The Final Hour (Dublin Nights Book 5)

by Brittney Sahin

  Sean’s blue eyes found mine a beat later in the mirror, and he kept them locked on my face instead of dipping lower to take in my lingerie.

  “Got these from a place on Grafton. Sara-Grace’s or something like that.” Not sure why I said that. It wasn’t like Sean was staring at me and wondering where he might buy the same pair for someone he loved.

  Regret that I couldn’t be that someone for him bloomed inside my chest.

  His mouth rounded as if surprised about something other than my choice in lingerie, and he muttered, “Of course you did.”

  “And that means?”

  “Sara happens to be the blonde you saw me talking to outside the club Wednesday.” His expression hardened. “And no, I’m not sleeping with her.”

  Ohh. “Well, I didn’t ask.”

  “I was clarifying,” he answered, drawing out the words for emphasis. He then knelt before me and focused on the wound, all methodical and doctor-like. “I’d always wondered where your League tattoo was,” he said as he fixed me up, and I chanced a look his way to find his thumb tracing the lines of the Doberman inside a warrior’s shield standing as a guardian with Fedeltà in script above my last name. Ironically, my family hadn’t owned a pet in decades.

  “Fidelity?” he took a guess.

  “Loyalty. Faithfulness.” I swallowed. “And sì, fidelity.”

  “You rarely speak Italian around me. Not even a simple, sì.” His Irish accent remained thick, wrapping tight around the word for yes in Italian.

  Sean’s League ink of a lion, for bravery or courage, was perfect for this man. And I was normally courageous, but right now, I wasn’t sure what I was.

  “I had a British nanny and British tutors,” I offered instead of confessing he was making me nervous. His hands on my body had my pulse racing. “I was surrounded by people speaking English more than Italian most of my life. Plus, I spent two years at Oxford.”

  “And time in Vegas.” A frown touched his lips for a brief moment before he focused back on my wound.

  A vision of the MGM Grand in Vegas floated across my mind. The lion wearing a Santa hat surrounded by poinsettias. A lion, of course. How fitting.

  I would never have forgotten those memories with Sean had Chanel not been murdered.

  “Are you really willing to break the rule about sex?” he tossed out casually as if discussing something trivial. My heart stuttered as I let his question replay in my head.

  Sean was right about what he said at the gym earlier in the week. The League ought to stay out of my sex life.

  “I’ve been having casual sex my whole life, you know,” he added.

  “Ah, but with me, you’d want a name and number afterward, remember?”

  “Looks like you do remember that night,” he said while continuing to scrutinize the wound. “I don’t think you need stitches. It’s mostly superficial. Antibiotic cream and a bandage should be fine.” He applied the cream and taped the gauze to the injury, but he remained on his knees.

  I stiffened at the feel of his fingers skirting toward the old injury from a corkscrew. “This one was from the night you met that SEAL, Roman, right?”

  Without thinking, I set a hand to his shoulder for balance instead of pushing him away. “Yes.”

  “And this one here?” he asked while finally rising, forcing my hand away from his shoulder. He traced a line over the faded scar below my collarbone near my breast.

  I did my best to crush the rise of anger the memory of that scar prompted. I was still pissed I’d ever let someone fool me. Trick me into trusting them only to have them physically hurt me instead. “Machete. Don’t ask,” I forced out and turned to place my hands on the vanity counter. If there was ever a time to slip away and get dressed, it was now. But instead, my gaze climbed up the length of the mirror to find him standing behind me.

  “What if I could do casual sex without expecting more?” He angled his head, studying me for a response in the reflection of the mirror. When I didn’t deliver one, he added, “Your father wanted you to marry an Italian, am I right? It’s the only thing I can think he’d ask. Maintain some type of bloodline or something.”

  It sounded ridiculous when Sean said it. Blood was blood, wasn’t it? I understood Papà’s reasoning, but it had more to do with the fact he’d fallen in love with an enemy and less to do with that woman’s heritage.

  I reached for my bottle of perfume on the counter. Chanel No. 5. I brought it to my nose and closed my eyes. “In 1921, Coco Chanel said this was a revolution in a bottle. Most scents were single-notes at the time, and she wanted a perfume with layers of complexity. No one ingredient overpowering the other. A perfume for a woman in motion, and on each woman, the scent would smell differently.” I inhaled a pull of orange blossom, followed by notes of jasmine unfolding beneath my nose.

  “Why are we talking about perfume?” Sean asked as his hands settled on the outside of my arms.

  “Because the night you and I met in Vegas was obscured in my mind for ten years by a tragic incident. My friend Chanel, named after Coco Chanel, was murdered in my hotel room.” The words fell almost emotionless and flat from my mouth.

  He released me, and when I opened my eyes, his head was turned, eyes looking off to the side of the room, most likely wrapping his thoughts around my admission. “That’s why you grew uncomfortable at the club Wednesday at the mention of her name,” he said, his gaze reconnecting with mine in the mirror.

  Wow. And the man could read me well.

  I nodded. “I didn’t remember you because my best friend died that night. She’d come to Vegas to celebrate my birthday and was murdered by the assassin sent to kill me.” I set the bottle down and drew a hand around my neck, feeling like I was suffocating. But it was by my own making. I’d allowed her death to haunt me for years. “I was with you when it happened. It should have been me.”

  “Emilia.” Sean placed a warm hand on my waist and gently guided my body toward him.

  “When I opened the door to bring you inside my suite, I saw Sebastian standing over a dead body. The assassin sent to kill me,” I explained and turned to face him.

  His palm went to my cheek, and his thumb moved in small circles over my flushed skin. “I’m so sorry.”

  “And then Sebastian did something I’ll never be able to forget. He cleaned up the mess in my room as if Chanel had never been there. And he had to hide her body and . . .” My knees unexpectedly buckled, but Sean caught me by the arms and held me upright.

  He motioned for me to head into the bedroom and handed me the plush white hotel robe. I took it as if on autopilot, which was uncharacteristic of me, but this man had me doing all kinds of uncharacteristic things. And maybe I needed someone to help me through this moment.

  Forget sex or running. I was about to open up instead.

  Sean sat next to me on the king-sized bed and quietly waited for me to continue.

  “Sebastian relocated Chanel’s body and the man she’d been with to another hotel and hid all evidence that we’d been hanging out that night.” My stomach tucked in at the memory of her body being transferred from my room like a piece of luggage. “Sebastian was under Papà’s orders. He had no choice.” I slowly looked over at him. “With Chanel being the daughter of Simon Laurent, well, you can imagine what would have happened if they discovered we were friends and that she was killed accidentally because she was mistaken for me.”

  “There’d be war,” Sean said, his voice grave.

  There was more to the story, but I wasn’t sure those words were mine to tell. Because in reality, it wasn’t really my story. It was Papà’s, and he was gone.

  “I went back to Italy after that, and I took my place in The League as I was destined to do. And I spent my time seeking revenge for Chanel.”

  “Did you find who sent the assassin?”

  “Yes. A criminal faction in Naples that hated Papà and his power. My father had killed the leader’s brother, and in retaliation, they sent someone to
kill me.” I closed my eyes. “Things were a bit different back then. Every so often, my father’s power would be challenged. Sometimes those he’d taken down sought their revenge.” League power and presence had grown over the years. “Most don’t dare try to come after us now. Far too afraid.” I swallowed. “But the first life I took was the man who hired the assassin that killed Chanel.”

  Sebastian was the only one in The League, aside from Papà, to know the truth about what happened. And for the first time, I was sharing the painful memories. I was opening up, surprising myself. That didn’t change League rules or the promise I’d made to Papà. And it didn’t diminish my fear of being incapable of loving someone romantically, but . . .

  I’d avoided being alone with Sean since our sparring session Tuesday because I was trying to come to grips with the fact he’d been with me the night Chanel died. And what that signified, if anything. Maybe I was overthinking.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were Clooney?”

  “In part, I was afraid I was wrong. That you weren’t Julia, and I so badly wanted you to be.” I started to look away, but he brought a fist beneath my chin, guiding my focus back. “I wanted you to be her because I’m pretty sure I’ve been looking for her—you—ever since that night.”

  Like a fairy tale. I never let myself believe in fairy tales. Tragedies, yes. But happily-ever-afters were far and few between, weren’t they? I couldn’t hope to replicate what Sebastian and Holly had.

  “Also, I didn’t bring it up because you never did. I figured if you were Julia, you’d say something, so I had to believe I was mistaken. Or I wasn’t as memorable to you as you were for me.” His lips crooked at the edges. A frown or a smile? I wasn’t sure which way it’d go. “That reason sounds a lot like pride now that I say it out loud.” He lowered his hand to his lap, his lips going flat instead. “I guess now that you know I was with you that night while Chanel was killed, that’s another—”

  “Another reason not to be together?” I finished for him since those thoughts had pushed into my mind upon realizing he was Clooney.

  I lost sight of his stunning blue eyes when he looked away, seeming to find the open doorway more interesting. His eyes were more turquoise on a regular day, but when passion or anger cut through, they intensified. A dark, stormy blue. Tonight, they were a clash of the two.

  “I did promise Papà I’d carry on his name and marry an Italian. And although League rules clearly can be changed since I’m a woman in charge, I fear they won’t change rule one, especially after seeing how much power Chanel’s brother has as a result of the two families uniting. The Castellanoses and Laurents joining together serve as an example to League leaders as to why they believe the rules should be kept intact.”

  He stood and held the back of his head. “I’d leave The League if that would make a difference. You know I’d do that for you, right?” His shoulders fell when he faced me. “But that would also make me a quitter, and I have a feeling that’s not an attribute you admire.” His eyes softened a bit. “But then there’s the promise you made to your father, and I don’t know if I could live with myself if I pushed you into going against a dying man’s wishes.”

  “What are you saying?” I was on my feet now, too.

  I’d told Sean to move on. Tried to drive him crazy with comments about blondes. I’d done everything I could to get to this exact moment. The moment when he stopped pursuing me and gave up.

  And here I was feeling as though I was drowning in a sea of lost possibilities.

  “Fate did bring you into my life, Emilia. But I guess it was for other reasons than I’d hoped.” His expression hardened as though he were working to build a barrier of his own making instead of dealing with the one I’d spent a lifetime crafting. “I promise I’ll respect your wishes and back off.” He extended his hand.

  A handshake?

  God help me.

  “Friends?” His eyes traveled up to meet mine. But the heated flame of desire couldn’t be tamped down despite the word he’d most likely forced out of his mouth.

  His warm palm slid against mine as he united our hands as if we’d just made a business deal. “Friends,” I repeated.

  “Will going after Atlas be a problem since he’s Chanel’s brother? And what of her mother?” he asked while easing his touch free of mine. That was more painful than the Dutch gangster slicing me earlier.

  “They’re still the enemy. But I don’t want Atlas or Penelope dying. And can we wait to let the others know about this? I need more time.”

  “Of course.” He nodded and started for his jumper, pulled it over his head, then went for the door. But I wasn’t ready for him to leave. To be . . . alone.

  It was absurd because I’d pretty much been alone since the day Papà died.

  “Do you want to stay for a bit?”

  He pivoted to look at me as if I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.

  Sex with no strings? Perhaps it needed to be on the table for discussion? It may be the only way to remove the tight fist in my chest that squeezed relentlessly.

  His focus dipped to the V of my robe. The knot had loosened, and when I looked down, I spied my bra partially on display.

  He was contemplating. Reading my thoughts. Reading my body language that said I wanted to give myself to him in the only way I could, sexually.

  “I need to think. Tonight might not be the best night to . . . hang out.” He pried his eyes free of me and turned for the door.

  I followed him into the living room of the suite, and he nearly bumped into me when he halted and did a one-eighty to face me. I followed his pointing finger toward the window.

  “What?”

  He raised a brow. “No Christmas tree? I thought the penthouses had a tree.”

  “Oh, I told the front desk not to bother decorating.”

  “Hm.” He lowered his hand back to his side, but the grim look on his face remained. He wasn’t satisfied with my answer?

  “I guess it’s goodnight, then,” I whispered.

  His brow scrunched, and he let go of a deep breath. “Goodnight, Julia.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sean

  How could I ask a woman like Emilia to disregard her father’s dying wish and choose me? When I suggested she challenge League rules, specifically the first rule . . . that was one thing. But asking her to go against her father was a line I refused to cross.

  She’d offered up the idea of casual sex between us shortly before I left her suite, hadn’t she? It didn’t take much reading between the lines to figure that out when she’d said, I really wish you were capable of no-strings sex. Feck if I didn’t want to take her up on the offer, but this gut punch I dealt with whenever I was around her made me so bloody miserable. Wouldn’t that feeling intensify if we slept together only to have her walk away afterward like it was nothing?

  I wasn’t some pussy who couldn’t handle his game. Never had been. But it was also the first time in my life that the shoe was on the other foot. I was the one wanting more with little hope of getting it.

  I probably deserved whatever I had coming to me after all the shite I’d done over the years. Forgetting women’s names. Leaving before sunrise. Bailing on a date for another woman who I found more interesting. I never cheated, but I was never really with anyone long enough for that to happen, which said a lot in and of itself.

  Yeah, I was a bloody arsehole. A gobshite of the highest order.

  I should’ve written an apology to every woman whose heart I broke because now I knew what it felt like, and it bloody sucked.

  “Your car, sir?” the valet asked when I exited the hotel. He had on one of those ugly Christmas jumpers that were still all the rage. It was an alarming shade of green with Will Ferrell’s character Buddy on the front, smiling like a lunatic beneath the quote, “Smiling is my favorite.” Not that I spent my time memorizing Christmas movies, but my cousin Bree’s son, Jack, loved it.

  Before Alessia came back into Sebastian’s l
ife, and before he married my sister, I doubted Sebastian would have allowed an employee at one of his hotels to dress in such a manner. I wouldn’t call that man soft, but love had undoubtedly changed him.

  “Gonna get some air. Be back for it later.” I pushed my already chilled hands into my pockets to warm them as I began to walk, aimlessly heading for I had no idea where.

  I just had to get away.

  If I got behind the wheel of my car, I’d be reckless.

  So, I kept walking.

  Traditional Irish and folk Christmas music strummed through the air as I walked the cobblestone paths alongside the lit-up street. Christmas lights hung like sheets along the fronts of buildings in an array of colors. Chandelier-like Christmas lights were overhead in the middle of the street, and green garlands wrapped around lamp posts.

  I’d always loved Christmas. Ma was a big fan, so she made the holiday a huge deal while we were growing up. I missed those times, to be honest. The simpler times. The less dangerous ones, too.

  My arms tightened as I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets when a bluster of chilled air greeted me. It was five Celsius out, not too bad, but I’d left my jacket in the Maserati.

  I turned a corner, approaching the illuminated blue and gold Grafton Quarter sign hanging between buildings on my left and right. It’d always be Grafton Street to me.

  I bumped into people as I walked, passing pub after pub with blokes partaking in the 12 Pubs of Christmas. You had to visit twelve pubs in one day while following silly rules. Adam and I hadn’t done that in at least six years.

  Maybe I ought to get drunk?

  But shite, I was a lousy drunk when down and didn’t want to do something stupid.

  When a cover band outside on the patio of one pub began playing a familiar song, Too Much to Ask, by Niall Horan, I stopped walking and listened. My heart lodged in my throat as Emilia immediately came to mind.