“Of course,” I say. “He didn’t feel it was necessary to tell anyone else at this point, but knowing it was Cavendish behind the theft makes laying the groundwork to fuck with him and retrievethe drones that much easier. The tricky element is teaching him a lesson without destabilizing our potential alliance with Matsumori.”
“Afton is young,” Dad says thoughtfully. “Bullied by that lavvy-heided feck. I’d ask if ye hate her for it, but that’d be too much emotion involved for ye.”
“I don’t blame her. I’m not even surprised,” I shrug. “But none of that changes what she’s done. And now there’s military-grade drones loose. Cavendish is becoming increasingly erratic. Whatever he chooses to do with the drones can blow back on us if we don’t retrieve them first.”
He gingerly rubs his scorched cheek. “Ye do remember that this is hardly the first time something has fecked up in a spectacular fashion and we’ve had to fix it, aye? It’s a MacTavish family tradition at this point.”
“The betrayal never comes from inside the family, Dad.”
“Your bride, she’s only twenty-one, aye? She grew up in a different kind of mafia family. Run by an enormous fuckwit. She’s thrown into a wedding when she thought she was coming home for a weekend visit. Dear old Dad holds her little sister hostage to get her to spy on us.”
“No disrespect, but is this going somewhere?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
He leans back, settling himself more comfortably and I stifle a groan. “I canna help but notice that shiner, son. The split lip. Oh, and that swollen jaw ye keep rubbing.”
I should have worked from home today.
“Just a little work-related scuffle,” I lie. “It happens.”
“I dinnae suppose you’ve talked to your wife about how ye handle your temper?”
“Why would I?”
Dad lets out a long-suffering sigh as he gets up to help himself to more of my scotch. “Imagine for a moment, lad, if ye shared something of yourself with your wife. The two of you finding a wee bit of trust. Do ye think that instead of caving to her father’s demands, she might have come to ye for help instead?”
I have nothing to say to this.
“From what I’ve heard, she has the potential to be a grand MacTavish wife. She cleaned ye up after that mess with the Kelly gang without a fuss, aye?”
My posture is rigid and I’m carefully expressionless. I’m battling anger, confusion, maybe some regret. But I’m not going to react. Not even for my father.
Eyeing me for an uncomfortably long time, he finally shrugs and pats me on the shoulder. “Think about it, son. Ye know I love ye. I’d like to see ye happy with Afton. Oh, and call your mother, she’s been fussing at me about it.”
He sets his glass down on my gleaming mahogany desk and leaves, hands in his pockets and whistling cheerfully.
Seizing the discarded glass, I set it back on the drink cart and wipe the moisture off my desk before it leaves a white ring on the wood.
***
Lavvy-heided - Scottish slang for shithead, or literally, toilet-head.
The Red Trade - Human Trafficking, specifically for the sex trade.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In which exile sucks until the cousins show up.
Afton…
How long has it been?
A week? Ten days?
I’m sure I’d remember if I forced my sluggish brain to work again. I’ve been too busy, though, cataloging my sins and stupidities:
1.Caving and letting that miserable excuse for a father manipulate me.
2.Not asking Mason for assistance. He might have been able to help me save Lucia. Not because he loves me, heavens no. I’m not sure he’s even capable of love, but he has shown what seems to be a strong sense of duty and protectiveness.
