Font Size
Line Height

Page 7 of Dublin Charmer (Emerald Isle Mafia #5)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Finn

U pstairs, the five of us join the ladies in the sunken living room. The room is warm with a fire crackling in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across the faces of the women who’ve captured my brothers’ hearts.

Piper curls against Sean’s side the moment he sits, her dark hair cascading over his arm.

Harper, all lean muscle and quiet grace, gives Bryan a smile that transforms her entire face.

Nora’s eyes light up when Brendan enters, her worry obvious as he limps across the floor to close the distance.

And Laine, her pregnancy making her glow, stretches her hand to Tag from where she rests on the oversized sectional.

The knife twists in my chest. It’s not jealousy exactly, but something close to it.

A longing for what they have. The ease of it. The rightness.

Tag drops a kiss on Laine’s forehead, his hand automatically finding the swell of her belly.

Sean whispers something in Piper’s ear and makes her blush.

Brendan pulls Nora into his lap despite her laughing protests about not wanting to hurt his leg.

Bryan and Harper exchange a look that feels too intimate to witness.

I hover at the edge of their happiness, feeling like the odd man out. Sure, I’m the youngest, but when the people of the city were handing out the monikers, they dubbed me the Dublin Charmer.

Doesn’t that imply that they find me charming? Shouldn’t that mean I could find someone to share my bed with…and more importantly…my heart?

“Finn, come sit by me.” Laine pats the space beside her. “Tag, get your brother a drink.”

I sink into the cushions beside my sister-in-law, grateful for her intervention. “Thanks.”

Laine leans closer, her voice low. “You look like you’re attending a funeral, not Christmas.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s paying attention.” She accepts a glass of sparkling water from Tag with a smile, then turns back to me. “What’s this about? Can I help?”

I shrug, watching the amber liquid swirl in my glass. “I don’t think so. It is what it is.”

She shakes her head. “Hey, I’m a lawyer, remember? Anything you say goes into the vault of confidentiality. Just between us.”

I meet her gaze, gauging her sincerity on that. “You won’t tell Tag?”

“Not if you don’t want me to. Look, I understand what it’s like live in a house with a lot of powerful people and feel isolated. If you need a friend, I’m here. If you just need to vent, I’m a superb listener.”

I let out a long sigh. This isn’t really the time or place, but between the music playing and my brothers chatting up their women, no one is paying much attention to me.

Story of my life.

“Sometimes it’s tough being the kid brother.

The four of them were laughing at me downstairs.

I thought I had a connection with a woman, and it wasn’t what I thought.

They got a real kick out of it. Too eager, Tag said, but he meant too soft.

The four of them…well, they’ve got the whole dark and dangerous reputations.

I’m the exception. No one takes me seriously.

” I stop myself, embarrassed by how bitter I sound.

“I don’t think that’s true at all.” Laine’s voice is firm. “And though there’s nothing you can do about being the youngest, I take you seriously. I think you’re the glue that holds the five of you together.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t think so.”

She studies me for a moment. “Do you know how much Tag respects what you do for this family? How bad he feels about failing you when your father died and he moved out? How proud he is of you for rising above your hurt and anger and holding things together until he pulled himself together enough to come home?”

I meet her gaze. “He said that?”

“More than once. Finn, the four of them might rib you, but no one in this family thinks you’re soft or that you can’t be taken seriously.

You’re the quiet Quinn, no question, but that’s not a bad thing.

While they’re all making noise, you’re watching, thinking, planning. You’re the last line of defense.”

Laine’s a straight shooter, so it’s nice to hear. “I appreciate that. Thanks.”

She pats my leg and gives me a knowing smile. “Your time is coming, sweetie. Whether it’s with the business or figuring out what you want out of life, there’s nothing but potential in front of you. Don’t wait to be invited to the table. You already have a seat—you just need to claim it.”

I draw a deep breath, and my heart swells a little. So, yeah, Laine is amazing, and that’s why Tag is one of the luckiest men alive.

Before I can respond, Brendan clears his throat and wipes his palms on his jeans. “Can we have everyone’s attention?”

The room quiets and when Bryan gets up to stand beside his twin, I know exactly what this is about. Both of them wear the identical expressions of cocksure confidence and I wonder if there has ever been a time when they weren’t so sure of themselves.

“So, Bryan and I were talking one night,” Brendan begins, “and we came up with this grand idea.”

“Oh, hell. This could go sideways fast,” Sean calls out, earning a laugh.

Bryan flips Sean the bird and focuses his attention on Harper. “We decided that since we shared a womb and every major event of our lives since...”

The twins exchange a glance, then move in perfect synchronization. Brendan kneels in front of Nora, while Bryan drops to one knee before Harper.

“We’d share one more…”

“What are you doing?” Nora whispers, her blue eyes wide.

Brendan takes her hand. “This isn’t because we all nearly got our arses shot off last week. But waking up in a hospital bed brought it home that life’s too short to waste time.”

Bryan looks steadier than he has in years and I’m proud of him for setting aside the fears that he’s been carrying since losing Yasmine. “We’re not rushing for a date.”

“Just putting our intentions into the world,” Brendan finishes.

Together, they produce matching ring boxes. The coordination is so perfect it borders on ridiculous, but somehow, coming from the twins, it works.

“Nora,” Brendan says, his voice rough with emotion.

“Harper,” Bryan says, as they both open the velvet ring boxes.

“Will you do me the honor of making my life whole?” they ask in unison.

For a moment, there’s absolute silence. Harper stares at Bryan. Nora’s hand trembles in Brendan’s grip.

“Yes,” Harper says, so quietly I almost miss it.

Nora’s answer comes as a half-laugh, half-sob. “Yes. Of course, yes.”

The room erupts. Sean whoops loudly, Piper claps her hands, and Tag wraps his arm around Laine, who’s wiping away tears. I grin despite the ache in my chest.

Brendan slides a ring onto Nora’s finger—an emerald surrounded by diamonds that catches the firelight. Bryan’s choice for Harper is simpler, but no less beautiful: a single, perfectly square-cut diamond in a platinum setting.

Brendan pulls Nora to her feet. “You set the pace, beautiful. You say where and when.”

“But we wanted the world to know,” Bryan adds, his voice thick as Harper wraps her arms around his neck.

“That you’re ours,” they finish together.

The celebration flows around me. Champagne appears—Laine raises her water glass in solidarity—and toasts are made. The twins are pulled into embraces by Tag and Sean, while the women gather around Nora and Harper to admire the rings.

I stand back, nursing my drink, letting Laine’s words sink in.

The last line of defense. The quiet Quinn. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time I stopped waiting for permission to be who I already am and claim my seat at the table…however that looks.

Back in my room, I set my whiskey down and tilt my neck from side-to-side, letting off a subtle series of pops as the tension eases. The two large, curved monitors I have set up in my room glow with familiar comfort, but tonight I feel different.

Maybe it’s Laine’s words still echoing in my head, or Ginny’s rejection making me take stock, or maybe it’s the way my brothers looked at their fiancées.

Whatever it is, I’m done being the quiet Quinn.

A notification pings and I go over to my desk to check it out. Someone’s poking around my maintenance folder—the one I deliberately left exposed.

My pulse quickens as I sit down to track their movements.

“Hello, there. Back again, are you?”

Whoever they are, their code is elegant, efficient, with a signature style I don’t recognize.

Well, not immediately. Truly gifted hackers almost always have a signature that traces back to them like a fingerprint.

If I can figure out who has been knocking at my door, it’ll make it that much easier for me to shut them down.

I take a sip of whiskey and settle in. “Game on.”

As I watch, they try to add in a line of innocuous code that would allow them to establish a backdoor through my security protocols. “Not bloody likely.”

I counter, blocking their access while simultaneously tracking their signal. They adapt quickly, switching tactics faster than anyone I’ve ever faced.

“Impressive.” My fingers fly across the keyboard. “But you won’t get away that easily.”

For every breach they attempt, I have a countermeasure ready. It’s like a chess match at light speed.

They probe my defenses. I redirect their attacks.

They try to overwhelm my system. I split their traffic and contain it.

But damn, they’re persistent.

And creative.

Just when I think I’ve got them cornered, they slip through a gap I didn’t even know existed.

Sweat beads on my forehead as I race to patch the vulnerability. This isn’t some script jockey—this is a professional. Someone who thinks like me, who sees the beauty in the code, not just its utility.

I catch myself grinning.

Finally, a worthy opponent.

The battle rages on, lines of code blur together, but I stay focused. This is my domain. My fortress. And no one, not even this brilliant phantom, is getting past me tonight.

Then I spot it—a pattern in their attack sequence.

It’s nothing I’ve seen in person, but it’s something I’ve heard about. It’s what I was saying before about the signature. This is their fingerprint. I doubt they even realize they do it.

I don’t have time to research it now, but I know there was talk about the beauty of that pattern somewhere in one of the dark web hacker chat rooms I’m in.

But that’s a thought for later.

For right now, I lay my trap, building a maze of false endpoints and dead ends, each one leading them exactly where I want them to go.

It’s not so much that they take the bait—by now they realize I’m on to them and are searching for a way to get out and erase their trail. “Not going to happen.”

During the dance of them following my breadcrumbs, I initiated a piggyback program that not only locks down their access points but also starts a trace program that they likely won’t even know is active.

And, even if they realize, it’ll be too late.

Their attempt to disconnect is beautiful in its panic, but I’ve already closed the net. I can’t get their exact location—they’re too good for that—but I’ve trapped enough of their code to start building a profile.

Leaning back, I drain my whiskey and study the data streaming across my screen. Whoever Gravely’s hacker is, they’re not just talented—they’re an artist.

And now I have their brushstrokes.

“Next time,” I promise the empty room, already planning the digital net I’ll weave to catch them properly. “Next time, you won’t be getting away from me.”

The quiet Quinn might work in silence, but tonight, I made some noise.