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?’
‘Is that how you greet the man who got you Barcelona?’ he drawls. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’
‘Make it good, Marcus. I’m busy.’
‘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.’
‘No promises.’
He pauses. ‘How’s the… weird feeling?’
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.’
‘Fuck off,’ I say jovially.
He laughs. ‘Call me after you’ve seen the site. And don’t get yourself arrested.’
‘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.’
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 hatsmove 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.’
‘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.’
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.
