Thug: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  “It was, little brother. Don’t worry about it. We were just talking business.”

  “Oh is that what we’re calling it now?” His face hardens. “She’s a Carney, Kieran.”

  “Don’t tell me about the goddamn Carneys, Owen. You’ve never had to deal with family business before. Don’t get your nose into it now.”

  He recoils and I instantly feel bad. Owen’s the baby of the family, and even though he’s as tough as the rest of us, that big brother protectiveness never goes away.

  He chose a different life, and I respect that more than he knows.

  In part because he chose it, instead of stumbling into whatever role someone else kept waiting for him when he got his head on straight. That’s more than I’d done. And there’d never been a time that Owen didn’t have my back.

  “Sorry, Owen. It’s just been a confusing couple of nights. Too many hits to the head.” That Owen can definitely relate to.

  He nods. “Just be careful, Kieran. You never know what those slimy fuckers are up to.”

  I feel myself bristle at Siobhan being lumped in with Owen’s scathing remarks, but don’t I feel the same way?

  Haven’t I hated the Carneys more than any of us? I was ready to give Finn a matching scar over his other stupid eyebrow just last night. Wipe that smug grin off his mug. Patrick was the bruiser for sure, but Finn I hated most of all.

  Smarmy piece of garbage.

  “No one knows that better than I do, Owen,” I say, reassuring him. I try to forget Siobhan’s soft, responsive body against mine. No way in hell I’d expected that from someone so cultivated. So prissy.

  It never occurred to me before that I thought one way about people who simply act as they are, and another way about people that are more intentional about their images. The Doyles are pretty straightforward people.

  I’d developed a distrust of people who created an image they want the world to see.

  Shaking my head, I walk back to the stage to the drunken roar of the crowd. Picking up my guitar, I throw myself into my music. Thank god I’m leaving town tomorrow. This is not the time for any beautiful distractions keeping me from busting open whatever heads I need to to protect my family.

  If there’s ever been a point when the Doyle enforcer needed his head on straight, it’s now.

  When the whole family, and our entire business, is poised on the brink of change.

  A change that I can’t bring myself to contemplate.

  The rest of the night passes by in a blur of music, watching other people dance, and willing myself not to think.

  The next morning I’m less hungover than usual. Ditching that terrible martini probably helped. Normally I’m a whiskey and bourbon kind of guy. Beer is fine but makes me more bloated than I’d like to admit, thank you very much.

  Irish metabolisms are no joke. Honed with hundreds of years of boiled, flavorless food. The threat of heartburn if someone takes out the pepper.

  A guy has to be careful.

  I’m in my shitty pickup truck, on the way to New Bedford to pick up the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. Boru’s giant head hangs out the passenger side window, massive ropes of saliva dangling out of his mouth and splattering on the cars behind us. Hope their windows are closed.

  He’s not pretty, but he’s loyal.

  Not unlike my brother Ronan.

  New Bedford is an old whaling city on the south coast of Massachusetts. Like many cities whose industrial peak is far behind them, there’s a lot of crime, but mostly the people are good and just trying to make a living. I prefer taking the ferry from here rather than from Cape Cod.

  Cape Cod traffic in the summer is a bitch.

  Rounding the corner to the dock, the acrid smell of low tide fills my nostrils. I love it. I see the usual fleet of commercial fishing vessels. Mostly American Seiners with rusty hulls and masts covered in seagull shit. It’d surprise the hell out of most people to know how pricey these boats are, and how technologically savvy fisherman have to be to use the sophisticated electronics that are part of locating dwindling fish populations.

  Hell, the fishing licenses now can run upwards of a million bucks, just for the pleasure of going out on the water and trying to catch something. Times change fast, and not in a way that always makes sense.

  I ease the truck across the ramp onto the ferry. The thunk of my tires on the metallic joints as the ocean laps the dock behind me is one of my favorite kinds of music.

  Once below deck, I don’t bother rolling up the windows and walk over to the passenger’s side to help Boru out.

  He’s still a young dog, but there’s no need to invite hip trouble. My brothers give me nonstop shit for carrying a 110-pound dog around, but hell, the workout helps to balance out the sugary coffee they like to tease me about too.

  Plus, I like having my dog around.

  The air on deck is crisp and salty as we push off slowly into the harbor. Boru sits next to me indulgently and I rest a hand on his head. He knows I love the ocean. It’s why I chose the Coast Guard when my father issued his ultimatum all those years ago.

  At eighteen years old I was more balls than brains, though some may argue I haven’t changed much. In my idiot youth, though, I’d assumed we’d be partying Baywatch Style, saving hot girls from sinking yachts.

  Yeah, that went well.

  Instead it was Cape May in New Jersey, and a bootcamp that nearly destroyed me. I don’t do well with authority, except for Murphy, and having my individuality erased by these company commander blowhards, as I saw them then, was repulsive to me.

  Still, looking back, a little discipline and structure – and being in an environment where being a big Doyle didn’t get me shit – had been good in the end. And the whole thing had taught me something important.

  No matter where I go, there I am.

  Not in some weird poet way.

  It’s more like, you’re going to find yourself in situations you don’t enjoy.

  You have two choices to make.

  Are you going to find the joy, or do you lean into the suffering?

  And are you going to stay true to who you are, or let every situation wear you down?

  Turned out to be excellent training for the life I stepped back into when my enlistment was up.

  Boru huffs and lowers himself to the deck, obviously over my reminiscing. I watch spits of land rush by as the spray leaves a salty sheen on my face. Murphy always said I carried the restlessness of Lir with me. He hadn’t been impressed when I had no fucking clue who Lir was. They don’t teach Irish mythology in school, and even if they had, I probably wouldn’t have paid attention.

  Too busy flirting with girls, though no one like Siobhan.

  I smiled, remembering how her ice had melted to liquid heat in my arms last night, and it goes straight to my cock. Shifting uncomfortably, I try to redirect my brain to my mission ahead and away from the memories of Siobhan’s hard nipples pressing into my chest.

  Jesus Christ.

  I’d had my fair share of icy princesses who wanted to hook up with a bad boy to get back at their daddy. Both of us knew it was transactional, and none of them had ever responded to me so boldly.

  One of the best things in life is being wanted by another person. And the desire that radiated from a woman like Siobhan, even as I felt her fight to suppress it?

  Let’s just say that’s the shit that makes you feel alive.

  Boru yawns, his big head resting on his giant paws.

  “You’re right, Boru,” I say. “She’s a Carney, and she froze up as quickly as she melted down.”

  Not the worst image.

  Give me some ice cubes and I can do things to a woman’s nipples with my tongue she’ll never forget. The thought of Siobhan’s icy reaction, coupled with the merest possibility of her heated response, is almost enough to shove me over the edge.

  Focus, Doyle.

  The ferry gently bumps into the Oak Bluffs terminal on the northeast tip of the island.

&
nbsp; “Come on, Boru,” I say, tugging on his leash. “We’ve got work to do.”

  6

  Kieran

  “Recruit Doyle: Most likely to brain himself on a bulkhead.”

  “That was one time, Vinny.” I drop out of my truck and grab my friend by the shoulders, digging my knuckles into his head like I used to do to Owen and Connor. Never Seamus. He was always too serious, even as a kid.

  And that one time I tried, he gave me a thirty-minute lecture on assault and battery, the punishments, and a few cases that were so gruesome I never tried again. He was eight.

  “Not the hair, Doyle,” he says, maneuvering out of my grip. This could go on forever—we’re pretty evenly matched, as we’d discovered when we were assigned to be sparring partners in bootcamp.

  Instead, he goes over to my truck and grabs my dog’s cheeks, shaking them and howling Boru’s name to get him to howl back. It works and is really fucking annoying.

  “Come on, kids,” I say, shouldering my duffel as he helps Boru down. “Let’s get to the fish palace.”

  Vinny’s place, a small, two-story clapboard house sits on the edge of my uncle Danny’s property at the corner of Seaview and Ocean Avenues. Swanky neighborhood. Vinny turned the first floor into a small kitchen that churns out the best fish and chips you’ve ever had. He opens and closes the kitchen when he feels like it and spends the rest of his time dreaming up menu items he’ll never actually sell.

  “I think I’m going to try onion rings this year,” Vinny says, holding on to Boru’s leash, completely oblivious to the hordes of tourists trying to stop him so they can pet the dog. “I think this is the year I branch out.”

  “Oh yeah?” There’s a badly painted sign that says “FISH N CHIPS” hanging over the take-out window, which Vinny had made from an old picture window in that spot. That sign has survived more storms than some of the nearby houses.

  “You’ll have to redo your sign.”

  He nods, urging Boru through the narrow doorway. The dog catches a whiff of fried fish and immediately presses his nose to the ground to find the source. Vinny runs a clean ship, though, and Boru whines wistfully at the kitchen door, which is closed off to him.

  Carrying my bag upstairs, I dump it in the smaller of the two bedrooms. I’ve bunked out here ever since my uncle sold the place to Vinny to protect it from another Carney scheme ten years ago.

  I get the eerie sensation I’m being watched and look over at the antique dresser pressed against one of the walls. There’s a fishbowl sitting on top of it, and the crabbiest-looking betta fish floats inside, frowning at me.

  I get the distinct impression this fish has seen things. It’s eerie.

  “I see you’ve met Taco,” Vinny says, popping into the doorway. He runs one hand over his scruffy beard. The man gets five o’clock shadow before noon. “I’m cleaning his regular abode so he is just here for now to welcome you.”

  “You named your fish Taco?” I say, incredulous. “You have a pet fish in your home where you fry fish for a living?”

  He pats me on the back. “Kieran, my friend, life is complex. All kinds of contradictions can coexist together.”

  “You’re fucking weird, Vinny.”

  “Long winters,” he says, shrugging. “Besides, Taco hates other fish. Let me make you some lunch and we can talk about onion rings.”

  I follow Vinny downstairs, leaving Taco alone with his displeasure.

  7

  Siobhan

  The small charter plane touches down on the runway in a smooth landing, taxiing gently to the small airport. We’re in the middle of Martha’s Vineyard, West Tisbury, surrounded by an expansive, green state forest. My mother’s friends had begged me to stay with them over in Chilmark, but my shows are up in Oak Bluffs.

  “It’s just such a mishmash of people up there, Siobhan, dear. Tourists and the worst kinds of townies. It’s a quick drive. Please say you’ll stay with us. I’ll worry!”

  I knew who she’d meant by townies. The year-round population of the Vineyard is extremely poor, particularly those people who live in Oak Bluffs.

  And in my experience from prior stays on the island, most of them are kind, wonderful, hardworking people.

  Descending the staircase to the tarmac, my violin case in one hand, I feel a prick of shame. A valet takes my bag and places it in the trunk of the car that will whisk me away to my summer rental. I give him a sizable tip. It’s something my father instilled in all of us from an early age. Pay the people who work for you well.

  It’s impossible to know if kindness can buy loyalty, Siobhan. Buying loyalty, however, is time honored. He’s only half-serious.

  Staring out the tinted windows of the car as we pass through the scrubby forest, my mind wanders to the comment Kieran made about my family’s business. Why haven’t I been able to let it go? I hate how much it’s bothering me. My father is a good man. He’s brought a lot of income into Boston, and revitalized parts of the city that were underfunded and had crumbling infrastructure.

  For who?

  It’s only a fifteen-minute drive, and we pull up to my rental, a sweet little gingerbread cottage near the center of town.

  “Shy, baby,” my father had said, amused. “Those are old camp meeting houses. Are you sure you want to stay there? You hate camping.”

  The cute pink wooden house in front of me, with its incredibly detailed scalloped verge board, looks more like a dollhouse than a tent. White wicker rocking chairs line the porch, which is framed by ornate columns supporting a small second-floor balcony. It’s utterly charming.

  Using the key I’d been mailed by the owner, I open the door, delighted to have a space to myself. It’s an unfamiliar but welcoming sensation. I lock the door behind me — my brothers are less delighted that I’m alone. They worry less about me than about our youngest sister, Catriona, who is a bit of a hell-raiser.

  Still, Patrick had gone on and on about not walking alone at night, not going to the bars, not drinking too much, not doing anything, basically.

  Regardless, I smile like a child as I explore the cottage, relishing in the squeaky floorboard, the sticky hinges of cabinets that hold mismatched plates, and the colorful furniture my mother would, probably rightfully, deem “tacky.”

  The second floor is just a large bedroom that opens up to the balcony and a decent-sized bathroom, larger than the one on the first floor. I place my violin case under the bed and head out to buy some groceries.

  The treelined street my cottage sits on opens up to the main thoroughfare of the town, Circuit Avenue. The sidewalk is uneven and crowded with people and dogs. It’s worth a detour to see where I’ll be performing first. It’s a small theater at the end of Circuit Avenue, not too far away from the Flying Horses, an antique carousel I remember begging my father to ride when I was a child.

  “Shy, honey, no. That’s filthy and crowded. Come now, you get to ride real horses, my dove.”

  Approaching the theater, I see a poster with my picture on it. Oak Bluffs Arts Collective Presents: Siobhan Carney. They’d asked me to be their artist in residence for the summer. I’d play two shows a week, Saturday night and a Sunday matinee, for eight weeks, and give a talk about my artistic journey every other week on different days.

  Whatever that means.

  The Boston Symphony Orchestra generally plays out in Tanglewood in Western Mass over the summer, but my conductor was happy to let me do this and allow our second chair violinist to grow her talent in a less pressure-heavy environment.

  The cheerful music of the Wurlitzer organ drifts over from the carousel, and I think about walking over to watch the children grabbing for the brass ring from their wooden horses. I look up at my poster again and meet my own gaze.

  It’s uncanny, even though I’ve seen this carefully curated headshot hundreds of times. I turn around and head back up Circuit Avenue, away from the theater and the carousel.

  Time to enjoy a little time as just myself, rather than the ultra-poli
shed and at-risk of being recognized woman in the photograph.

  8

  Kieran

  “So what are the dastardly Carneys up to this time?” Vinny asks, wiping his greasy fingers on a dish towel he’s draped over his shoulders.

  “Not sure,” I reply, finishing up a particularly juicy piece of haddock. “Goddammit this is good, Vinny.”

  He’s a seriously talented cook; always has been, but I swear it’s like his food gets better every time I visit. On the surface, that doesn’t make sense because he’s always cooking the same thing.

  But maybe it’s the infinite loop of perfecting the thing you love most in the world? That’s very Vinny.

  I lick a blob of tartar sauce off my knuckle and drag a French fry through a moat of ketchup. The fry is perfect, a little burnt, and golden brown. Vinny manages to capture that “end of season” flavor from his frying oil all year-round, and I wonder what deals with the devil he made to be able to perform that black magic.

  “Your onion rings are going to be insane, bro.”

  He nods. “I’m going to open for the crowds in about an hour. Do you want to go see your uncle now?”

  After I finish my lunch, we head next door to Danny’s place. It’s another lesson in contrasts. My uncle’s house is an old Victorian mansion that’s been in the family for about a century. Maybe more. It’s three stories tall, with a round tower on one side, a wraparound porch, and all kinds of fancy architectural shit I don’t know the name of.

  The big houses here always give the impression of wealth, status, and being remote.

  The tower is cool, though. It’s a dark olive color, with a red shingled roof. It’s seen better days. Even so, it’s too fancy for me so I always stay with Vinny when I visit. Danny doesn’t care — he likes Vinny better than me anyway. Can’t say that I blame him.

  I can’t cook for shit, being Irish.