In which Wallace makes a plan.
Wallace…
Autumn in Boston is picture perfect. The crisp leaves are gold and red, crunching under my feet as I stroll through the pristine streets of Beacon Hill. The kind of shite meant for postcards - if anyone sends them these days - or one of those godawful romance movies my sister Isobel insists on watching.
Beacon Hill is the most expensive bit of real estate in Boston, and I know that Marlena Banner is holding on to their mansion by her acrylic fingernails since her husband was killed. Their syndicate’s not bringing in enough to keep the day-to-day operations moving, much less that brand-new Bugatti parked in their driveway.
Hence, why they’re desperate enough to try stealing from my family.
Goddamn, they’re fecking eejits.
The house itself is surprisingly quiet. Usually, a mafia seat of power would have peoplecoming and going, guards on rotation, servants, gardeners, visitors coming to curry favor or do business. I can see one man making a desultory circuit around the house and another inside. They switch out every half hour. A toddler would have their guard rotation memorized in the time it would take to watch an episode ofBlues Clues.
Do bairns watch that show anymore?
The gates swing open and a Range Rover pulls into the driveway, the outside guard finally getting off his arse and hurrying over to open the door.
Ach, there she is, the Widow Banner, wobbling on a tall pair of Louboutins and an expensive dress stretched tight over her arse. She seems mighty agitated, shoving past the guard and stomping up the granite steps to the front door. I can hear her screaming from across the street and she’s not subtle. The words “asshole” and “fucking idiot” come up a lot. A delightful woman.
A side door slams shut and a redhead walks briskly down to the cobblestone sidewalk and makes an abrupt left, stomping her way down the hill like it owes her money.
Not a redhead, actually. I should know, there’s enough of those where I come from. A shade so dark that it’s almost burgundy, shot through with blonde and silver threads that make herlong hair glow like a living thing, spilling down to her waist.
Like fire.
A maid, maybe? She’s not in uniform but dressed casually enough. Hands in my pockets, I stroll after her. She might be someone I can romance a bit, get some information on the household. Aye, the Chieftain wanted a quick arson job, in and out, no fuss. But it never hurts to have additional intel.
Her backpack bulges oddly and finally, a cat’s head pops out. Blacker than black, like the oily, sooty smoke from a blaze created with heavy fuel. I’m a good half block behind them, but that creature’s gold-green eyes are glaring right at me.
“Fuck off yourself, cat.” I murmur, ignoring the scandalized gaze of a woman in expensive workout wear, no doubt coming home from doing Pilates for lunch.
The girl’s legs are long, and she’s eating up the distance to the bus stop in a hurry. Alas, one pulls up and she disappears through the open door as I pull out my phone, barely getting a quick side shot of her. Full lips, the soft curve of a cheekbone, that’s all. Still, I’ll run it through my facial recognition database when I get back to the hotel.
Crossing the street, I head into Boston Common.The old park is already bulging with fall decor; artfully shaped piles of pumpkins surrounding the iron statues and resting on the black benches. The sun’s starting to set, sending rays of gold and orange across the park, but it’s still a good twenty degrees warmer than it would be in Edinburgh.
My phone buzzes, the ringtone is “Imperious” by Caleb Bryant. Fitting for my father.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Son, how are you?” Despite knowing what a spooky wreck his son turned out to be, Father’s tone is always warm when we speak.
“I’m well. And you?” I grimace slightly. I don’t mean to sound this formal.
“Fine, your mother’s fine, Isobel is driving me mad. She wants to go on a holiday to Ibiza with her friends, but no bodyguards. Which we both know will not be happening.”
Relaxing enough to chuckle, I say, “That sounds like business as usual, then.”
“You’re using your American accent,” he says, pivoting from relaxed to slightly concerned. “Are you there for a visit, or business?”
My father, Alastair Taylor, the head of one of the most powerful mafias in England, hates that I’m working for the MacTavishes, my mother’s side of the family, instead of with him. He also understands that I have my reasons, and he’snever pushed me. I don’t know how long this generosity on his part will last.
“Family business, requiring my specific skill set.” I nod politely to an elderly Japanese couple skirting around me. “I’m in Boston.”
“I’d heard about a certain family of fools who’ve been trying to make a name for themselves in the most self-destructive way,” he says, amusement clear. “Your mother was ranting about it the other day.”
“It’s certainly something they’re going to regret.” That burn is back, at the base of my spine this time, just flickering, but it wants to grow, I can feel it.
Down, boy.
