Page 2 of Dublin Charmer (Emerald Isle Mafia #5)

CHAPTER TWO

Nyx

A wall of password iterations scroll up my screen as I hit another Quinn Industries security protocol.

Their chief technical officer is good—impressively good, really—but tonight is my best chance.

The Quinn tech team will be distracted by the fancy party at Clontarf Castle, so while the cats are away… my little mouse can play.

My fingers dance over my keyboard, the click-click-clack of keys filling the cozy space of my mobile command center.

Four curved monitors dominate my workspace, showing different feeds: security camera footage from the Quinn compound, another showing the Q brothers hosting a fancy party across town, one is filled with system diagnostics and my infiltration progress and the fourth, as always, is locked on a dingy cell that alludes me no matter how hard I try to find it.

“Come on, come on.” The progress bar of my breach program is barely inching forward. The Quinns might be off celebrating, but their security system has layers upon layers of firewalls and coding to keep people out.

It’s nothing I hadn’t expected from a mafia family, but I’ve spent hours preparing for this moment. My heart races as I continue to probe their firewalls for weaknesses. My adrenaline is pumping.

This is my drug of choice…the challenge, the high of getting into places people have worked to keep others out of.

A message pings on my phone, and I glance over to see a happy face emoji with a knife in its skull. Beside it is the contact name, Dead Man Walking.

Billy Gravely.

I pick up my phone and tap in my digits to open things up. His text is sitting there, judging me. Can a text be judgy? Feels like it.

Status update?

My jaw clenches. I hate the bastard.

On schedule. Your team has arrived and is clear to move at 22:00.

I run a finger over the grainy video feed on the fourth screen—my brother, Gio, is curled up on a flimsy cot in the corner of a concrete cell. The timestamp shows it is live, but I’m not so sure. If it’s live, why can’t I find where the feed is coming from? Why can’t I find my brother?

My throat tightens as I touch his face where it’s visible on the screen. “I’m coming for you, fratellino . Just hold on.”

Let me know if anything changes.

I give my phone the middle-finger salute and roll my eyes.

The leather of my desk chair creaks as I sink deeper in my seat and take in the feed from Clontarf Castle.

The Quinns like to have a good time, that’s for sure.

The party footage shows women in designer gowns and men in tuxedos mingling in the grand hall.

They’ve got an open bar and food on an endless circuit from the kitchen and a live-freaking-orchestra.

Mafia families are all the same.

They are just rich people playing at being civilized while their empires are built on the blood and suffering of others. Generation after generation, the rich get richer, and the poor get exploited and left behind.

As I watch, the youngest Quinn—Finlay—slips out of the ballroom and heads upstairs with one of the guests.

“Oh, no you don’t. There’s no getting away. The really exciting part of the night is just beginning.”

My system pings. My breaching program has run into another barrier, refusing entry into their network. “For fuck’s sake, Quinns. Why does this need to be so difficult? Can’t we all just get along?”

I crack my knuckles and dive in, searching for an opening where I can deploy my custom rootkit.

My malicious software can grant me privileged access, allowing me to control and manipulate their system without them being any the wiser.

Once I finally break into their system, I’ll be able to steal data, launch cyber-attacks, or simply maintain persistent access to the infected system.

But if I don’t get in…I’ve got nothing.

Patience is the key here. Sure, the Quinn’s security is impressive, but I’ve spent months studying their infrastructure. Tonight’s party is the distraction I need to work my way through their protective protocols.

I check the time and smile. From what I’ve learned, Quinn parties rage on well into the wee hours of the night. It’s only 21:10, so there’s almost a full hour before Gravely’s men move in, and then they’ll be too distracted by the chaos to realize I’ve infiltrated their system.

A security alert flashes, and I race to contain it. Shit.

With calm focus, I address the watchdog alert and reroute the security notifications it’ll send out. I can’t let them detect me now. Not when my continued success gives me access to Gravely and the chance to find out where he’s holding my brother.

It takes a bit of fancy finger work, but once I’ve nullified the security alert and ensured no one will be notified, I erase my footprint and back out of that part of the system.

I bypass another line of encryption and work my way through a new window of code.

Something seems to slip into place and then, unexpectedly, I’m staring at a folder entitled “Quinn Family Assets.”

“Hello. Where did you come from?”

Movement on the fourth monitor fragments my focus, and I watch as an asshole guard runs his nightstick along the bars of Gio’s cell as he walks by. My brother jerks awake and stares out at the passing threat.

He looks so thin, shadows hanging under his eyes like bruises. The bastards haven’t even given him a fucking blanket or pillow. All he has is a wafer-thin mattress on a rickety cot.

Each passing hour he’s held prisoner feels like an eternity. How dare Gravely. How dare anyone think they could play God with our lives and use us as pawns in their quest for power.

I shift my attention back to the task at hand, mentally shaking off the emotional weight—it will only slow me down. “Okay, Quinn Family Assets.”

I hover my cursor over the folder and double-click.

Even as my finger is pressing the button, I roll my eyes and give my head a shake. It was too easy. My heart sinks as a lockout protocol activates and everything I’ve done to weave my way into the Quinn system shuts down and kicks me out.

“Dammit, Emilia!” I slam my palms down on my desk and watch as two weeks of planning go up in a blaze of failure.

Shit. Shit. Shit. If my dad were here, the room would be filled with Italian curses, and his hands would be flying through the air. “Distraction will cost you, bimba . Emotion gets you killed in this game.”

Or worse—get my brother killed.

As my screens lock out and my breach fails completely, I do what I can to erase my footprint and, at the very least, remain a ghostly glitch in the Quinn system.

When that’s done, I sit back and sigh.

21:45. Fifteen minutes until Gravely’s team moves in. I should feel guilty about helping the bastard attack a holiday party, but all I feel is icy determination.

The Quinns, Gravely—they’re all the same.

Violent men play their power games while people like Gio suffer.

My phone buzzes again.

Anything I should know?

I bare my teeth at the screen. There’s so much I want to say to him, to do to him, but for Gio’s sake, I need to bide my time. I check the Quinn party feed and take a headcount.

You’re still a go. Four brothers and their wives in the main ballroom. The youngest one upstairs with a woman.

Notify me if anything changes.

“Get yourself shot, asshole. I hope the Quinns make Swiss cheese out of you.”

I tap a finger against the fourth monitor screen. The cell feed shows the guard passing again. This time he stops and says something to Gio that makes him flinch. I dig my nails into my palms until they break skin.

Soon, little brother. Soon I’ll find that facility’s location, and when I do, I will pull you out and then burn Billy Gravely’s empire to the ground.

But first, we have a party to crash.

Finn

Ginny’s mouth tastes like whiskey and promises as she presses against me, her body warm and soft in all the right places. The bedroom door is locked behind her back, and I’ve got her pressed up against the ancient mahogany slab with her legs wrapped around my hips.

She smells fucking edible, and I kiss the racing pulse of her neck.

“This is a much better way to pass the time tonight,” she breathes, tugging my bow tie free from its knot.

“I’ve been imagining this all night.”

Her fingers slide beneath my jacket, and she’s fighting to get it off me. “You look like James Bond’s hotter, younger brother.”

I laugh against her neck, turning to carry her toward the massive four-poster bed. When my thighs bump the bottom of the mattress, I flop her on her back and admire the sight of her breasts bouncing against the hold of her dress. “So, do you want the tux on or off while I fuck you?”

“Both.” She reaches for my belt and pulls me until I tip forward. Her lipstick is smeared, her lips lush and inviting. “First, we take the edge off. Then we settle in.”

Fine by me.

I meet her lips for a heated kiss, her hands now working my belt free with surprising dexterity for someone who’s been matching me drink for drink all night.

The zipper of my tuxedo pants gives way with a satisfying sound, and I hike up the skirt of her sequined dress, bunching the fabric around her waist. My fingers trace the edge of her red lace underpants. “Very festive.”

She gasps when I slide my hand between her thighs. And when I push the crotch of her panties to the side, I find her skin hot and slick.

“Fuck, Finn,” she breathes, her chest arching off the bed.

“That’s the plan.” I grin against her collarbone, nipping my way down the low cut of her neckline.

She finishes undoing my pants, but before they fall to my ankles, I reach for my wallet, fishing out protection. Once I’ve got us covered on that front, I take a moment to admire the sight of her.

“Och, hurry,” she urges, arching beneath me. “I’m burning up.”

I position myself between her thighs, both of us breathing hard, the room spinning from both a night of cocktails and desire. The liquor in my system fizzes through my veins, making everything feel heightened, electric.

Ginny’s eyes lock with mine as I push forward. Fuck, she’s a vision. She bites her lip to stifle a moan, her fingernails digging half-moons into my shoulders through my dress shirt.

“Don’t hold back,” I murmur, grabbing her hips and pulling her into my thrusts. “Nobody will hear us above the music.”

The ringing rhythm from the orchestra downstairs vibrates through the floorboards, perfect to absorb whatever sounds we make.

She smiles wickedly, her pupils dilated with want. Her sequined dress catches the dim light from the bedside lamp, casting tiny reflections across the ceiling like a private constellation. She’s stunning, her head thrown back against the silk pillows, her hair fanned out behind her.

“You feel so fucking good.” My mind is buzzing, tripping out in the best way possible as her toned legs wrap tighter around my waist, urging me deeper.

The antique headboard bumps against the wall as I pick up the pace, finding a rhythm that makes her breath catch with each roll of my hips. Heat radiates between us, the sweet tension of release building with every movement, threatening to shatter us both into?—

The crack of gunfire cuts through the air.

We freeze, bodies joined, pleasure instantly replaced by confusion.

“Was that—” Ginny starts.

There’s another burst of gunfire, followed by screams.

“Shit.” I pull away, yanking up my pants. “Hurry.”

The haze of alcohol evaporates, replaced by sharp clarity and adrenaline. Ginny scrambles off the bed, tugging her dress down as she searches for her shoes.

“Are you armed?” she asks.

“For our family party? No.” I fasten my belt and grab her hand, the two of us rushing toward the door.

Heavy footsteps are thundering up the stairs, and I signal Ginny to get behind me. Carefully, I ease the latch of the lock free and step back to wait. If they’re searching for stragglers, maybe we can take them by surprise.

More gunfire erupts downstairs, and shouts echo through the hallways.

I strain to hear the voices of my brothers, but the noise below is too muffled to pick out any one person.

I reach back and make sure Ginny is tucked behind me, standing against the wall beside the door. She’s street smart enough from a lifetime of being raised in our world that she’s calm, even within the chaos.

I’m not sure whether they’ll search the rooms. If they do, whether they storm in or are stealthy, I’m ready.

I watch as the handle on the door turns and then the door swings slowly open. No one rushes the room, but movement behind the slab of swinging mahogany brings the muzzle of a Desert Eagle into view.

Before the asshole takes another step, I launch at the back of the door, pressing both palms flat and giving it a shove with everything I’ve got. The guy isn’t that big, and with the element of surprise, I’m able to knock him to the side.

I may not be the Quinn brother known for brawling, but I can hold my own in a dust-up. Rage and fear for my family burn hot in my veins as I throw myself at the fucker and grab him around the neck from behind.

He struggles and pushes himself back, twisting like an animal, but there’s no fucking way I’m letting go. He lifts his gun and points it behind him, letting off a shot that misses me but might’ve just busted my fucking eardrum.

Pain explodes inside my head, and I tighten my grip and twist. The snap of his neck ends his fight in an instant. He drops like a sack of cement, and I let him fall, my chest heaving as I press my fingers to the side of my head to prod the damage. My fingers come away slick with warm blood.

Motherfucker.

Ginny rushes past me, scrambling to pick up the gun from the floor.

My first instinct is to take it from her and protect her as we navigate whatever clusterfuck is happening downstairs, but the reality is—Ginny is an award-winning marksman—or marksperson, I suppose.

She’s more than a crack shot. She’s fucking lethal.

“Join the fray or get the fuck out?” she asks.

Honestly, I’m not sure, given that I don’t know what’s going on downstairs, but the truth of the matter is that it’s not just my brothers down there. Laine, Piper, Nora, and Harper are there, too. And Baby Q.

“I’m in for the fight. If you want to?—”

“Fuck off, Finn. My da is down there. I’m not leaving to save myself if there’s even a chance they’re alive and need our help.”

The sounds of chaos continue downstairs: glass breaking, more shouting, another burst of gunfire. I check the hallway through a crack in the open door and then give Ginny a nod. “Ready?”

Her face is pale, but she squares her shoulders and nods.

I pull the door open, and we step into the corridor, leaving behind the rumpled bedspread and the body of the man who dared interrupt us.

Christ, it already feels like that moment belongs to another lifetime.