The Final Hour (Dublin Nights Book 5)

by Brittney Sahin

  The Final Hour

  A Dublin Nights Novel

  Brittney Sahin

  EmKo Media, LLC

  The Final Hour

  A Dublin Nights Novel

  By: Brittney Sahin

  Published by: EmKo Media, LLC

  Copyright © 2020 EmKo Media, LLC

  This book is an original publication of Brittney Sahin.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting brittneysahin@emkomedia.net Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Chief Editor: Deb Markanton

  Editor: Arielle Brubaker

  Proofreader: Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

  Cover Design: LJ, Mayhem Cover Creations

  Ebook ISBN: 9781947717299

  Paperback ISBN: 9798574539965

  Created with Vellum

  For Annette Reavis

  A kind, caring, and amazing lady. I am honored to call you a friend. Thank you for everything.

  Also by Brittney Sahin

  Stealth Ops: Bravo Team

  Finding His Mark - Bravo One, Luke

  Finding Justice - Bravo Two, Owen

  Finding the Fight - Bravo Three, Asher

  Finding Her Chance - Bravo Four, Liam

  Finding the Way Back - Bravo Five, Knox

  Stealth Ops: Echo Team

  Chasing the Knight - Echo One, Wyatt

  Chasing Daylight - Echo Two, A.J.

  Chasing Fortune - Echo Three, Chris

  Chasing Shadows - Echo Four, Roman (3/25/21)

  Book 10 - Echo Five, Finn

  Becoming Us: Stealth Ops spin-off series

  Someone Like You

  My Every Breath

  Dublin Nights

  On the Edge

  On the Line

  The Real Deal

  The Inside Man

  The Final Hour

  Hidden Truths

  The Safe Bet

  Beyond the Chase

  The Hard Truth

  Surviving the Fall

  The Final Goodbye

  Contemporary Romance

  The Story of Us

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Bonus Scenes

  Playlist

  Reading Guide

  Where Else To Find Me

  Prologue

  Emilia

  Las Vegas, Nevada (Ten Years Ago)

  “Would you stop worrying?” Chanel yelled in my ear as the audience roared, many on their feet, pumping their arms as if they, too, wanted to be inside the Octagon and fighting at the MGM Grand Garden Arena. “I promise, hanging out with me won’t land you on Santa’s naughty list. Too late, anyway. Christmas was last week,” she teased, poking me in the side with her elbow.

  “I’m not worried,” I finally responded, the protest bubbling from my lips like a hot drop of acid.

  I caught Chanel’s brown eyes as she fingered strands of honey-brown bangs away from her face. “Liar.”

  Maybe I was lying, but if our fathers ever found out we were friends, I couldn’t imagine the consequences. Our families were sworn enemies. The good-versus-evil kind.

  So, I couldn’t stop myself from constantly looking around and searching the crowd. Ensuring no one was spying on us. Or hell, checking for snipers in the wings. A two-for-one special. Take out the daughters of two of the most powerful men in the world with two quick pops.

  I forced my focus back on the ring just as one of the fighters slammed his fist hard into the other guy’s jaw. Chanel turned my way, stealing her eyes from the view of the scene. For the daughter of a killer, she sure hated blood.

  We were sitting in the second row back from the cage. It was round three between Nate Diaz and Donald Cerrone. From the looks of it, the fight would go to a decision.

  It was much less exciting when judges chose a victor. Selecting a winner based on strikes and takedowns still felt too subjective. Too open to personal biases. I wanted a clear result. Let the fighters go at it until someone tapped out or was knocked out. That’s how the underground fights were handled back home in Italy, at least.

  Chanel crossed her long legs, much more comfortable now that the fight was over. “Just remind me why I flew halfway around the world to hang out with you for your birthday, yet instead of partying, we’re watching men beat the shit out of each other?”

  I checked my skinny silver watch as we waited for the winner to be declared. “Not my birthday for thirty minutes. And how can you not love this? Two people inside a cage going at it. It’s primitive and raw. And it’s also controlled, so you don’t need to worry. No one is dying tonight.”

  “We have a lot in common, Ems, except this.” She smiled. “But you’re the birthday girl, so I’m here for you and whatever you want to do.”

  A friend of mine managed the shows at the MGM Garden Arena, and he helped me get tickets the second they were available. Thankfully, he had no connection to my father or Chanel’s, which meant our attendance together shouldn’t raise any flags if he spotted us. Not that he’d recognize Chanel. We were in the States, and most Americans were unfamiliar with our families. And that meant Chanel was most likely right. I needed to cut the worrying. Damn the strange nagging feeling in my gut, though.

  My attention abruptly swung to four men in casual business attire. Dark trousers and jackets, crisp dress shirts with the top buttons left undone. They headed down our row toward the empty seats next to us. Many of the VIPs showed up at the last minute to watch the evening’s main event, which was up next, so I shouldn’t assume they were secretly sent as assassins to take one of us out.

  I shifted closer to Chanel when one of the nicely dressed men filled the chair next to mine, his arm bumping into my bare one.

  “Pardon,” he commented, but I offered a tight “no worries” nod without casting a look his way. I didn’t need to put a face to the suit. I’d met a lot of businessmen in my two years thus far in Vegas, and none had ever been worth a minute of my time.

  �
��You sure you want to be here?” I overheard him speak. “There are other events I’d be happy to take you all to.”

  Apparently, the suit disliked fighting as much as Chanel.

  The Irish lilt of his voice was an interesting surprise, though.

  Plot twist.

  I did have a weakness for an Irish accent—who didn’t?

  I glanced at Chanel while I continued to eavesdrop on the suit, contemplating the odds of his looks being as sexy as the sound of that deep, baritone voice. A sexy businessman was preferable to a sexy hitman, at least.

  “You don’t like fighting?” a different voice chimed in, American from the sounds of it. “You’re Irish. Isn’t an affinity for a good fight a requirement if you’re from Dublin?”

  Yeah, not a hitman. Unless he’s a really good actor.

  “Just not a fan of fighting. I have my reasons,” the Irishman responded, a glib tone to his voice.

  I had the sudden urge to lure an answer out of him. Uncover the truth. Apply a little pressure and discover whatever it was that had this Irishman probably wishing he were anywhere else.

  “Fighting is cathartic. Watching it. Doing it. Trust me.” A raspy, flirtatious edge sounded through my tone. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Why did I just say that?

  The Irishman didn’t respond. Maybe he assumed I’d been speaking to Chanel.

  A few moments passed before he shifted in his seat, inadvertently bumping his leg into mine, and the movement sent my black clutch sliding off my lap.

  With lightning-quick reflexes, he snatched the clutch before it hit the ground. I was somewhat shocked to realize he’d been faster than me.

  And hitman was back on the table.

  My gaze followed the line of his suit jacket down to his strong hand that now offered my clutch. “Thank you,” I said softly. Dragging my eyes up his white pressed shirt, sans tie, and along the tan column of his throat, I paused to appreciate his handsome face. A clean-shaven, not-quite-chiseled jawline. Full lips that begged to be kissed. To be tasted. A perfectly straight blade of a nose. Short blond hair, the top a touch unruly, above brilliant blue eyes that now held mine. He couldn’t be but a few years older than me. And the looks did indeed match the sexy voice.

  I kept my hand on top of his as he remained holding my clutch between us.

  I wasn’t one to get starstruck or become speechless. No tingling sensations because of a man unless I was mid-orgasm. And butterflies? The only kind I’d experienced were the ones that flitted around in our yard while I practiced archery when I was younger.

  Of course, my life was unique, and maybe that meant my responses to normal situations were also different.

  Papà loved me like a daughter but treated me like a man preparing to wage war starting at a young age. I was shooting arrows and learning to fight with knives before I got my period.

  And yet, right now, my heart beat harder. Faster. Not its normal steady rhythm. And a wicked slash of desire cut sharply down my belly and between my legs.

  All that from just one look piqued my curiosity. It had me wondering what this Irishman would be like in bed.

  It’d honestly be my kind of luck if this hot guy was sent to kill me, though. You’re just jumpy because Chanel is here. He’s a guy in a suit. A freaking hot Irish guy in a suit. That’s it.

  I couldn’t form words as I partook in this staring contest that felt more like a battle. But for the first time in my life, I didn’t know if I was strong enough to prevail.

  I blinked. Folded. Lost the round.

  I quickly looked away from those startling eyes. Eyes that seemed as if they might hold all the answers to the universe. As I took the clutch, I focused on catching my breath while attempting to explain away the bizarre sensations ransacking my body.

  Unlike Chanel, I’d gone head-to-head with more than one billionaire businessman before I could even drive. I’d sparred with men twice my size. Her father treated her like a glass doll to be shelved and observed. My father taught me to inspect dolls for listening devices.

  But this life was the price that came with being the daughter of the Italian leader of La Lega dei Fratelli, The League of Brothers. Our family took down bad guys for a living, and as a result, we had a lot of enemies.

  So, for being so tough, it was hard to believe my heart was stuttering and my breathing suspended all due to this man and his bold, blue eyes beneath slanted brows, pinning me with a curious look.

  I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath, finding myself pleasantly gathering in the Irishman’s masculine cologne, a contrast to the perfume I wore. White petals, honey, and ivory wrapped my limbs like a blanket. The only sweet and pure thing about me tonight was my scent, as I was dressed in all black save for my red heels and lips.

  The man’s cologne and my perfume clashed in the air. Masculine versus feminine. And now, I was longing for a stranger to touch me.

  “I’d like to get laid tonight.”

  Chanel’s abrupt statement had the Irishman clearing his throat. It was loud in the arena, but his surprised reaction made it clear he’d heard.

  “Oh, really?” I eyed Chanel, amused by her bluntness. She’d also offered me a reprieve from my confused feelings about the stranger off to my left.

  “I think you should, too. Birthday sex. Or at least, a midnight kiss when you turn twenty-one. You know, something sexy and romantic. Very fairy tale-esque. That’s what I want when it’s my big day,” Chanel went on, oblivious to the ogre off to her right staring at her like he might throw her over his shoulder and hightail it to his suite if she kept it up.

  I lifted my chin and snarled on instinct, a warning to back off. He quickly returned his gaze to the fight as if he knew I was dangerous just by looking at me.

  And hell, I was dangerous, wasn’t I?

  Papà was a good man, fighting for justice, but there was still blood on his hands. Eventually, there’d be blood on my hands, too.

  As Papà’s only child, I was expected to take the path he’d designed for me. It was meant to happen the day I turned twenty-one, too.

  But for tonight, I wanted to follow Chanel’s advice and stop worrying. Stop assuming the hot Irish guy was sent to kill me. I wanted to momentarily forget the shackles of my family name.

  “Honestly, you should be having a minimum of two orgasms a day, and preferably not by your own hand,” Chanel continued her sex lecture since I’d yet to respond. “I’m worried your uptight look means you haven’t even been getting yourself off.” She twirled a pink-tipped fingernail my way, swiveling on her seat to face me.

  I rolled my eyes at her attempt to draw natural color to my cheeks when she knew damn well I was like her. We didn’t get embarrassed.

  A flash of light had me turning on my seat and finding the man who’d taken a snapshot of the audience as he stood near a camerawoman panning her lens on the crowd.

  I lowered my head and lifted the clutch in front of my face until the lens pointed another way.

  That camera was probably more dangerous than the Irish guy or anyone else in the arena, for that matter. We were way too close to the action, and the last thing we needed was to wind up on television. Wow, I had not thought this night through.

  Chanel whispered a mishmash of her mother’s native Greek and her father’s French beneath her breath, her assessment of my “situation” evident by the concerned expression on her face, and I remembered what we’d been talking about before my thoughts had taken a sharp turn.

  Right. I need to get laid.

  She dropped her eyes to my outfit and her mouth tightened in disapproval. “You’re too intimidating. I think you scare men off. That black halter top dips into a sharp V and shows your cleavage, but men are too damn afraid of you to actually check out your tits. Probably fear you’ll break their neck for looking.” She grinned, knowing I could and would hurt a man if he were to bother me. “And those tight-fitting black trousers paired with that ‘stay the fuck away’ smoky eye makeup s
cares them off. I’m just saying—”

  “I’m not wearing all black.” I had to raise my voice over the music as Brock Lesnar, one of the main fighters, made his entrance, his theme song blasting.

  “You should’ve gone with pink like I suggested. The red heels and lipstick are killer, but they scream that you’ll gladly grab a man by the balls and not in a good kind of way.”

  “I’m not that intimidating.” Only when someone knew of my father did they back away. Well, usually. “Also, we can’t all have your flair.” I pointed to Chanel’s bright gold sequin top and matching gold shorts. Her boots were the show stealer, though. A mix of cowboy and porn star.

  She popped up one shoulder and said first in French and then in English, “‘In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.’”

  “Mm.” I smiled. “You and your Coco Chanel quotes.”

  “What? Mama named me after her favorite designer. Coco’s an icon, and . . .” Her words faded as a frown formed on her lips. “Sorry.” Chanel was unnecessarily sensitive when she talked about her mother since she knew I didn’t have one, and she always felt guilty when she mentioned her.

  I shook off the shitstorm that attempted to grab hold of me and let it drift away.