The Final Hour (Dublin Nights Book 5) Read online

  I chanced a look at the Irishman, still deciding whether or not we should stay for the main event or if we ought to make a quick exit.

  He had a hand gripping the nape of his neck, his jaw clenched in obvious discomfort as he viewed the cage.

  He must have sensed my gaze because he quickly lowered his hand to his lap, brushing against me in the process.

  A quick, barely there touch of our pinky fingers, but that little shock of something—we’ll call it static electricity—zipped up my finger, and I hurriedly set my hand atop my clutch.

  I’d seen and witnessed a lot in my almost twenty-one years, but this truly was the first time skin-to-skin contact and a pair of blue eyes had me feeling caught in the middle of some cataclysmic event.

  His lips slowly parted, as if hesitant to break the spell of this strange moment between us, and then he spoke. “Hi.”

  There was so much packed into that little word. I couldn’t quite determine what it was exactly, but I felt as though I’d just been KO’d in that Octagon. A quick punch, and I was down. Didn’t even see it coming. Blindsided.

  I’m a fighter. A winner. A damn Calibrisi, I scolded myself to try and get my head on straight. I was only on edge like this whenever I risked hanging out with my best friend, which had to explain my reactions to this man.

  The smile that crossed his lips was slow, somehow caught between surprised and intrigued. And that hot-as-hell smile transformed to a sexy, wolfish, take-no-prisoners grin.

  He was about to speak again. Maybe offer his name. His lips were poised and ready to go, and then the strangest thing happened—goose bumps peppered my skin as though a sudden chill had coated my body.

  Time to go. I tore my gaze away from him and over to Chanel as I stood. “Let’s go dancing.”

  “Oh.” Chanel beamed. “Great.” I grabbed her hand and all but yanked her out of her seat and pulled her along behind me without so much as one last look at Mr. Irish.

  No more eye contact with that man. He may not have been a killer, but my sudden and very intense response to him had me uneasy.

  “I need a drink,” I announced once Chanel and I were out of the noise and chaos of the arena, my heels loudly clicking as I fast-tracked us farther away. “Champagne?”

  “‘I only drink champagne on two occasions, when I am in love and when I am not,’” Chanel teased, pulling out another Coco Chanel quote.

  Chanel was nineteen, but her ID had her at twenty-three, so we’d be good at the clubs.

  “And what are you now?” I asked with a smile.

  “Looking to get laid. So, I’ll need something stronger.” She began speaking in her own special language—that mix of French and Greek, which I jokingly called “Freek”—that she assumed I understood.

  I checked the time. Fourteen minutes until my birthday. I was on the cusp of turning twenty-one.

  I was born at 12:01a.m., so technically my birthday was the 31st, but I liked to straddle the two days and celebrate right smack between the 30th and 31st. My last birthday as a free woman. Who am I kidding? Was I ever really free?

  A free woman wouldn’t have to turn off her phone because her friend was visiting. She wouldn’t have to avoid the hotel desk messages and detach the hotel phone from the wall because that red blinking light, indicating Papà had called, made her stomach hurt.

  For such a strong woman, I was . . . weak when it came to him.

  I abruptly stopped walking near the lobby of the hotel when I could have sworn I saw a League fixer turn down the hall up ahead, on his way for the main casino.

  League fixers worked for League leaders, their job as straightforward and self-explanatory as it sounded. They did a whole slew of tasks for the men in charge.

  Had Papà sent someone to bring me home?

  When I was in Sicily for Christmas last week, I’d begged for more time, asked for one more week—just until the end of the year. I’d lied to Papà and told him it was about spending my twenty-first birthday in Vegas. I couldn’t have told him the truth, that I wasn’t ready to join The League, to become a killer.

  And on top of that, I’d officially be obligated to partake in the feud between my family and Chanel’s. Her father was a notorious criminal and one of the leaders of an enemy group known as The Alliance, but I’d always felt that the hate between our families went beyond who our fathers were.

  I wasn’t even allowed to breathe the same air as Chanel. When our families discovered she attended boarding school in London while I was at Oxford for university, Papà forced me to transfer out of England. He didn’t want us living in the same city. Out of anger, I simply dropped out of school and took off to Vegas at nineteen. I had a feeling I’d never bother to finish my degree. I had plenty of real world experience that couldn’t be taught in a classroom, anyway.

  “What, you see a ghost?” Chanel joked as I stole a careful glimpse around the corner to where I’d thought Sebastian Renaud had disappeared.

  “No, more like Sebastian.”

  “The Sebastian? That super hot but total badass League fixer feared by even my father?”

  Sebastian was gorgeous, but he treated me like a sister, as did most League fixers. Only one fixer, Luca Moreau, had ever come on to me, and that had been a drunken mistake. Luca was the nephew of the French League leader. He was also Sebastian’s best friend, but he was a master manipulator, and I didn’t trust him. Sex with that man was one of my biggest regrets.

  I turned back to face her. “I thought it was him, but I think my mind is playing tricks on me.” I was overreacting. A big, fat checkmark in the column of strange tonight since that was also not my style. “Alcohol. I need it.” I hooked my arm around Chanel’s waist. “Let’s go dancing.”

  Ten minutes later, I found myself alone at the bar while Chanel danced with a guy probably twice her age.

  The bartender closest to me, Jason, knew me well. He was one of the few men I trusted in Vegas, probably because he never hit on me since he played for the other team.

  “Birthday girl,” Jason announced and leaned over the counter to plant a kiss on my left, then right cheek.

  “Almost,” I said while surveying the crowd dancing to a song that was a throwback to the ’90s and electronic dance music. I was pretty sure it was Confusion by New Order, made famous by the movie Blade. The good-versus-evil theme of the Wesley Snipes vampire movie reminded me of my own life. Well, minus the vampires. I was forever caught between the two worlds.

  “You here to celebrate?” Jason asked after delivering a cocktail to the woman on the stool next to me.

  “Yes,” I said over the pounding music pulsating through my body. It was time to relax and enjoy the evening, push my worries aside for one last night. “Whip me up something special, will you? But let’s make it official and wait until midnight since we’re in the States.”

  “Ridiculous, right? Not allowed to drink until twenty-one, but you can die for your country at eighteen.”

  I stilled at the sound of the deep voice behind me, that sexy Irish brogue wrapped around me like a warm caress. The man radiated “confident alpha” without the slightest hint of arrogance and had my nipples standing at attention. Good thing I was wearing sticky nipple pads beneath my halter.

  “I would have to agree.” At least my voice worked this time. I slowly turned and faced the Irishman with the incredible eyes from the arena. “Did you follow me here?”

  “I’m torn about how to answer.” He didn’t set a hand on the bar and lean in like most men probably would have. He kept his distance as though sensing I was a woman who liked my space. But he was close enough that the smell of his cologne fluttered to my nose. “If I say no, then it appears fate brought us together again, but I hate lying. If I say yes, then I look like a stalker.”

  Or a hitman, but I quickly shelved that idea as being paranoid because the man had me smiling right now. “I happen to value honesty.”

  “Then I ditched the boring businessmen and searched all t
he clubs at the hotel in hopes you’d be in one.” The booming surround sound muffled his gorgeous accent. “Because it’s not every day a woman knocks the breath out of me without actually doing anything other than look my way.”

  It was just as hard to see in the club as it had been in the arena, the darkness fractured only by intermittent flashes of colored lights. But we were facing each other now, so I took a tour of his body with my eyes, drinking in the sight of him.

  Black trousers encased his long legs. A crisp, white dress shirt, top two buttons popped, with an open jacket. A casual business look.

  He had money, but he didn’t flaunt it. I’d been around plenty of wealthy men in my life, and there was definitely a stereotype out there, but he didn’t fall into that category. But I liked what I saw. My body responded, electricity zipping to every erogenous zone. I grew even hotter whenever our gazes collided.

  “Your accent, I’m guessing Italian. Have you been here a long time?” he asked when I’d yet to summon a response to his confession. “I’m—”

  “No names.” Safer for us both. Besides, being a Calibrisi wouldn’t tether me to the ground tonight. I wasn’t the daughter of a feared and powerful man. “Can we be two strangers who happen to share a moment and leave it at that?”

  His brows tightened, and his bottom lip rolled inward for a brief moment. “So, you felt that, too, huh?”

  “Hard not to,” I admitted.

  “Hey, here’s your birthday drink,” Jason called from behind the bar, and I mentally willed him not to give away my name.

  The Irishman checked his watch. “Ten more seconds until midnight.”

  “Well, technically I was born a minute after twelve.” My lips twitched into a smile, which caught me by surprise since the subject of my birth never usually resulted in happy thoughts—no mother and all that. But I didn’t avoid celebrating my birthday because that would mean I had . . . well, feelings about it, but . . .

  “Fairy tales. You a fan?”

  I set my drink down alongside my clutch, momentarily confused about his question until I remembered he’d probably overheard Chanel’s words back at the arena. “Do I look like a woman who buys into fairy-tale nonsense? Am I a damsel in distress in need of a hero?”

  “No, you look like a woman who can handle herself.” Nevertheless, he took one step forward and banded a hand around my waist, evidently deciding to throw caution to the wind.

  I could have easily twisted his arm behind his back and brought him to his knees in an instant for setting a hand on me.

  But I didn’t want to. No, I wanted his hands all freaking over me.

  Ah, the midnight kiss. Now I recalled Chanel’s earlier words and realized that’s what he was suggesting. I nodded, permitting him to do exactly that.

  Bright lights danced all around us in time with the bass as he palmed my cheek, clearly waiting for 12:01, wanting it to be official.

  Drawing nearer to me, his lips gently pressed to mine, and when I placed my hand on the hard planes of his chest, a rumble of appreciation vibrated through from our connection.

  It was soft and sensual, nothing too naughty, as though he were the prince waking Sleeping Beauty. Just enough to draw my attention, yet reserved enough to declare respect, acknowledging that the next move was mine to make. Essentially, it was perfect.

  His lips lingered close to mine once our mouths broke apart, but his eyes remained closed as he released a quiet sigh. It was almost as if he were processing a storm of emotions created by our downright sinfully chaste kiss. It felt that way for me, at least.

  “Do it again,” I commanded, rooted in place, the loud music fading away to the distant background. “But put your tongue in my mouth and taste me this time.”

  “I’ll need a name for that, love.” His breath tickled my lips as our bodies remained close but not touching. The beats of our hearts nearly mingling. Who am I now? A poet?

  “How about we choose names from a book?” For some reason, Charles Dickens popped into my head. “Great Expectations.” I was stuck on the ride of pleasure from that kiss, and I didn’t want to get off. Well, retract that line. I did want to get off. Very, very much.

  “I’m not a Pip,” he said with a laugh, and God, he had a gorgeous smile, and he probably won a lot of hearts with it. He was currently winning mine over. Well, he was winning over my body. Still, it wasn’t an easy feat. “What about Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Unless you think a good time ends with someone stabbing themselves or drinking poison—”

  “Point taken.” He smiled. “Favorite Vegas movie, then?”

  “You pick,” I prompted.

  “Ocean’s Eleven. I’ll be Clooney.” He certainly had the grace and charm of that actor. They didn’t look alike, and he was probably half the man’s age, but it would work.

  “I guess that makes me Brad Pitt.” I smirked, drawing a chuckle out of him as he pressed his forehead to mine.

  “I think you’re more of a Julia,” he countered, though I looked nothing like the redheaded actress.

  Julia Roberts and George Clooney. Two strangers, eschewing the confines of our true identities, who desperately needed another kiss.

  But damn it, he stepped back, and his hands disappeared into his pockets. That was the opposite of what I wanted. “Do you want to go somewhere and talk? Take a walk? I’d like to get to know you, Julia.”

  “I don’t talk about myself,” I warned, reaching for my drink. “Besides, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of an alias?” I shifted to the side, accidentally touching some big guy next to me, drawing his immediate attention.

  “Hello, hello.” The man’s eyes became laser-focused on my cleavage. “How much are you?”

  Yeah, wrong movie, asshole. I wasn’t playing Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and this guy was two seconds away from meeting my fist, but Clooney reprieved his role of the prince, setting a hand to the big guy’s arm as he stepped alongside me.

  “Apologize and back off,” Clooney growled, eyeing the guy with sharp confidence even though the man looked to be a professional weightlifter.

  “Thank you,” I said to Clooney, “but I can handle myself.” Remember? I lifted my chin and pinned my gaze to the idiot. “How about you take the cash you saved up for this little trip to Vegas that you were probably planning to spend on blow or poker, maybe both, and—”

  “I’d rather fuck you.” The stupid asshat kissed the air and circled his hand around my wrist.

  I closed my eyes, warning myself not to strike him and draw attention. Chanel is in town.

  But at the sound of a thud and the Irishman rasping a curse, my eyes flew open as Clooney drew his fist back from the man’s jaw.

  Jason had security on us in a flash before the scene turned into a brawl.

  “I need air.” Snatching my clutch from the bar top, I strode in search of Chanel, who was now making out with the man she’d been dancing with earlier, clueless to what had just happened.

  “Be right back,” I told her after she came up for air.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I informed Clooney once we were in the hall outside the club. “Let me see your hand.” I turned and faced him. “I thought you weren’t a fan of fighting.” I held his clenched fist between my palms. His knuckles were red, but the skin wasn’t broken.

  “You heard me say that?”

  I lifted my eyes to meet his, and his intense blue gaze had me forgetting why we were standing out in the hall. The memory of his lips on mine spontaneously painted a picture in my mind of all the other places on my body I’d like to feel his mouth.

  “If you don’t like fighting, why’d you nearly start one back there?” I let go of his hand and took a few slow steps forward, tucking my clutch under my arm.

  “My brother.” He surprised me with a response after a few quiet minutes of taking in the scene as we strolled through the massive hotel and casino. When MGM first opened its doors, it was the largest hotel complex in the world. It w
as also originally decorated in an Emerald City à la Wizard of Oz theme. The hotel was going through another round of renovations, but for the most part, the newest Hollywood theme was draped in Christmas from end to end.

  My heels came to an abrupt stop in front of the famous MGM lion, who wore a Santa hat and was surrounded by a bed of red poinsettias.

  Clooney pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “My brother likes to fight. Underground stuff back in Dublin. He doesn’t do it for the money. He just likes that MMA shite, I don’t know.” He released a ragged breath. It was obviously a sore subject.

  “And you’re worried he’ll get hurt?”

  “More like I’m worried he’ll kill someone.”

  His words stung more than he could possibly know. Because someday, I would be a killer.

  Sure, The League had its own prisons for the scum of the earth. Lowlife human traffickers, murderers—people The League couldn’t trust in a regular prison, worried their ability to commit crimes would happen even from behind regular prison bars.

  But there were times when death was the only option. I didn’t know how many lives Sebastian had taken in the name of my father, or other billionaire League leaders, or how many deaths I’d rack up when it was time.

  His eyes dropped to the hand he’d used to clock that guy when he’d saved me the trouble.

  “For a second in that club, you understood your brother’s desire to strike, didn’t you?” I whispered the realization.

  He immediately looked at me as if I’d caught him naked.

  I stepped closer, drawing the distance between us to barely a whisper of space. “It felt good to hurt that man.” My attention skated to the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard. “There’s something inside you,” I began, pointing to his hard chest, “something innate that made you respond like that. And if you’re beating yourself up for despising your brother’s life choices all the while wishing you could track that asshole down and do more damage to his face—”

  Lips fused to mine in a hot second, cutting me off.