Devlin’s Luck (Sinister Legacy Duet #2)

Chapter 1

Ellie

Nailing the little gilt shamrocks between the trim strips and the door frame seemed like a good idea at the time.

But the sixth one down was crooked, canting at an eight-degree angle—not a perfect fifteen, which made it stand out.

Everyone touched it on the way in. Their dirty fingertips turned the gold leaf black.

Lucky, they called it.

A visual pox, it was, even though that’s likely a bit overdramatic. Then again, no one ever accused me of subtlety.

I set my carry-on down to unlock the front door of the tavern I owned.

The building was still standing. That was because I hired only the best help, and with the exception of Casey Kelly, each one of them could run the bar with their eyes shut.

Sgt. Casey, on the other hand, had run the bar into the ground with both eyes open almost ruining a neighborhood institution. But everyone loved him anyway. That’s why he still had a key and was listed as co-owner despite not having a say in the business anymore.

Didn’t stop him, though.

With a little jiggle and a hard shove to combat the stickiness of the swollen wood, I pried the door open. Dragging my bag behind me so no neighborhood kid would snatch it as a prank, I tapped my code into the alarm and blinked off jet lag for a minute, maybe longer.

Then I shivered because the damp March chill had seeped into my bones and was currently wreaking havoc on the pristinely refinished hardwood I’d paid for.

I shoved the door shut and examined the frame for issues.

It had been a reclaim from a salvage done on a bar in Milwaukee.

I went up with Kat, my bestie, to check out fixtures and came home with a hundred and some year-old slab of oak that didn’t fit inside the tiny U-Haul we’d rented.

But I knew it was perfect for the place.

The Blarney Zone melded old with new. State of the art big screens, five cable sports subscriptions, one fully-balanced surround sound system, and old-world Irish Pub aesthetics, sandwiched together with a touch of class, a little brass, and a lot of sass. It was home.

More of one than my condo, which was seven blocks south and a world away.

I’d hit O’Hare at an ungodly early hour, still lit up from an international flight I didn’t sleep on and heartbreak.

I sent my luggage with the driver who had strict instructions to, and I quote, “Just dump the bags inside the main door. If you can’t do that, leave ’em in a fucking snowbank. I could give a shit.”

Yes, world traveling was not my forte. Neither was censoring my mouth.

But running a bar filled with a mix of the eclectic neighborhood misfits, more than one gangster, and a trauma-whipped, retired police sergeant? Hell, yeah. That was my jam.

And I’d made it home from Europe with just over a week to spare before the momentous St. Patrick’s Day weekend. That was barely enough time to prepare.

One thing that made the Blarney Zone a gem was the annual Chicago St. Patrick’s Day celebrations.

While the dyed-green river pulls a guaranteed fifty thousand visitors braving the precarious lure of spring haunted by the very real winter zephyrs that tore down the concrete canyons of downtown, the neighborhood parades attracted a lot more.

Having a reputation to uphold kept this neighborhood intact.

We could boast two hundred K on a sunny day.

And the Blarney Zone was the smack dab center of the parade route.

Mental note: I needed to buy more sawdust for the vomit-fest. Somewhere I heard peanut shells helped oil the wood floor below. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where to find over a bucketful of those, let alone the cubic yards I’d need to cover three thousand square feet of oak.

That’s if I didn’t open the basement bar.

Which I’d have to do. But that would be “locals only.” There was a back-alley entrance everyone knew about, but only used for Sunday pot lucks and the occasional Christmas party.

However, this year it would be the perfect spot for my regulars to hide from the crowds.

The door squeaked against the jam as Kat shoved it open.

“Oh, you’re home?” she asked.

If I’d had more coffee, I’d come up with something better than… “No, I’m a fucking ghost. Boo.”

“You’re white enough,” she fired back.

Only Kat could get away with that. At just under six-foot, with lower west side Chicago street smarts, Rhianna-esque sleepy eyeliner, Beyonce snap, and a ton of pre-PhD cred in Business Management, she was formidable. And the very best of best friends I could ever hope for.

“Did you know Italy shuts down their beaches in winter?”

“You’re the one who wanted to get married in February.” She clasped her hands together and switched on her falsetto. “It will be so romantic!” Her face skewered into a grimace. “How’s Pornstach anyways?”

The question hit my gut like a punch. Not only had my bestie picked up my twin sister’s nickname for Johnny, but she nailed a sore spot… one of many.

I held up my hand—my ringless hand. “You tell me.”

Kat’s mouth fell open. “No… oh sweetie.”

And that was why I came here instead of crash-landing at my house. Her hug felt like the best cozy blanket, the ultimate in posh luxury spa wraps, and had just enough Katali Musk 12 notes to transport me back into a million awesome memories.

She squeezed twice, giving me the option to let go. For once, I didn’t. I kept hanging on.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No.”

She waited a beat. Knowing I needed to spill.

“He was fucking around on me.”

“I knew it. No one with that thick of a caterpillar on their upper lip and peach fuzz on their jaw is worth more than a trash panda’s puked up pizza.”

My shoulders shook. Only Kat could make me laugh when I wanted to cry. “That wasn’t the worst of it.”

She pushed me out to arm’s length. “You’re messing with me, right?”

I shook my head.

It was so hard to admit, but if anyone would understand, it would be Kat. I sucked in a bracing breath. “Did you watch the live stream?”

Kat nodded. “The mask was a nice touch. Was he wearing lifts?”

“No, that was… oh geesh—” I tried not to laugh, but it would not be contained. “—It’s-a-me-Mar-ee-oh.”

“Who?” She was understandably confused.

“Allie’s husband.”

She searched the empty room for her sanity. “Whoa, wait a minute. Your sister isn’t married. She ain’ even dating. Not since that disaster with the epi-pen dude.”

“I know, it’s a shocker, but get this… my stick up her butt twin bumped into a guy who stole her rideshare, they ended up at the chapel together and, boom. Married. I think she’s pregnant already.”

Kat blinked and held her breath. Her thoughts were loud.

“I know.”

“His name is Mario?”

I cackled. Sue me. Making fun of my “big” sis was ingrained into my DNA. I mocked his name for a second time just for a laugh.

“Gurrlll…” Kat wiped fake moisture from her eyes.

I dug in my pockets for my phone. “To be fair, you might want to walk that back.” It took me a minute to find the photo I’d snapped of Allie and her hubs before I left.

It was a great picture. They were doing their usual disgustingly sweet snuggling right at sunset with the brilliantly blue Mediterranean peeking out around the edges of their love fest. If I were in a better headspace, I’d have it framed for her.

But it brought tears to my eyes. I turned the phone away mostly to escape the memories, but Kat grabbed onto it like a starved tiger. “Who in the 365 Days is that?” Her fingers glommed tighter.

“Mario.”

“It’s-a—uh-unh. He’s too gorgeous to make fun of. For real? Allie?”

I nodded. “Bagged and tagged with a whole family heirloom signet ring and everything.” Omitted was the whole capital F, “Family” detail, because while it was outrageous enough that my straighter than an orthodontist’s-child’s-teeth sister did something spontaneous, Kat would never believe she married a mobster. Worse… an assassin-mobster.

Which pinched. Because that would be something I’d do. I mean… Johnny Porciello?

Kat was speechless. “Whoa,” she finally breathed.

I nodded.

“Deets. Now.”

No. There were too many land mines in that story. “We have a bar to open.”

“Fuck the bar. This calls for… I don’t know what, but damn, Allie?”

Then she folded in on herself. “And you. You didn’t get the fantasy. I’m so sorry.”

I let out a defeated breath. She was partially right. I didn’t “get” the fantasy. I dropped it like a volcanic internal temperature, 7-11-nuked, apple pie. Which was a great descriptor for my personal “he who shall not be named” dilemma. Johnny was barely a blip compared to—

Mental nope. Blocked, deleted, wiped out of the database.

“Fill me in on the prep for the big holiday,” I begged.

She stared at me for a moment, and then at the bag sitting near the security panel. “When did you get off the plane?”

“Two coffees ago.”

Her face fell. “Oh honey, you need rest.”

“Can’t sleep, the clowns’ll eat me.”

Kat scanned me from head to toe. “Are those Allie’s jeggings?”

“That’s just one of the issues. I lost my luggage.”

She knew that was a lie.

“Allie has my underwear bag.”

The snort that came out of her was unflattering. “Your four thousand dollar ‘it must be skimpy’ shopping spree landed with Allie? Shee-it. No wonder she’s married.”

That deserved another evil laugh. “I’m definitely going to be an aunt soon.”

“Gimme that phone again.”

“Why?” I handed it to her despite my fake protest.

She studied the photo. “Shoot. Those are going to be some pretty babies. ‘Just saying.”

“Plural?” I was still wrapping my head around one.

Kat laughed. “She isn’t going to stop at one. You know your sister. She’ll get all wrapped up in baby fever and soon there will be three or four little It’s-a-me’s out there.”

Now, that cheered me up. Kat giggled right along with me as I laid out the scene.

“He’s from a huge family in Sardinia. His grandfather has to be a hundred years old, and his father’s a big politician or something in finance. Nicely padded portfolio if you get my drift?”

“She deserves a little something after all the scrimping. Is she staying there?”

Probably. Although she did ask me to check on her house once I got settled.

It was about a half mile northwest of the bar and tucked into a quiet little suburban pocket that clung to the 1970s something fierce.

Postage-stamp lawn, three cramped bedrooms, detached one-car garage with a wonky door, and …

paneling. It made me want to puke every time I visited.

With grandfather’s inheritance she could have remodeled it ten times over. Or bought something much newer. But she clung to it like a safety blanket because she’d worked for the money that bought it.

“They’re jet-setting.”

“Ugh.”

Kat’s single-syllable benign envy echoed mine. The silence weighed on the tattered threads of my heart.

“I met someone.”

Her head tilted at my one-eighty. “And?”

I shrugged. “It was a rebound thing, you know? But at least he can grow a beard if he wanted.”

“Any photos?”

None I wanted to look at. Ever. I shook my head.

Never leave incriminating evidence behind.