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.’
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 theDublin 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.’
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 methoughtfully 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.’
‘Anyone I should know by name?’
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.’
‘Smart man,’ I say dryly. ‘We’d only end up arguing.’
‘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.
