Chapter One
In which it is just another day at the office for Isla.
Isla…
I’ve always loved the Edinburgh Festival Theatre. The glittering glass front of the building turns into a million diamonds in the spotlights at night and sends beams of light shooting out in all directions.
Tonight the red carpet is clogged with all manner of Rich Arseholes. Banking arseholes. Socialite and influencer arseholes. Politician arseholes, which are the ones I really can’t stand. And then the worst kind of arseholes.
Our kind.
Being the daughter of Chieftain Bruce Blackwood means I’ve met them all; Devin Byrne from the Irish Mob, and there’s Don Bruno from the Marino Mafia, all the organized crime sorts wandering the Gala tonight. There is a representative here from the Nakamura Yakuza, and the smirking feck’ in a terrible-looking, yet ridiculously expensive suit strolling through the front door is LuisMuñoz from the Colombian Cartel. He’s been nosing around Papa’s rail and transportation companies here in Edinburgh. He’s about to find out what happens when someone makes my father angry. Muñoz will lose a few fingers, maybe his left hand if he doesn’t leave town.
That’s not my job tonight.
Shifting into a pleasant social smile, I lower my gaze so the lights don’t blind me as I ascend the stairs. The long red dress I’m wearing can easily show off bits I’d prefer to keep covered if I so much as take a deep breath, so I have to move slowly and - ideally - gracefully so I don’t end up sprawled out on these fancy marble steps.
The flash of camera lights to my left is a relief. Good. The press here is closing in on a couple like a shark on a minnow. That gives me a chance to get inside with less scrutiny.
Glancing over to them, I scowl as I recognize Cameron MacTavish. That smirking prick is gripping the arm of a pretty girl like he thinks she’s going to tear loose and take off. Given all the rumors swirling around his nuptials, that may be likely. She’s a Bratva princess of some sort. Papa and my brother Gavin were discussin’ it at dinner last Sunday.
Feck Cameron MacTavish and his whole arrogant and reckless clan. Let him preen and pose all he likes. I have work to do.
“Isla Blackwood, such a sight to see your lovely face!”
Barely stopping an eye-roll of epic proportions, I twirl to face Gideon Wallace. “Gideon,” I purr, “how are you?”
He’s wearing a huge grin and a nicely fitted tuxedo. I stifle a groan as I look over his shoulder and see my mark wandering around the buffet table.
Timing and Gideon are not acquainted. He took a shine to me five years back and is not a man to give up. That’s what he told me the last time he’d tried cornering me at a party with his lips pursed as he attempted to swoop down for a kiss.
Gideon’s not hideous, he’s decent-looking with dark brown hair and eyes. But he’s not in the game, he works in his family’s finance business and I feel absolutely nothing when he smiles at me. I can just imagine the howls of laughter Papa and my brother would let off if Gideon tried to court me.
“I’m fine lass, doing grand,” he says happily. “And you? I heard you were in Glasgow.”
My mark is idly examining the shrimp puffs on the buffet table. This would be a perfect time to sidle up to him and start a conversation about shrimp vs. prawns and…
“...so that’s why it’s such a nice surprise to see you here.”
Shite. He’s been talking this whole time.
“It’s good to see you, too.” I force out between gritted teeth. My mark has abandoned the shrimp puffs and is giving his full attention to a wiggling blonde with a neckline even lower than mine. “But if you’ll excuse me, I must visit the ladies’. We’ll catch up sometime. Bye!” His mouth is open, halfway through a protest as I speed walk away as fast as my Gianvito Rossi heels can carry me.
My mark is still chatting up the blonde, so I circle the huge hall for a moment, my heels clicking on the marble floor and pondering my next move. It could be as simple as bumping into him, a sloppily held champagne glass in hand, and an apologetic little giggle.
There’s a live band at one end of the room and dozens of little circular tables at the other near the long row of tables with silent auction items. The charity auction - I can’t remember which one? Something to do with kids? The auction begins soon and that makes getting the item that much harder. I have to handle thisnow.
“Ah, I’m so pleased to see a Blackwood contingent here tonight.” The Lord Provost of Edinburgh, Alain Baird strolls over to me, offering a handshake and a wide grin. “Is your father joining us?”
“I fear Papa’s home in Glasgow,” I say. I wish he was here, distracting all these people who seem determined to undermine my plan. But there’s always a Plan B. And a Plan C.
I spot Cormac MacTavish - the new Chieftain for his slimy clan - glowering at us and I grin, squeezing Baird’s hand a bit more enthusiastically. “You should really consider taking a long weekend and spending some time aboard Papa’s new yacht. It’s a fine thing.”
His eyes light up. “Really. Did he end up getting that Westport 112?”
“Aye, it’s a beauty. It’s docked in Naples right now, I could have the jet sent for you on Friday…” I raise one brow enticingly. He’s torn. I know the man wants a fancy weekend on Papa’s yacht with as many giggling women as can be recruited in the next few days.
“Well…” he allows, “I do have some business to discuss with Bruce given that we’re expanding the southmost port systems.”
