“Wait, what are you showing everyone in this room that’s onmyphone?” Luna says angrily, “My sporadic Instagram posts?”
After connecting the phone to the giant TV on the wall, I press play.
The video shows Richard fecking Armstrong lounging on a couch, digging through the contents of a little backpack. It’s ratty-looking and patched with duct tape in two places.
“I didn’t think there was much to you, Luna Jones, but this is even more pathetic than I’d guessed.” He pulls out a little makeup bag, a hairbrush, and then a wallet. Opening it, he displays the contents: a driver’s license, a single credit card, an Oyster card for the Metro in London, and a sad little clump of money.
“Now, why is gutter trash from Iowa whoring it up for the MacTavishes?” Richard grins at the camera as if he’s done some spectacular detective work.
Luna sucks in a choked breath, two bright spots of red staining her cheeks.
“You left your backpack on the boat,” he continues. “How are you repayingMacTavish for his gallant rescue? We recovered just enough video footage from an offsite server to finally put a face to the name,KaiMacTavish. I can’t believe you pulled off that undercover shit for as long as you did.”
Richard snorts derisively. “Deacon sponsored you into the group. A bit ironic that you murdered him, isn’t it? Of course, if the Lords discovered who you were first, we’d have killed you both.”
He flips through the wallet again and finds an old picture, holding it up. “Ah, Luna. Were these your parents?”
The photo is old. Luna is maybe ten and standing between her parents, they’re holding her hands and swinging her up. Her blonde pigtails are flying as she laughs. Even though the image is faded, there’s sheer joy radiating between the three of them.
Richard shoves it down the back of his pants. “I’m going to wipe my ass with your family. Because that’s all you are, just shit.”
“Don’t…” It’s the faintest whisper from Luna, and two tears make their way down her cheeks.
Richard leans forward with a grin. “You may be nothing but gutter trash, but you managed to whore your way into a mafia family, well done.” He’s repeatedly sniffing, and that grin looks like it's been manufactured by a mountain of cocaine.
“You fucked with the wrong families, MacTavish. Do you think being Scottish Mafia protects you from true aristocrats like us? When this first batch of nerve gas is ready to go, we’ll show our buyers just how effective it is by dropping it right in the center of the MacTavish estate. Enjoy the very short rest of your life.”
The video ends, and the room is utterly silent. It’s always a toss-up to see which one of my hot-blooded cousins will explode first.
Uncle Lachlan beats them to it. “Tongue ma fartbox, ya feckin’ walloper! Does that dodgy prick think he can threaten the MacTavish Clan? Thatlavvy-heided wankstain!”
“Well, that’s a clusterbourach,” sighs Da, running his hand through his hair.
All eyes turn to the Chieftain. Uncle Cormac still looks perfectly relaxed, his finger running along his lower lip. “I’m assuming ya already had Georges and Xenia scan the text for a location or any background on the video that could help us identify where he is?”
“I did, and they couldn’t,” I admit.
Luna is frozen in horror in her seat, staring at the darkened TV.
Uncle Cormac’s attention shifts to Lachlan. “I know you’ve been chatting with our guest. Have ya discovered anything useful?”
“Armstrong started in on the screaming seconds after gettin’ acquainted with my power drill,” Lachlan says sourly. “He came up with a couple of possible locations after I bored a hole through his knee. The leads both turned up empty, though Duncan says thank you for his evening at a sex club in Naples.”
Leaping out of her chair, Luna races out of the room and I follow her to the bathroom off the kitchen, where she’s boaking up last night’s dinner.
Pulling her hair back, I hold it until she’s finished.
“Oh, god,” she gasps, “I’m so sorry. Please go away. This is disgusting. Why do I keep throwing up around you?”
“Ya thinkthisis disgusting? Disgusting was Michael, after downing twenty-five shots to celebrate his 25th birthday,” I say, wetting a cloth and wiping her face. She’s too weak from purging all the food in her body – and possibly some small intestine - to fight me on it. “There were buckets of the stuff. Buckets.”
Bending over the toilet, the poor lass lets loose again. Maybe I’m not cut out for comforting traumatized women. I might have to call my sister.
Tongue ma fartbox, ya feckin’ walloper! - Scottish slang for “Lick my ass, you fucking dick.”
That lavvy-heided wankstain! - Scottish slang for “You toilet-headed cumsplat.”
Clusterbourach - Scottish slang for a clusterfuck
