Prologue
In which Mason can’t understand why Michael won’t do the wet work.
Mason…
Once in a fit of rage, my sister Edin called me an ‘emotionless bastard without a heart.’ She instantly apologized, sobbing her eyes out, but the thing is, she’s correct.
Not literally. I do have a heart. It’s a muscle in my chest that sends blood through my body. That’s what it’s meant to do. Attributing emotions to a fairly simple organ makes no sense.
And I do have emotions. Right now, impatience is at the top of the list, directed specifically at Michael, my cousin and next in line as Chieftain for the MacTavish Clan. He’s listening to a boring, soon to be ex-employee drone on about his accomplishments when we both know he needs to be put down like the rabid dog.
“Don’t you think your approach is a bit ambiguous?” I ask Michael.
Our soon to be dead target has strutted off to the washroom, likely to indulge in some off-brand pharmaceutical to top off the wide array already simmering in his system.
Michael frowns. “Ambiguous?”
“Ambiguous. Open to more than one interpretation.”
“I know what ambiguous means, ye arsehole,” he snaps. “What about my conversation with M. Schmidt is unclear?”
“You’re letting him think his fuckery has gone unnoticed.” I stretch my arms over the upholstered back of the couch. We’re having drinks at one of my father’s clubs in Edinburgh. Not one of his ultra-exclusive sex clubs with a membership that costs a hundred thousand pounds a year, since this is meant to look like a standard business meeting. “We both know he’s in the washroom, sniffing his body weight in cocaine, celebrating that he stole from the MacTavishes and got away with it.”
“I still have questions I’m wanting answered, like who he has on the inside with access to the shipping manifests.” Michael is irritably cracking his neck one way, then the other.
“And you think that M. Schmidt – and really, he should be stabbed just for that pompous name - is going to give it up to us over cocktails?” It’s so rare these days to see my cousin and future head of our clan show irritation. He’s been trying to develop the gravitas of his father.
“No, that seems highly unlikely,” he says, “which is why we’re letting him celebrate in his wee bathroom stall and then we’re going to take him into one of the club’s private rooms and beat the shite out of him, aye?”
“There’s the Chieftain in training I know.”
I try to add a supportive smile. People, even my own family, tend to get unsettled when I don’t change my expression enough during social events.
M. Schmidt is making his way across the club to us, a huge, loopy grin on his face. Michael and I stand, straightening our jackets, stepping to either side of him.
“There is one special area here that you might take an interest in,” I say, patting Schmidt’s shoulder just a bit too hard.
“Oh?” His bloodshot eyes brighten.
“Aye,” Michael smiles, all teeth, a shark’s grin. “We dinnae let just anyone back here.”
***
“The trick is to angle to the left. It keeps you out of the blood spray.” I wash the gore off my hands as Michael is sourly eyeing a very dead M. Schmidt. “I know you don’t like it Michael, but knife work can be much cleaner with a little attention to detail.”
“We could have gotten him out of here alive, maybe just taken an ear and a couple of fingers,” he says. “Let him live as a warning to others to not feck with the clan.”
“Really?” I ask. “You’d really let the vast criminal underworld we slog through think that we allow traitors to keep breathing?”
He rolled his eyes, handing me a towel. “I’m doubting any of our business acquaintances need further warning about crossing the MacTavish Clan.”
“You’re making a fuss because you don’t want to handle disposal.”
“You would be correct,” he agrees. “I’m perfectly happy to leave Mr. Bloody McBlooderson here for you to take care of.”
“I’ve got it,” I examine my fingernails to make sure I got all the blood off. “Go. Live your life. We’re mired deep in corporate meetings tomorrow.”
His smile drops. “Ye really had to remind me, arsehole?”
