Not thatIever have.
My cousin Edin called me spooky once, though said in such a loving tone that I canna help but think she liked that about me.
Iama spooky son of a bitch, I know it.
People will glance over their shoulder at me and step out of the line for their coffee order, move aside on the sidewalk, or cross the street. Even my fellow firefighters when I worked in the Pacific Northwest in the U.S. voted me, “Most likely to have started the fire in the first place.”
Never to my face, of course.
“I perform a valuable service for the clan.” I step back into the main cabin, enjoying their startled expressions, aside from Logan, who grins at me. “Something I enjoy, a skill none of ye have. Though Logan, I did appreciate your talent in flattening the Kelly warehouse into matchsticks with that C-4 last month in Belfast.”
“Thank ye,” he says graciously. “A true compliment from a professional such as yourself."
“Our concern is that ye insist on working alone, most of the time,” Michael leans forward, rubbing his hands together. “Ye live alone, away from us all. Ye dinnae come to parties or the pub unless we drag ye out of your cabin.”
Settling in my leather swivel seat, I arch my back a wee bit. It’s still sore from hanging upside down to place the final accelerant.
“Yer main concern, then, is that I dinnae get shitefaced enough with the rest of ye? That’s your proof of stability?” Laughing, I shake my head. “Accept it, Michael. None of us are stable. Every MacTavish man-”
“And several of the women,” Ethan mumbles.
“Are unhinged as feck,” I finish.
“Aye, doolally,” agrees Logan.
“Well,yeare one doolally bastard, it’s true.” Michael glares at an unrepentant Logan, who’s finishing off the bottle of Scotch from the bar cart.
“This is pure bampottery,” I sigh, pulling another bottle of Macallan from its hiding place behind the vodka. No one ever drinks the vodka stash we keep on the jet unless we have Bratva allies on board, so it’s turned out to be an excellent space to hide the good stuff.
Holding it away from Logan, I continue. “Let me do my work. Stop fretting like you’re my mother. I’ll come by and play cards and take all your money once a month, aye?”
Michael pouts. The future Chieftain of the MacTavish Mafiapouts.“Fair play,” he says at last. “I’ll drop it.”
“Fecking finally,” Logan groans dramatically. “That concerned shite was putting me to sleep.”
There’s a horde of black SUVs waiting for us when we land on the private airstrip outside of Edinburgh, Miss Kevin, the Chieftain’s personal assistant, is waiting by the biggest one, waving at me. “Mr. Wallace MacTavish-Taylor, the Chieftain would like to speak with you. The business, he says, is somewhat urgent.”
I leer at Michael’s irritated expression as I climb into the car. “Sorry, no cards tonight. Yer Da wants to speak with me onurgentbusiness.”
“Sod off,” he growls, everyone else cheerfully laughing at his expense. Because that’s what we do, when we’re not watching the other’s back,we’re giving each other shite. We’re arseholes.
Instead of the even more opulent and extravagant clan seat overlooking the North Sea, the Chieftain of Clan MacTavish still lives in the mansion he built for his wife Mala when they first married.
The fact that my grandmother, the Lady Elspeth rules that estate with an iron fist might be why, of course.
His mansion is stone, a Georgian style building with an enormous amount of land around it, because Uncle Cormac bought out the owners of the neighboring homes and demolished them. When the head of the MacTavish Mafia wants something, it’s in your best interests to sell it to him.
The outside lighting is just turning on as we pull in, the Edison bulb strings over the swimming pool and the ones surrounding the house illuminate it in an intimidating,I'm rich as feck and I know I’m scaring the shite out of ye,sort of way.
Huh, that would make a grand title for a magazine article, maybe. Something fromArchitectural Digest?
“He’s in his private office,” Miss Kevin says, giving me a smile and a little, approving pat on theshoulder. They’re one of the few people brave enough to touch me without permission.
“Wallace!” Uncle Cormac comes around his huge ironwood desk for a hug. “I hear ye did some fine work in Morocco. Catriona was bragging on ye.”
I give a modest little shrug. “The lass gave me some grand material to work with. The only thing left in that hole is the vaporized soul of Hugo Dubois.”
“I always did enjoy a whiff of brimstone,” he agrees. “I dinnae get that much these days. Ye’d be surprised to know how much of my life is devoted to paperwork.” His mouth twists as if he’d just smelled a dirty diaper.
