Thug: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  I go to ring the bell, and Vinny looks at me like I just shit on the porch. I pull my hand back, embarrassed, and open the door. Danny has yelled at me numerous times for acting like a guest and not family.

  Still, you try breaking a habit like that when you were raised by a guy like Murphy. Knock or get knocked. Not that he ever did it. Not that he ever had to.

  “Uncle Danny?” I call, standing in the massive front hall. Though you can see shades of its former glory, the wooden floor is cracked and bowing, probably from salt exposure. Once ornate wallpaper flakes off, leaving what looks like horsehair plaster behind. I feel a wave of guilt in my throat. He’s older and lives alone; I should help more.

  “Kieran!” Danny yells, popping out of a room on the second floor and leaning over the railing overlooking the hall.

  Danny is wearing a velvet robe over a white tank top and boxer shorts. Tufts of white hair poke out from holes that pepper the shirt, but thankfully the boxers are intact.

  Small graces. I won’t have to face that preview of the future today.

  He still has a full head of hair, though he went white after my mother died. They were both redheads.

  He glides down the stairs, holding a glass of wine in his right hand. “It’s so good to see you! Your dad mentioned you might visit!”

  He hugs me without spilling his drink, slapping my back and pushing off to take a better look.

  “Looking good, sailor,” he says, laughing. “Lord, you boys are big. Definitely didn’t get that from your mama, that’s for sure.”

  “No sir,” I reply.

  My part of this ritual is clear.

  He gets a beer for me and Vinny, and we sit at a rickety table, my chair protesting under my weight. If it breaks it’ll be terrible for my self-esteem.

  “So Dad tells me some folks have been bothering you?” I inquire, playing with the tab on my beer can. I plunk out a festive tune until Vinny takes the can away from me. Some people have no musical appreciation.

  “Oh, so that’s why you’re here,” Danny says, propping his chin up on his hand. “And here I thought it was just a nice visit.”

  I wish I had that beer can to mess with right about now.

  “Of course, I’m here to see you, Danny. I’m just worried. So’s Dad.”

  “Hmm,” he grunts, still staring at me. “How are your brothers?”

  I should’ve known better. Danny cares more about family than anything else, and I feel the heat rise to my cheeks as I give him the updates.

  “About time Owen sealed the deal with Molly. He’s lucky someone else didn’t come steal her away, like your dad did with Katie.”

  Only my uncles and Dad got away with calling Ma Katie.

  It’s Kathleen, thank you very much.

  “Wait, what?” I said, leaning forward. “No one’s told me this story.”

  Danny laughs. “It’s because you kids are always too quick to get to business. Just like I was back in the day.” His face falls for a minute, and then he shakes it off. “Your ma was a good-looking gal and had quite a few suitors. I’d have been worried except that she was tougher than I’ll ever be.”

  He pauses, looking out the dining room window for a moment. I’m afraid to say anything and break his reflection.

  He finally shakes his head, and the smile returns. “Anyway, there was one fella who was chasing her more than the others and was about to ask for her hand when your dad comes along and sweeps her off her feet.”

  “Wait, so Ma was almost engaged to someone else?”

  “Didn’t say that,” Danny replies. “Your ma liked this fella as a friend. She wouldn’t have said yes. He ended up marrying her best friend instead.”

  Danny pauses again, this time focusing intently on me. I can tell there’s something on his mind, but I can see him swallow up the thought just as quickly.

  It’s another frustrating habit of my family.

  We get to know as much as the older generation decides we get to know, and when they decide we’re ready for it. And people don’t always account for the fact that by the time they’re ready to talk, it might be too late.

  Still, it’s useless to argue. God knows I’ve tried.

  “Okay, my boy,” he says, leaning back in his chair. It squeaks in protest. “You’re right. We’re in a little bit of a pickle.”

  “Fried pickles, maybe,” Vinny says, more to himself than anyone else.

  A new dish? Or maybe naming a second fish? Hard to say.

  “You remember how our mutual friends, the Carneys, ‘discovered’ that part of my land was supposed to be zoned for commercial use?”

  I nod. It’s why he sold the shack to Vinny. Vinny had been looking for a place to crash, and I knew he’d be a perfect tenant for my uncle. We’d thought about fighting it in court, but even with my Dad’s significant influence, the Carneys had far more money, and money did most of the talking on the Vineyard.

  “Well, Jimbo is up to his old tricks again.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. It never stops being funny when my uncle refers to big shot James Carney as Jimbo. He’s one of the most uptight, conservative, and vain men I’ve ever seen. He’d be horrified.

  “Sorry,” I say, gesturing vaguely. “Jimbo gets me every time.”

  “Well, he’s trying to get us now, son. He complained that house isn’t being maintained, and he’s making the argument that the whole lot is a commercial zone.”

  I furrow my brows. Why did Murphy send me here and not Seamus? I hate James Carney, but I’m not about to beat up someone in their sixties, though the old man probably would be a tougher fight than some young guys I’ve taken down.

  “Can we sue him?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.

  Danny sighs, looking uncharacteristically weary.

  “Kieran, I don’t want to fight anymore. This old place is too much for me now.”

  “I’ll help you,” I insist. “It’s our family’s house.”

  He pins me with a stern gaze. “Is it?”

  “I have to go open the fish shack. See ya, Danny. Kieran.” Vinny, traitor that he is, nods casually at me as he heads off. Always good at dodging the uncomfortable feelings, that one.

  “Let me help you this summer,” I plead. “Me and Vinny can fix up the place, at least, and give you time to think about it.”

  Danny sighs, his gaze fixed on the high ceilings now. “I’ve had plenty of time to think, Kieran. This house has been empty for a long time.”

  The silence hangs between us. My cousin, Drew, Danny’s son, had died of an overdose nearly ten years ago. It’d killed his mother, my aunt Caroline, who’d passed the following year by drinking herself to death. It’d been a huge scandal and of course, heartbreaking for Danny who’d been left behind. My mother’s family had money, lots of it, and though Ma never put on airs, the rest of the family considered themselves the Kennedys of the Vineyard. “I let the money be everything,” Danny says, exhaling. “Kieran, I let the money be everything and it cost me everything.”

  It’s the first time he’s broached the topic since we buried Caroline.

  “I don’t want this place to be an anchor weighing you boys down.” He clears his throat, and though I can see his eyes glass over with tears, he blinks them away as quickly as they came. “And I haven’t seen my other nieces and nephews in years.”

  I can’t imagine what it feels like to lose most of your entire immediate family. Your siblings. Life without my brothers is unimaginable.

  But he looks at me for a long moment, and something like a decision flashes over his face.

  “Okay,” he says, reaching over and patting my arm. “Okay, Kieran. Fix it up this summer. At the end of the summer we can decide to fight for it or sell it.”

  I press my hand on his. Suddenly I realize how old Danny is, and it scares me. Losing him and Murphy would be too much.

  “We’ll fix it up great, Uncle Danny. When we’re done you won’t want to leave. I promise.”


  He pats the side of my face, smiling wistfully.

  “Alright, son. Alright.”

  9

  Kieran

  I need a fucking drink.

  The beer at my uncle’s didn’t help, and Vinny doesn’t usually have hard liquor. He’s not much of a drinker, just having the occasional beer or Jack and Coke. It’s probably a good thing. The long, quiet winters here make it easy to fall into the bottom of a bottle and never crawl out. Vinny’s lack of taste for the stuff is half of what’s let him live here healthy for such a long time.

  The fresh air feels great after that heavy conversation, and I need to be close to the ocean.

  I walk up toward Circuit Avenue so I can hit up the package store and get some whiskey. I’m almost there when I see a woman struggling with two giant paper sacks full of groceries. I can’t see her behind the bags — they’re too bulky. I’m about to ask if she needs help when she stumbles directly into me.

  One of the bags splits, spilling its contents, mostly sad-looking vegetables all over the sidewalk.

  “Let me help you, ma’am,” I say, scooping them up. “You know, you should never buy your produce on Circuit. Go over to the farmer’s market. It’s way better.”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Ma’am? You okay?” I am so busy collecting her groceries that I haven’t bothered to see if she’s hurt. Bumping into me is like hitting a brick wall.

  Oh shit.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, clutching her remaining bag like a cross. The voice is tight and high, but there’s a familiar edge. Her pale green eyes are hidden behind giant sunglasses that obscure most of her oval face. Her strawberry blonde hair is being gently caressed by the sea breeze, and I wonder if I’m in a goddamn romcom for a minute.

  “Family business, Miss Carney,” I say.

  Is she here helping her father try to steal my uncle’s house from under him? Anger courses through me, my shoulders tightening. “And you?”

  Eventually I finish collecting her vegetables, but the bag is beyond the pale. No saving them unless she has room in the one she’s clutching.

  “Music,” she says, too quickly. “I’m sorry.”

  She looks down at the vegetables. “What a mess.”

  “They over packed it,” I offer, by way of a truce.

  “I did that,” she says quietly. It makes me wonder if she’s ever bagged groceries before. What an existence.

  Visions of whiskey dance in my head, but Murph would skin me if I left her like this, Carney or no. “Well, let me help you get your remaining stuff home, and I can show you the best fish and chips in town.”

  Of course, my ulterior motive is showing her who her family is screwing over. Make her see the people and not the dollar signs.

  “No, that’s okay, Mr. Doyle. I mean, Kieran. I appreciate your help but…”

  She could be a marble statue in that moment. Madonna with a sack of groceries. She’s all cold polish, but we both know there’s more under that veneer now.

  And some evil little part of me likes that I unsettle her.

  The X factor in an otherwise perfect existence.

  “Nonsense,” I say, plucking the bag out of her arms. “Your brothers would beat me up if I let you carry this back by yourself.”

  She snorts.

  Very unladylike.

  Very unexpected.

  Very attractive.

  She scoops up the remains of her vegetables and tosses them into a nearby garbage can.

  “Okay,” she says, relenting. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for you getting hurt. I’m staying over in one of the Gingerbread cottages.”

  We start walking, and she’s quiet for a moment, and then asks, “Do you come here a lot?”

  I want to ask her if that’s a pickup line, but she’s not the kind of Boston Irish I’m used to. She might not appreciate the joke.

  “My uncle, my ma’s brother, has a place here. Spent a lot of summers here. My father would send me when I was up to no good, which was often.”

  She chuckles softly.

  “I worked for the butcher,” I continued, pausing to see if we are heading in the right direction.

  “The butcher?” she says, a slight hint of panic in her voice.

  What is Jimbo telling her about us, I wonder.

  “Yep,” I reply with a nod. “Up here?”

  She regains her composure. “Yes, the pink one. How did the butcher get such a descriptive nickname?”

  “Not a nickname,” I reply, grinning over at her. “It was a deli.”

  “Oh!” she gasps, “Oh, a butcher. I see.”

  She shifts uncomfortably.

  Once again I swallow my sarcastic retort. She thought indeed. But I need her to understand why what her father is doing is wrong, and she won’t be sympathetic if she thinks I’m a jerk.

  And I’m starting to get the sense that this woman isn’t just rich and refined, but she’s sheltered in a way that’s hard for me to understand.

  Murph had all boys, but if he’d had a daughter, she’d have been tougher than every one of us.

  He’d have made sure.

  And again, when I take in the Grace Kelly thing she’s got going on – what, I like old movies – my body’s already reacting to the half-formed fantasies my traitorous brain spins.

  “You work any summer jobs?” I ask, moving aside so she can go up the stairs first. It’s practical, as she has the key, but also carries the bonus of my being able to watch her sweet little ass that her flowy sundress is trying, and failing, to hide.

  “Of course,” she says, opening the door. I wait for her to invite me in.

  I’m a thug with manners, naturally.

  And when she does, I bring her bag to the kitchen.

  “Summer camp,” she offers, unpacking the bag. I’m mystified at the selection. Almond milk, several potatoes, a block of some fancy cheese, a loaf of ciabatta bread, and frozen chicken.

  “I’m guessing you weren’t the cook,” I say.

  Fuck.

  It slips out before I can stop it.

  She fixes me with a stern gaze.

  “Of course not,” she replies. “I’m fucking Irish.”

  I let out a barking laugh.

  “This made more sense with the groceries that got left behind,” she says, waving her hand over it.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Not much more sense,” she says with a shrug.

  She pushes her sunglasses off her face back into her hair and gives me a genuine smile. She’s a beautiful woman, but in this moment, with her shitty groceries laid bare on the counter and that sweet smile that makes her nose crinkle, she’s fucking stunning. It’s a force of will not to stare.

  To remember who we are, and what I have to do this summer.

  I can’t hold back my own smile, though, and put her chicken in the freezer. “I’m glad I ran into you then, if at the very least to save you from Irish cuisine.”

  “Well, technically I ran into you,” she says.

  She looks at the food arrayed on her counter.

  “Did you say something about fish and chips?”

  10

  Siobhan

  Mother Mary, Siobhan, what are you doing?

  I’m letting Kieran Doyle, a man my brothers have held over mine and my sisters’ heads like some kind of bogeyman, escort me to a fish shack.

  My father would have a stroke.

  There have been several moments in my life where I’d wished I could disappear and seeing that giant brute of a man squatting on the sidewalk chasing down my errant produce was one of them.

  I can’t say what compelled me to let him walk me home.

  I do know the exact moment I decided I’d say yes to lunch, though: when he made fun of my pathetic groceries.

  In general, I’m used to being treated with a casual distance. People know who my father is, they know who my brothers are, and they know what would happen if they crossed any lines. My brothe
rs love me, but sometimes I feel more like property than anything else.

  And it’s not like “classically trained violinist” opens up many conversational doors. Eyes glaze over before I can get the words out, unless it’s the kind of annoying rich friends of my father’s scheming to get a free concert at their next social event.

  They know if they catch me, I’ll have to do it once my father hears the request.

  Kieran has thus far treated me with respect but seems unafraid to treat me like a person.

  Not that I need to remind myself how inappropriate this is. My family’s expectations have always been clear: comport myself appropriately, use my musical skills to help lend credibility to our family’s position in society, and eventually, marry well.

  It’s not like my father would arrange a marriage for me, but he’s certainly not above putting the well-heeled sons of his friends in my path in the hope one catches my eye.

  “So not the camp cook,” he says.

  “No,” I reply with a laugh. “My talents lie elsewhere.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  There’s something in his tone that makes me think he’s not talking about my music, and it shoots a spark through my core.

  It strikes me that his frank manner and easy way of talking about things makes him far more dangerous than any violence he might inflict. The kind of danger that risks your heart, as well as your body.

  “It was a camp for gifted musicians. I went as a child and taught there when I was a teenager.”

  “Ah,” he says, taking my elbow as he points out a part of the sidewalk that’s crumbled. “I bet all the boys had a huge crush on you.”

  He grins at me. “Probably some of the girls, too.”

  “I was too shy.” He takes his arm from my elbow once the sidewalk evens out, and I find myself missing his touch.

  “Your brother called you Shy the other night.”

  How does he remember that? He seemed otherwise occupied fighting. Or, maybe not trying to fight, I consider.

  Interesting.

  “Let’s not talk about my brothers anymore?” He picks up the hint of desperation in my tone, but he doesn’t say anything other than “Sounds like a good deal to me.”