Devil: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  Devil

  The Doyles, A Dark Boston Irish Mafia Romance

  Sophie Austin

  Devil

  Book 5 in The Doyles Series

  Copyright @ 2019 Sophie Austin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any brands, trademarks, or other proprietary terms are the property of their owners.

  Production team:

  Cover Design: Kasmit Covers

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Where to Find Sophie Austin

  Author’s Note

  1. Ronan

  2. Ruby

  3. Ronan

  4. Ruby

  5. Ronan

  6. Ruby

  7. Ronan

  8. Ruby

  9. Ronan

  10. Ruby

  11. Ronan

  12. Ruby

  13. Ronan

  14. Ronan

  15. Ruby

  16. Ruby

  17. Ronan

  18. Ruby

  19. Ronan

  20. Ruby

  Epilogue

  Preview: Hooked - Book Six, The Doyles

  Where to Find Sophie Austin

  Sign up for my newsletter at Sophieaustinromance.com and get on the list for the free prequel novella to the Doyles series!

  I’m a Boston Irish brawler. A boxer. A soldier. An ex-con.

  Kathleen is sweet, beautiful, perfect. And she’s my dead best friend’s little sister. Too good for me.

  But I'll show her how much I care, what I can give her.

  Because in the end, she's going to be mine.

  Sign up now at sophieaustinromance.com to get the latest news on the Doyles and be first to get a copy of the free prequel novella to the Doyles, Sinner.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you so much for reading this book and exploring the world of the Doyles! The Doyles can be read as standalone stories or enjoyed as a series. Each book has no cliffhangers, no cheating, and steamy, heartwarming HEAs you won't forget.

  A note on the timeline: Each book follows the story of one individual Doyle brother - Ronan, Kieran, Seamus, Connor, and Owen. The stories happen one-after-another over the course of about a year. The epilogues happen further in the future - after the end of the last book in the series - and don't affect the timelines or characters of these individual stories.

  Now, buckle up and get ready for toughest, big-hearted Irish guys Boston's ever seen and the ladies that steal their hearts along the way!

  1

  Ronan

  Emily O’Dooley lays dead on the floor, arms cast out like she’s warding off death, unblinking eyes fixed on the Doyle crest carved into the Kildare’s ceiling.

  A spent hypodermic needle rolls away from her body, and stabs into empty air.

  Fuck.

  The last thing I need is an overdose in my bar. The last thing I need is a mess with the cops. The last thing I need is Detective Ruby Williams walking through my front door.

  The front door slams open with an earsplitting bang, signaling her arrival. Right on cue. That’s Ruby—always right on time.

  “Where is she, Doyle?” Her voice rings out, a biting snap, a demand.

  The heat in the bar spikes. This woman is Class B felony hot, and if my focus unravels, we stand to lose a lot more than work time this morning.

  “Over here.” My voice is a low rough growl.

  The bar’s dark. Shadows close in.

  Shit: the sun’s barely up yet. Somehow, turning on the lights seems like it would take this from bad to worse. From the inconvenience of a dead girl in my bar to the reality of another life lost.

  A family shattered.

  A thousand potentials unfulfilled.

  I rake a hand over the scratchy stubble on my chin, forcing myself to take a deep breath. No time for sentimentality and feelings. Lock that shit down or it will get you into trouble.

  Rage though? Now, rage I know how to handle. How to channel it into something useful.

  When I get my hands on whoever sold her those drugs? One more life will be lost. Countless others saved. It’s a strange calculus and a trade I’ll happily make. What’s one more dead bad guy on my conscience, anyway?

  When my alarm screamed into the darkness of my apartment this morning, I dragged my ass down here early to take care of business. Some slightly shady business that’s easier done without a crowd of half-drunk patrons looking on—only to find this mess.

  My neck and back are stiff from passing out on the couch again, the TV playing soundlessly in the background.

  Leaning my head to the left, I’m rewarded with a satisfying crunch and snap.

  My eyes track back to the body on the floor.

  Poor girl.

  I’ll allow myself that much.

  I don’t get up. Ruby waits a minute for her eyes to adjust, face hardening as her gaze sweeps over the Kildare. The minute she finds me she explodes into motion.

  “Where is she?” she demands again. Louder.

  I point to the girl’s lifeless body maybe fifteen feet from where I’m sitting. Silence descends like a guillotine. In both our lines of work, we see too much of this shit. Opioids. Bad drugs. Bad decisions. No do-overs.

  She clears her throat. “You didn’t say much when you called. Who’s the girl?”

  It’s true. I didn’t say much. Just dialed her personal cell and said, “Ruby, Ronan Doyle. I got a dead girl in the bar. Overdose. Get down here.”

  How’d I get her personal cell? Let’s just say I’ve got connections and knew some day it’d come it handy.

  I knew she’d come. Not because she likes me, and not because she’s some dirty cop on the payroll. No, I knew she’d come because she’s got a hard-on for me, a hard-on for my family.

  Not the good kind, though. Ruby thinks we’re scum and wants to lock me up.

  But I also knew she’d come because it’s the right thing. Some cops like the power, some just want a pension, and a few give a shit. Work hard to make the city a better place.

  I could have called Sean O’Brien, my baby brother Owen’s best friend. But he already takes heat for our family ties, and I don’t need to shovel more crap the steaming pile he’s already dealing with.

  Ruby’s one of the good ones. No matter how much she hates me, no matter how close she gets to the dark things, she plays by the rules. Most cops? Plant a little evidence. Maybe bribe a confidential informant to say something that isn’t strictly true. Just a nudge in the right direction and let a bad reputation do the rest.

  Not Ruby.

  These days? The Doyles are mostly clean. Mostly. Dig deep enough, you’ll find shit, though I work hard to prevent that. Ruby’s gotten close, but not close enough. If she catches me in anything, she’ll nail my ass to the wall.

  No doubt. But until then?

  She plays fair, and that’s all I can ask.

  We’ve had enough run-ins I know I can trust her.

  “Emily O’Dooley. One of the new servers. Been here a week, maybe two.”

  At the name, her eyes cut up to mine. “O’Dooley. As in the O’Dooleys?”

  Yep.

  Rival Irish family back in the
day. They got into way darker business than we ever did. Now? Moving drugs around the city like filthy rats. Still, that’s not the only bad blood between us. Go deeper and you find history with the Doyles after one of their worthless sons hurt my cousin Claire.

  Guy went missing. Never heard from again. Coincidence, that. Or not.

  I try not to remember the specifics.

  “Shit, Ronan. That’s not good.”

  No. It sure isn’t.

  But I can’t let this woman see a hint of weakness. Steel. In control. Normally I’d crack a joke. Say something smarmy. A verbal ass slap just to piss her off. Throw her off-balance.

  Even though I’ve only been up for a couple of hours today, I’m just too tired.

  “Why’s an O’Dooley working in a Doyle bar?”

  It’s a long story and not one I want to tell the good detective. Names I’m not bringing into this discussion. I settle for a half-shoulder shrug. “Favor for a friend. Girl said she was getting clean. Wasn’t.”

  Her eyes track down to the body and back to me again. No shit. “And she was here after-hours, why?”

  “Closing shift. Cleaning dishes, restocking supplies. I’d have to ask Maude.” Maude McCrery is our head bartender and she schedules the servers.

  “Tell me what exactly happened.”

  Already did. I hate this cop game. Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat. “Came in. Found her dead on the floor. Overdose. Called you. Waited.”

  I put emphasis on waited, like she took too long, when really she’s here in minutes. But a flush creeps up her face and I’m gratified. See?

  Damn good cop.

  “If you don’t cooperate, Doyle, I will haul you in. You could be charged for this you know.”

  I know. It’s happening more and more. Own a place where an OD goes down and you’re at risk for prosecution. I even understand it, because you’ve got to put pressure on everyone to get it to stop, the endless complaining about drugs without taking real action.

  Doesn’t mean I want to go down for Emily’s choices.

  Her voice drops. “Your father could be charged for this.”

  As those words sink in: Fury. Rage. A hint of panic. I’m pushing to my feet, my hands shoving back the table so hard it almost flips. Won’t, because Murphy Doyle knew better than to put light tables in a bar full of drunken Irishmen.

  Don’t threaten my father. Not now. Not with everything he’s going through. That’s why I’m trying to handle this. Manage it. Keep the fallout contained.

  My father’s dying and the stress of this shit will put him in the grave even faster. I’m not ready for that. The cowardly thought hits me before I can stop it.

  Weakness won’t help.

  Control, Doyle. How the fuck am I going to hold it together when this little five-foot nothing cop says seven words and I’m about to go nuts?

  Not on her. Never on her. Never on a woman.

  But losing my cool all the same.

  Ruby’s eyes widen and her nostrils flare. She steps back fast, her hand going to her gun. Not seriously. But my bulky ass is over six foot six and most nights I lift weights until I’m so tired I finally pass out. Let go of the stress.

  She’s clearly not here for my Hulk Smash routine.

  “Easy, Doyle.” She sounds like she’s calming the savage beast. Maybe she is.

  “Keep my father out of this.” I bite off every word. At the mention of my father, her face softens for just an instant.

  Jesus, she’s hot.

  I’ve been managing to keep at least that thought at bay. Under the circumstances. But when her face and her mouth do that thing? Yeah. It’s a problem.

  Ruby’s not the most feminine woman, but she’s got smoking appeal. Small. Compact. Muscled body like she works out. An athlete’s curves. Great tits.

  Not the fucking place or time, Doyle. She’s off-limits.

  Too dangerous.

  Not interested anyways.

  There are plenty of women interested. Just the wrong ones.

  But I can’t help it. Her face does that thing and for a second, just a fleeting second, she goes from hot to beautiful. Shiny dark hair, wide dark eyes, fresh-faced. Compassionate. Giving you a glimpse of something under the tough exterior. Not a woman you just want to fuck, to dominate, to demand take the pleasure you give.

  A woman you want to hold and just look at.

  Say sweet shit to.

  Fucking weak. Get your head on straight, Doyle. Ruby Williams is not a soft place to land on a rough morning. She’s not even your friend.

  “Keep my father out of this,” I repeat. My voice is hard, but steady.

  She lets out a weary sigh. I look at her, really look at her. She’s been on an overnight, or stakeout, or something. Wrinkled clothes. Dark circles. Not only did I drag her into this, into my mess, but I failed to even think about how it would impact her.

  Typical Ronan Doyle. Trying to fix everything, while epically fucking up everything else along the way.

  “Sit down,” she orders.

  People don’t order me around. I’m in charge. But I kind of like it. Still, part of me wants to resist just on principle, but in the end I give in.

  Moving back to the booth, I take a seat and pull the table toward me. She squeezes in opposite.

  “What’s happening with your father?” Her voice is matter of fact. Not unkind, but not the Madonna to my aching heart bullshit I just imagined.

  The cold reality of my father’s illness hits me and I want to punch something. Again. I hate thinking about this, hate talking about it, hate being so impotent in the face of a threat. Put my fist through a wall, through a window, through a drunk-Irishman-proof table just to alleviate the awful tension mounting in my chest.

  “Cancer. Lung cancer.”

  Her face tells me she knew and wanted to hear it from me. Fucking cold. But then, she doesn’t trust me. Tell her the truth on one thing, maybe I’m telling the truth on the other.

  Fair enough: trust is a hard thing to gauge when it can’t be earned. There’s a lot at stake here and it’s always been clear to me that Detective Williams is no fool.

  “Did you have any involvement with Emily O’Dooley? You, or any of your brothers?”

  This woman and her cop tricks. Her brain works fast, and she does quick verbal switchbacks. Catch you in a lie, if you’re not careful. If you’ve got a lie to tell that is. But this morning, I’m telling the truth. My eyes stray to the girl on the floor. Dead. Cold.

  “Did I fuck her?” I want Ruby to flinch at the brutality.

  She doesn’t even blink.

  It’s taking everything I have not to spit with fury. The O’Dooley girl was maybe twenty-two. My stomach turns at the thought. “She’s a goddamned kid, Williams. I don’t sleep with little girls.”

  One eyebrow arches. “Emily O’Dooley was twenty-three, Ronan. Hardly a child. Old enough to work at the Kildare.”

  That doesn’t mean anything. I was doing hard shit, dark shit, awful shit that I’ll never forget when I was twenty-three, and I was nothing more than a stupid, bullheaded kid. Still am, most days.

  Fifteen years younger than me. What the hell would I have in common with someone that young?

  “And your brothers.”

  “My brothers?” I give a head shake. “None of them are sleeping around. They all have regular women.” Girlfriends. Fiancées. Soon-to-be wives.

  Not me though. I’m not cut out for that, and besides, what woman would be dumb enough to want to cast her lot in with a guy like me?

  One look at Ruby’s face and I know she knows. Up on the Doyles. Detective Williams, always on the case.

  Does this woman ever do anything for fun?

  “How about you, Ronan? Any regular women?” There’s an edge to her voice that brings my eyes to her lips. Full. Dark like cherries. Slightly moist.

  She’s mocking me, and something in me stirs.

  I used to love to banter like that: be challenged, have a pissing conte
st for the sake of feeling alive. But you get older, you get this big, you’re the oldest son set to run the business, and over time people just stop challenging you.

  Stop giving you hell.

  It’ll leave you struggling to remember who you were, before you were buried in all the stress, all the work, all the darker things.

  But her eyes flash with the promise of a challenge.

  Holy fuck.

  I will not get a boner with a goddamned corpse in the room.

  “I didn’t sleep with Emily O’Dooley,” I answer instead. “None of my brothers did either. I met her three, four times total. Don’t even think I spoke to her, to be honest.”

  Maybe I should have. Maybe it would have been a difference if someone even tried.

  But I do have some information I can share. It’s time to play ball and get this moving.

  “I think she was fucking some guy that came into the bar. Ian something. A grease monkey.” I sound like an asshole. No patience even for myself today.

  I try again. “Dating a mechanic. Ian something. Nolan, maybe. I can find out.”

  She pulls out a spiralbound notebooks and jots something down. A few beats pass and I can tell by the set of her face she’s decided something.

  “I’ll call it in. I know Emily O’Dooley’s history, and unfortunately this is pretty much what it looks like, I think. Overdose. History repeating itself. You cooperate, give credible statements, and let my people do what they need to today?” She looks at me hard. “I’ll keep your dad out of this.”

  She leans back and looks around the tired bar that’s more home to me than anywhere else.

  “You too, Ronan. It looks like you’ve got enough to deal with.”