“Ach, my father says the same,” I laugh. “That administrative shite seems to get worse every year.”
“Aye.” He looks mournful for a moment before shaking it off. “I hate to send ye back out straight from a mission, but I have a task for ye in the states. You’ve heard of the Banner Syndicate in New England?”
Frowning, I try to recall. “They’re not much of a syndicate; they picked up most of their money by jumping in on the move to legalize cannabis. They did well because they had the fields and warehouses in place that they were already using to grow it when it was illegal.”
“That would be them,” he agrees sourly, offering me a seat on one of the leather chairs surrounding the fireplace. “Robert Banner was killed in a car accident two and half years ago, most likely by his second wife and her arsehole sons. They’ve barely kept it afloat.”
This makes me laugh. “How the hell do ye fail in cannabis production? That’s a special kind of stupid.”
“I told ye they were eejits. They’ve been trying to recover by stepping in on our territory in Boston. They need a lesson in boundaries.”
I can feel it, the low burn that starts in my fingers, my feet. The kindling of a blaze inside me that can only be stopped by sending it outward. Burning that cave in the Atlas Mountains to ash and bone should have been enough to hold me for a while.
A Chieftain-sanctioned burn, though… It’s enough to set me off again.
“How big a lesson are we talking, then?”
Uncle Cormac leans back, his expression cold. “They killed six of our men and stole two tractor-trailer trucks. They have an office building outside of Boston. I want it burned down to the ground. I’ll have already disabled the insurance policy for the property.” He smiles malevolently. “I want it to cost them.”
Pulling out my lighter, I flick it on and off, on and off. “Fatalities?”
“Nae, it’s their legitimate face. No need to hurt an innocent. Watch the movement. If there’s security, make sure ye give them space to get out.” He’s eyeing my hand, flicking the lighter. “Take a couple of days, scout the area, aye?”
“Of course.” Standing, I shake his hand. “A clean job. In and out.”
“There’s a good lad. Ye always have a plan.” Rubbing his forehead, he sighs, “If only I could get a couple of your cousins to do the same.”
“You’re notsayingthe name Logan…”I laugh. “Understood, though.”
As I climb into my McLaren Artura and head away from the estate, I feel it again. The tingle, the low-key burn, the fire whispering secrets in my head.
Yer talking mince! - Scottish slang for “You’re kidding me.”
Doolally - Scottish slang for unhinged or a little nuts.
Pure bampottery - Scottish slang for “This is ridiculous.”
Eejits - Scottish slang for moron, or irretrievably stupid.
Braw - A delightfully multipurpose bit of Scottish slang that in this case, means “I’m fine,” or “I’m good.”
Chapter Two
In which we meet Scarlett and learn about an extremely handy spell.
Scarlett…
“Scar, where the fuck are you? There’s a pile of shit to clean up!”
Closing my eyes, I hold in a groan.Please god. Let that not be a literal pile of poop.
Last year my stepmother bought a horrifyingly expensive designer Peke-a-Tese. I’d had to look it up to believe such a breed was possible. Fluffzilla is a nightmare and dumber than a bag of bricks. I’ve cleaned up countless messes from that spoiled little beast ever since.
My last pan ofKouign-amannis baking in the big Viking oven, and the smell is glorious. Creating them is such a delicate process; there’s layers upon layers of delicate flaky dough, slathering each one with butter and sugar before shaping it into a little bundle and pinching the top in a tidy fold. The result is something like a croissantbut far more addictive, denser, with a crispy caramelized edge.
I grew up in this house, and the kitchen has always been my favorite room. There’s a huge bank of windows looking out over the garden, with a hanging rack of copper pots and pans and a long wooden farm table and mismatched chairs. The sunshine streams through the skylights and makes the huge granite counters gleam.
When I was young, Mom used to send the housekeeper home early and we’d create baking “experiments” that were sometimes disastrous, sometimes delicious. We’d usually end up covered in flour and smacking each other on the butt with dishtowels. When Dad would walk in, he’d survey our baking carnage, pick up a spatula and chase us around the kitchen with it, all of us laughing uncontrollably.
