That’s what I’ve been feeling. But where the hell am I going to go?
“Being my son, being a Doyle. Not the easiest thing.” Something in my chest shifts.
It’s true, but he’s fought so hard for the life that he’s given me and my brothers. Our family. We owe him everything.
“But it’s not the hardest either, and you’re a man now. A goddamned adult and it’s time you start acting like one. Comes a time you have to decide what you want from your life. I know you love that music, but you can’t eat songs, Kieran.”
My jaw goes hard. I’ve got the talent and the drive. But even I know the people that make it are already way past where I am. Private lessons, summer camps, all that bullshit. No eighteen-year-old son of an Irish mafia guy, excuse me former mafia guy, is getting any breaks.
He sees the defiance, and whatever kindness was there a second ago evaporates.
“You want a place here, with me? You’ll earn it. You disappointed me, boy.”
And there it is, the words I’d rather die than hear. He clears his throat, points at the door.
“Get out. Take a walk, and for fuck’s sake, stay out of trouble. You got one night to make up your mind. Get your ass back here at eight a.m. tomorrow sharp and you’ll walk me through your plan. For now? Get out of my sight.” His voice has a flatness that gives the words a razor’s edge.
I can’t get out of that office, and out of the Kildare, fast enough.
My dad clears his throat, and my head snaps up. He’s watching me intently, his tired blue eyes sharp.
Putting my hands on my knees, I push up out of the chair and make to head for the door. “Thanks, Dad. I’ve got this. I won’t let you down.”
I’m almost out of the room, my hand on the door, when he says very softly, “You never did, Kieran. You never did.”
Doyles don’t cry, but I sure as hell don’t turn around. Something’s burning my eye. Time to go find some Carneys and find out what the hell they’re doing to my family’s property.
2
Siobhan
The sound of a fist landing on hard muscle shatters my blissful mood.
Just minutes ago, I’d wound my way up the steep hill to my parents’ Back Bay house, slipping through the side gate. The scent of roses fills my senses, sweet and calming.
I declined my father’s offer to send the car and took the long walk through a perfect June night back to the house.
Stars glitter overhead, and all the stress I’ve held all night as I played for an audience of thousands evaporates. Cool crisp sheets and a refreshing shower promise to melt away the last of the day’s strain and leave me in a good mood for my final day in Boston before leaving for the summer.
I just imagined this perfect wind down when the sound of the punch cuts through the peaceful night.
It rings out, sounding almost like an echo of the gate swinging closed behind me. My dark ballet slipper poises above the cobblestones when I freeze. As my battered violin case swings back and bumps my leg, I strain to listen.
Another hammering blow lands, followed in quick succession by a hiss of pain and a string of curses that I can’t quite make out.
My stomach drops and my mouth goes dry.
“Fuck you, Doyle!”
My brother Finn’s deep voice is full of rage, barely contained, and is coming from the back of the property.
My eyes move in that direction, around the curving path and just out of sight, before cutting longingly toward my dark window directly overhead.
I don’t want to deal with this. In less than forty-eight hours, I’m headed away — away from Boston, away from my family, away from all this B.S. Eight blissful weeks of just being myself and not having to be Siobhan Carney and all the baggage that entails.
The knot in my stomach twists as freedom and the ability to put everything behind me for eight precious sun-drenched weeks seem to slip away, a little further from reach. For a very long minute I think about just heading inside.
Up the back stairs. Into my room, into my shower. My bed and my peace. I could just leave my brothers to whatever they’re up to and not think about it again.
It’s not my business. I don’t want to get involved. In fact, keeping out of it is what my brothers would want. What my father would want. What they will tell me if I try to interfere.
Interfere in what?
My indecision hangs for only a moment, when another punch lands and I recognize the voice that lets out a whoosh of pain.
Rory, my brother. My little brother. My favorite brother.
Oh hell no.
Before I think twice, I move toward the back of the property and the empty garage where the sounds are coming from. I pause for just a second to slide my violin onto the back porch.
It’s priceless, literally and figuratively. If the Carney boys are brawling, I’m not risking her to break up their fight.
Closing the distance between the garden and the garage, I can see that every window is covered, but some light escapes under the partially lifted garage door. Definitely not a good sign.
There’s an old entrance on the side. Steeling my nerves, I open the door, step in, and slam the door behind me as loud as I can.
My eyes sweep the room. There’s a huge, strapping man at the center of the circle of my brothers. His ruggedly handsome face is framed by wild dark hair and a trickle of blood slides down the side of his face. Despite the fact that it’s four on one, he doesn’t look afraid. In fact, there’s something in his stance and the way he’s holding himself that tells me he’s a dangerous man.
A very dangerous man.
Then it hits me. Four on one? That’s not how the Carneys do things.
As the door slams, Finn whirls, fury in his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s taken any hits but he seems to be favoring his side like he’s got a broken rib — again.
“Siobhan, get in the house.” His voice holds a barely controlled anger. Usually Finn is more refined than that. And he certainly knows better than to speak to me that way.
In fact, usually they all are. Carneys are not, as a rule, brawlers. My eyes go back to the man in the center of the room, as if drawn by a gravitational pull. That one is definitely a brawler.
Despite everything happening, my mouth goes little dry and a slight flush creeps up my cheeks. The big guy gives off raw masculinity in waves. Unfortunately, it could very easily be directed at hurting my brothers and I need to find a way to put a stop to this now.
“Hello to you too, Finn.” I try to keep a waver out of my voice.
It’s not that I’m afraid of Finn, but I recognize that I haven’t exactly stepped into the middle of a playground tussle. Something going wrong here could have very, very serious consequences. The kind of consequences we can’t afford right now.
The kind of consequences that Finn should know better than to have brought to our own doorstep. With the casino project, the Carney Holding Company and all its dealings are under constant scrutiny from the feds, from the city, and honestly, I don’t even know who else. But I know it keeps my father up late at night, and whatever’s happening right now only makes things worse.
A slow burn of rage begins to build in my chest. Finn’s glaring at me, coals of fury coalescing behind his eyes. Just what we need, a classic Carney pissing contest over who is right.
“I said, go in the house, now.” There’s a dangerous edge to his voice.
But I don’t stop; in fact, I act like I don’t even hear him. I keep walking, slowly and confidently into the middle of this emptied out garage in the white diaphanous dress I had to wear for tonight’s performance. Into the middle of a bunch of fighting men at least twice my size.
If they get blood or dirt on this dress, I’m going to kill them. It is impossible to find something that fits the hundred little requirements the orchestra’s director has in a budget I can pay for myself.
At least I am related to most of them and have the power to turn the one thing they fear the m
ost on them: our father.
I stop next to Rory, his hair the same strawberry blond as my own. His pale green eyes track to my face, then back to the big guy, and then back to me. “Sorry, sis,” he mouths silently.
My brother Patrick is the most dangerous, muscles straining under his dark shirt as he’s seconds away from jumping in with both fists flying. Whatever is going on has his temper firing. Finally, my gaze settles on my brother Callan. Smart, level-headed Callan is standing back and observing everything that’s happening.
Not quite swearing it off, and not joining in.
Not until things get bad enough or interesting enough, anyways. Typical Callan.
“Callan, what the hell is going on?” I try to add a commanding note, but it sounds thin to even my own ears. “Who is this man?”
The man’s stare is like a lead weight on my face. His eyes are a shocking blue in his tanned, handsome face. His nose looks like it was broken at some point and didn’t set quite right. Or maybe it had just been broken too many times to ever be straight.
“I’m Kieran Doyle.”
His voice is a bass rumble. And for some reason, the fairly casual way he’s introducing himself, like we’re meeting at a cocktail hour, immediately sends my hackles up.
Even if the very reality of him would have my breath catching under different circumstances. I might be attracted to men like this, but I never, ever act on it. Siobhan Carney going for a man prone to bar fights? My father’s imagined reaction is enough to send a wave of fear and panic rippling down my body.
My eyes snap to his. “Was I speaking to you?”
Holy shit.
I don’t know what’s coming over me.
But he doesn’t get angry. In fact, his eyes — those beautiful, intense, frustrating azure eyes — start to sparkle, but he ducks his head. “No, ma’am.”
He’s trying to sound contrite, but he thinks this is funny. Or that maybe this isn’t a threat.
How wrong he is. But then the name, Doyle, hits me.
I spin toward Finn, bearing down. “You brought a fucking Doyle here. A Doyle?” I’m practically spitting the words.
“What the hell are thinking? Were you even thinking?”
Callan cuts in. “Siobhan, it’s complicated.”
But the only thing I can see is my father, his face pale and drawn. His eyes tight with the stress of late nights, and my mother retreating even further into an icy silence. Both of them unreachable in their pain, no matter what I try. The casino that was supposed to be the big deal that put our family business on the map. That was finally enough to satisfy that seemingly endless Carney ambition. Instead, it has us and everything we own leveraged to the hilt to make it a reality.
A reality that’s tearing our family apart.
One wrong move could send everything rocketing over the edge of some cliff that I can sense is there, even if I don’t really understand it.
“There is nothing complicated about the fact that you brought business” — my eyes snap toward Kieran Doyle, registering the ripple of muscles under his dark t-shirt – “that kind of business here to our house. Our house. What if Mom came out here?”
Before my brother can answer, Kieran cuts in. “I’d never hurt your mother.”
His voice is so serious, so absolutely on the level, that my eyes go back to him again.
He’s really is a striking man. The look on his face tells me it’s very important I understand what he’s saying.
Exactly at that moment, my brother Patrick explodes into motion. Too much pent-up momentum. “Don’t talk to my fucking sister, you piece of trash.”
Great.
A fist flies through the air. Doyle sidesteps it and drives a fist into Patrick’s gut. Hard enough to back him up, but not really hard enough to hurt him. I’m afraid all hell’s going to break lose, but Doyle has already taken a giant step back to put distance between himself and us.
“I’m not here to fight.” He’s speaking to the room, but his eyes are on me. “And I really don’t want to fight when a woman might get hurt.”
One second the room’s charged with tension and the next it’s like all the heat got sucked out of room. My brothers start coming to their senses and wonder how the last few minutes, hours, or years happened. It moves like a ripple across every face there.
Finn swipes a hand across his face. “Shit. Rory, get Patrick out of here, now.”
Silent communication runs between my brothers, and then Rory grabs Patrick’s arm and they slip out the back.
Good plan. Remove the explosions so they’re not under pressure.
“Listen, Doyle,” Finn starts, but there’s a pause that Callan is quick to fill. Usually Finn is smooth, but something’s set him off tonight.
“Kieran, clearly there was a misunderstanding tonight. I’m sorry for that. If there’s something we need to discuss, we can do so under more” — Callan tilts his head and says with a raised eyebrow — “appropriate circumstances.”
Doyle nods. Callan continues. “Patrick was wrong to bring you here, and my sister, Siobhan, is right. There are people here that would be very upset if they thought we were conducting any kind of business at our parents’ home.”
Relief starts to unfurl a coil of tension holding my spine stuff.
Finn cuts in. “I’ll show you out.”
Doyle gives him a big grin. “That’s alright, Finn. I’ll show myself out, and you’re welcome to watch to confirm I go, yeah?”
Color starts to rise in Finn’s face again and Callan puts in smoothly, “That’ll be fine. Please, feel free to use that door there and head straight down the path. It’ll take you out to the street. Finn will follow, just to make sure you find your way out.”
With a roll of his massive shoulders and a subtle crack of his neck, Kieran seems to shake off the tension that built. I realize this is a man who understands how to summon the adrenaline for fighting very fast, and let it go just as quickly. He sees me watching him and gives me a crooked grin.
But he’s already moving to the door, but right as he passes by me he pauses. I’m viscerally aware of the difference in our sizes, and the presence of his body near mine. He smells like fresh lime aftershave, a detail so out of place I can barely process it.
“What’s the difference between a violinist and a dog, Miss Carney?”
Shock washes through me, so much that I can’t even respond. “A dog knows when to stop scratching.”
It’s one of the oldest violin jokes. My brothers tortured me with it for years as a kid, especially when my early practice really did sound like animal screeching. He winks, and I notice fleetingly he has a dimple before he ducks out through the side door with Finn on his heels.
Callan and I stare after him, until Callan gives a long-suffering sigh. I turn on him, but suddenly I just want this day to be over.
“What in the hell was that?” I’m just exhausted. “It takes four of you to take on one guy now?”
The thing about Callan is that he’s confident and in control, but he’s also smart. Probably smarter than all my siblings, myself included. He gives a noncommittal shake of his head.
“Shy,” he says, calling me by the nickname he hasn’t used since I was a kid. “You know that wasn’t a fight. Not really. It doesn’t take four Carneys to take on anyone. But that guy? Let’s just say no one should take Kieran Doyle lightly. He’s a very dangerous man.”
There’s an undercurrent to his words. He watches me for a minute pointedly before continuing.
“He and Patrick know each other, and I think they were out. Came back here, and he started sniffing around about business stuff. Family issues. I’ll take care of it.” There is a finality to his voice that I know all too well.
But the truth is, I’m not in my family’s business. Not really. And I’m done with this nonsense. Wordlessly, I cross out of the building and through the parking area to climb up the stairs. I grab my violin, exhaling with relief once the case is in my hand
again. Yet as I do, I scan the long driveway, and the dark street beyond, wondering how far Kieran Doyle might have gotten and where he might be headed.
With those eyes, those bright blue eyes and the muscled arms and the flashing dimple. Jesus. I need to get myself under control. Things are bad enough without getting hung up on a man like that. The last kind of stress my father, my family, or frankly even myself needs is to deal with is some Romeo and Juliet bullshit. Besides, I won’t get involved with a man tied up in anything like my family’s business. My one goal is to get out of this life and stay out of this life, and finding a partner that’s not some sort of Boston Irish warlord is at the top of my list.
Still, my last thought before sleep is how on earth a man like Kieran Doyle even knew I’m a violinist.
3
Kieran
Salty.
It’s how I like my fried food, my women, and my Irish ballads. Seriously, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.
But for some reason tonight all we’re playing are weepy love songs and sad boozy ballads, and one unfortunate request that’s left me with my stomach twisting into hard knots.
“They carried him off in a nice clean sheet
and laid him out upon the bed
with a gallon of porter by his feet
and a noggin’ of whiskey by his head”
I can’t help it. When my eyes drift over to where my father sits at his corner table holding Saturday night court, I don’t even get a minute to feel a touch of a whisky-soaked regret over his recent health problems. A second to indulge in a little.
Steely blue eyes, so like my own, glare back at me across the Kildare.
Go on, boy, he dares me with a look. Don’t you get all soft and make me come over there.
I’m well into my thirties and stand six-foot-four. My father’s on the other side of seventy, and still has me quaking in my boots.
Irish parenting at its finest.
Thug: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 2