noise in my head, the old speakers in my truck buzzing with the effort.

  It’s clear Sean hadn’t been lying about not looking at these records. I debate calling him to tell him his sister lives in a goddamn meth den, and that he’d better fix the lock on the gate, and make sure she has sturdy deadbolts on the door.

  But I’m already not sure that Molly will ever forgive me as it is, and if I rat her out to her brother, the whole O’Brien clan will pressure her into moving. She’d hate me even more. My feelings for Molly are so fucking confusing, but I sure as hell don’t want her to hate me.

  Fuck. Honestly, I don’t know what I want. But what I know for certain is that I can’t give Molly what she deserves. I’m just a fighter and she’s made it clear what she thinks of that – even if we could get past the fact that her brother would kill me if he had even an inkling of the thoughts I’m having about his sister.

  In a few minutes I’m home, stripped down to my boxers and kicking the shit out of my heavy bag. The chain it hangs from creaks angrily as I repeatedly crack my foot into the leather. My dad had given it to me, a relic from his boxing days. I’d had to refill it, but the casing was sturdy. I’m glad it was the bag tonight and not a match.

  My opponent would’ve ended up dead.

  5

  Molly

  The next few days go by fast and they’re long ones. I’m working double shifts, doing dispatch and ambulance work, and taking every spare minute I can to study for my advanced certification. A few more hours and a state licensing test, and I’ll be making two dollars more an hour.

  Doesn’t sound like much, but it should finally cover the car payment to rep
lace my hatchback. The thing is falling apart. Just the idea of a new car fills me with relief. You know it’s bad when living paycheck to paycheck sounds like a step up.

  Just before 11:00 p.m., my boss Larika stops by my desk. Her short dark braids knock together, tipped with beautiful beads.

  “Molly, we’re good here. Go home and get some sleep, and enjoy that day off tomorrow. You need it.”

  Don’t have to tell me twice.

  Slinging my pack over my shoulder, I leave the building, and am in my car driving toward my apartment within minutes. It’s time to take a shower, drink half a bottle of cheap Riesling, and binge watch something – anything – on Netflix that’ll make me laugh.

  Since my run-in with Owen a few days ago, I feel down. On one level, it just pissed me off that he’d show up at my place like that. And on another, I definitely had blown my gasket in a way probably he didn’t deserve.

  My panties are either melting off or I’m ready to kill him whenever we end up in the same room.

  There’s just nothing in between with that man.

  It’s a fast drive home and I take a couple of spins through the neighborhood to find resident parking. Tiny cars squeeze into not entirely legal parking spots. Tonight, I’m grateful for it as I wedge my hatchback between two giant SUVs. Grabbing my things, I walk fast toward my apartment, a small mace can pressed between my fingers.

  It only takes one time getting grabbed late at night by some drunk frat boys to take your safety seriously. I don’t mess around; not for a second.

  As I’m passing under a streetlight in front of my place, I hear a sound come off my front porch. My head snaps up just in time to see someone is standing there and moving toward me at rapid speed. I can’t see his face in the poor light, but he’s huge.

  Shit. Fear shoots up into my throat as I take a step back.

  “Stop!”

  He’s still coming toward me, one step, two steps.