Chapter 27
The jet dips lower through a blanket of pewter clouds looming over the brooding Irish sky as I take in the cabin around me. My jet—Hartmann Hotel’s company jet—is more like a penthouse than an aircraft. Two cream leather sofas face each other across a polished walnut aisle. A marble bar gleams at the rear, stocked to the hilt with small-batch bourbons and Crystal, though I’ve barely touched any of it recently. The fixtures are comprised of gold. Soft recessed lighting spills over handwoven carpeting made in a Parisian atelier. My father picked the original layout years ago. He claimed comfort makes a man more dangerous, because once you get used to it, you’ll do anything to keep it.
The mid-cabin suite door is half-open. Inside, a king-sized bed dressed in charcoal linen punctuates the space. The headboard is stitched with the Hartmann logo. There’s a walk-in wardrobe stocked with more designer suits than I’d need for a year, never mind a few months. The bathroom boasts a rainfall shower and claw foot bath big enough to seat six.
I’ve never used it.
No. Most of this trip I’ve spent at a desk where I’ve been pretending to work, while simultaneously bubbling with the prospect of being reunited with the one woman in this world who managed to claw her way under my skin—and I still don’t know her damn name.
One thing’s for sure.
I’m going to find out.
Even if it kills me.
I drag a hand across the back of my neck.
Sleep didn’t fucking stand a chance against the thoughts that have plagued me for the past month, since that weird bolt of… awareness. I’m still none the wiser, but these things have a way of revealing themselves when a man least expects it.
The Barcelona project felt like a holding prison, not a premium project.
Belle appears beside me with her tablet in her hand, looking polished and unflappable as usual. Her navy suit is crisp, her blonde hair scraped into the sort of bun that could survive a hurricane.
‘We touch down in ten minutes,’ she reports. ‘The car will be waiting on the tarmac. Your Dublin schedule is synced to your phone. We have meetings with your project manager, then the Minister for Planning, and then the city council chair. Then you’re touring the hotel site at four. The house in Skerries is ready for your arrival. The lease is open-ended in case things take longer than expected p>
‘Thank you.’ I nod curtly.
She studies me for a second too long. ‘Is everything all right, sir? You seem… off p>
I shoot her a look. ‘Define off p>
‘Distracted.’ She pats her bun. ‘And you haven’t fired anyone in five days p>
I huff out a sound that almost qualifies as a laugh. ‘That’s because I already got rid of every imbecile who should have been on top of the Cannes premises, instead of allowing it to get poached from under our noses.’ Even thinking about it irritates the shit out of me. I might have Barcelona, but it’s a poor consolation.
Belle nods and retreats to her seat as the cabin lights dim for landing. I move towards the window, watching as Dublin blooms beneath us—brick terraces, ribbons of river, the pale curve of Dublin Bay, and the rising steel skeleton of my hotel on the skyline.
My father loved this city.
He used to tell me Ireland was where his roots found oxygen.
Said the land itself felt alive.
I didn’t understand it as a kid.
I do now.
When the wheels finally hit the runway at Dublin Airport, something in my chest loosens.
Ireland.
Grey sky. Drizzling rain. Wind that’s sharp enough to cut a man in half—even in May. None of it should feel inviting, but it does. It always has. Even though I wasn’t raised here, this place has lived in my blood since before I was born.
Even after thirty years in the States, my father always called this place home.
The jet slows, engines whining down. I look out the window at the low clouds and the faint green strip beyond the runway, and for a second I can almost hear his voice.
We’ll take Dublin by storm one day, son. Hartmann will come home.
Well, Dad.
Here I am.
The seatbelt sign pings off. Belle is already on her feet, gathering the thick folder of itineraries like a general assembling weapons. My head of security, Gabriel, unbuckles across the aisle, eyes sweeping the cabin, already in protective mode.
‘Welcome to Dublin, sir,’ Belle says, as if I needed the reminder.
‘Let’s hope they’re more hospitable than last time,’ I mutter.
Her mouth quirks. ‘You’re the competition. What do you expect? That the Becketts are going to send you flowers p>
Right. The Becketts. ‘Any word from the sister? Did you manage to move our meeting forward?’ The quicker we get the interior design sorted, the quicker we can show the rest of her family that I’m not their competition. I never was. Because Hartmann Hotels are in a league of their own.
This trip isn’t simply about honouring my father’s dream anymore.
It’s about beating every last one of Dublin’s golden sons at their own game—and showing them what happens when they try to block my businesses or beat me to buying property again.
‘She had you down for June, the quickest I could push the meet forward to was the end of this month, and believe me, that was a challenge to get her rottweiler PA to agree to that.’ Belle smooths a hand over the front of her suit jacket.
‘I suppose it’s better than nothing p>
We disembark through the private terminal, straight into the soft, damp slap of Irish air. It smells different here—rain, jet fuel, coffee, but there’s still something wholesome underneath it all.
A black Mercedes is waiting kerbside, engine running. Gabriel opens the back door. Belle slides in first, tucking the folder onto the seat between us. I slip in beside her, dragging a hand through my hair as the driver pulls away from the terminal.
Belle taps her tablet. ‘You’ve got a site inspection at the Dublin Hartmann at eleven. The casino wing build is ahead of schedule, but the project manager wants your sign-off on some design changes. At two, there’s a licensing follow-up with the gaming authority. I’ve already greased the right palms. At four, a courtesy reception at the Department of Tourism p>
I grunt.
The car merges onto the motorway. Dublin rises ahead—low, sprawling, built on history instead of height. It’s not Vegas. It’s not Dubai. It’s older, rougher, more compact.
Yet, there’s something about the place that feels… familiar.
Maybe it’s the accents. The cadence. The way people move. Or maybe it’s the ghost of my father’s stories—nights in Temple Bar, summers in Wicklow, the first time he kissed my mother under a streetlamp in this city before she dragged him back to the States with her.
I stare out the window at the city sliding past—terraced houses, red-brick buildings, the river Liffey slicing through the middle of it all. My mind should be on the hotel.
But it’s not.
I’m unwittingly searching the streets, scanning the people, hoping to glimpse her familiar face. The face that has been at the forefront of my mind day and night since the last time I laid eyes on it.
Dark ebony eyes that gleamed with heat and humour.
High cheekbones dusted with the tiniest smattering of freckles.
Full lips that were made for sin.
Long glossy hair that fell in stunning bouncing curls all the way to her beautiful breasts.
The memory of her laughter—low and throaty and so goddamn addictive it still brings a smile to my face.
The way she counselled me about my mother, eyeing me thoughtfully like she could see every flaw and still wanted me anyway—until she disappeared before dawn, that is.
Belle shifts in her seat. ‘I’ve also arranged a dinner with a couple of potential local partners tomorrow night. Old Dublin money p>
‘Anyone I should know by name p>
She scrolls. ‘A few council members. A property developer whose family used to own half the docks. And James Beckett was invited, but he declined p>
‘Smart man,’ I say dryly. ‘We’d only end up arguing p>
‘You and the patriarch screaming at each other over shellfish would make quite the headline,’ she agrees.
I can see it now.
AMERICAN CASINO KING BRAWLS WITH DUBLIN DYNASTY.
My PR team would love that.
We cut off the main road toward the city centre. The driver slows as traffic thickens. Ahead, the shape of my hotel—The Hartmann Dublin—rises from the square like a statement in glass and steel. It’s not finished yet, but the bones are there. It looks sharp, modern, and utterly unapologetic.
Pride swells in my chest.
Across from it, exactly where I knew it would be, the Beckett Bliss Dublin stands like a smug, polished rival. The name is etched on the side of the building in gold italic writing.
Two empires staring each other down across a city square.
‘Pull around the block once,’ I tell the driver.
He obeys without question. As we circle, I take in every angle—the hotel, the sightlines, the way foot traffic flows around the buildings, where my signage will sit. Where my casino entrance will dominate the view.
I’m not here just to open a hotel.
I’m here to plant a flag.
My phone buzzes. Marcus.
I answer. ‘What p>
‘Is that how you greet the man who got you Barcelona?’ he drawls. ‘You’re welcome, by the way p>
‘Make it good, Marcus. I’m busy p>
‘Just checking in to see if Ireland’s ready for your particular brand of mayhem,’ he says. ‘Try not to start a civil war before dinner p>
‘No promises p>
He pauses. ‘How’s the… weird feeling p>
I grind my teeth. I told him about waking with that bolt in my chest.
‘Gone,’ I lie.
‘Good. Maybe it was just your conscience waking up for the first time in forever p>
‘Fuck off,’ I say jovially.
He laughs. ‘Call me after you’ve seen the site. And don’t get yourself arrested p>
‘I will.’ I sigh, rolling my eyes, but truthfully, I’m grateful for his call. He knows how much this project means to me on a personal level. He was one of the coffin bearers at my father’s funeral alongside Luke and me. He’s almost as invested in this hotel as I am.
‘And let me know if you find the hot brunette—Irish,’ he adds, and I can hear the grin in his tone. ‘This could be your future wife p>
Doubtful.
But I’m definitely not done with her yet. Not by a long shot. I know it as well as I know my own name.
‘Goodbye, Marcus.’ I shake my head and hang up just as the driver pulls into the side street that leads to the staff entrance of the hotel site. Scaffolding clings to the side of the building. Construction fences line the pavement. Hard hats move like ants between concrete and steel. This is my world. Dust, noise, the air humming with potential.
Belle checks the time. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes before the full tour. I had coffee brought to your office p>
‘Good,’ I say, then catch myself. Coffee and I have not been on good terms lately. Too many late nights, too much acid in my gut.
I wave it off. ‘Make it tea p>
Her brows rise a fraction, but she says nothing, just nods and taps it into her tablet.
As I step out of the car, the Dublin air slaps me again, cool and damp and real.
I look up at the rising tower of glass bearing my family name.
I’m finally doing it.
Finally honouring his memory.
And if I happen to hunt down one dark-eyed, freckled Irish girl along the way?
That would just be fate finally paying its dues.