Chapter Fourteen
In which Luna truly understands the phrase, “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
Kai…
Luna looks at peace for the first time since I spotted her on Morren Island, and it’s a pity I have to wake her.
Especially with such shite news.
Her silvery-blonde hair is spread out on the pillow, and there’s a serene little smile on her plump lips. Catriona gave her some little sleep shorts to wear. Admiring her long, toned legs is making my treacherous cock thicken. She’s kicked off all her covers, and the sliver of skin showing between the shorts and her t-shirt makes me want to run my tongue along it.
“Lass, ya must wake up. We need to talk.”
Her eyes snap open, instantly awake. “Why? What’s going on?” Blue eyes with gold specks search mine. “No conversation that starts with those words is ever going to be a good one.”
I keep my gaze on her face and away from all that bare, tempting skin. “Get dressed and come downstairs.”
I’d been scrolling through Luna’s phone early this morning when the text came in. She had a mere twenty contacts listed in her phone, and three of them were numbers added during her trip here. Going through her photos, I found that pictures of people were equally sparse, only a few with friends from home. There’s some with Marla and those witches, Brittany and Canary. I feel no remorse for what happened to those two.
Luna likes taking pictures of nature the most. There are images of the waves along the beach, as well as several of flowers and trees. She focuses on elegant little details, like the sunlight filtering through the leaves on a branch or a rose in perfect bloom with the one next to it on the stem withered and forlorn. I’d just found a few old photos of a couple who had to be her parents when the text came in.
“There she is. How did you sleep?” My father smiles kindly at Luna. She smiles back, but her gaze is darting from one person to the next. Admittedly, ten bulky MacTavishes in one place is always stifling, even with a study as big as mine.
“I didn’t know there would be so many of you,” she says, giving an awkward little laugh. Her hands are toying with the hem of her blue sweater as she shifts from foot to foot, and I shove Duncan out of his seat, offering it to her.
“A video came through on your phone today, lass.”
She shoots to her feet. “My phone? How do you have it? Why were you going through it?”
“I plucked it out of the box after I put ya in my room back at the house,” I say, ignoring her look of outrage.
“You could have given it to me at any time, you know!” Thrusting her hand out, she glares at me as I hold it away from her.
“In a moment, aye? I’ve got somethin’ to show ya.”
“Wait, what are you showing everyone in this room that’s on my phone?” Luna says angrily, “My sporadic Instagram posts?”
After connecting the phone to the giant TV on the wall, I press play.
The video shows Richard fecking Armstrong lounging on a couch, digging through the contents of a little backpack. It’s ratty-looking and patched with duct tape in two places.
“I didn’t think there was much to you, Luna Jones, but this is even more pathetic than I’d guessed.” He pulls out a little makeup bag, a hairbrush, and then a wallet. Opening it, he displays the contents: a driver’s license, a single credit card, an Oyster card for the Metro in London, and a sad little clump of money.
“Now, why is gutter trash from Iowa whoring it up for the MacTavishes?” Richard grins at the camera as if he’s done some spectacular detective work.
Luna sucks in a choked breath, two bright spots of red staining her cheeks.
“You left your backpack on the boat,” he continues. “How are you repayingMacTavish for his gallant rescue? We recovered just enough video footage from an offsite server to finally put a face to the name, Kai MacTavish. I can’t believe you pulled off that undercover shit for as long as you did.”
Richard snorts derisively. “Deacon sponsored you into the group. A bit ironic that you murdered him, isn’t it? Of course, if the Lords discovered who you were first, we’d have killed you both.”
He flips through the wallet again and finds an old picture, holding it up. “Ah, Luna. Were these your parents?”
The photo is old. Luna is maybe ten and standing between her parents, they’re holding her hands and swinging her up. Her blonde pigtails are flying as she laughs. Even though the image is faded, there’s sheer joy radiating between the three of them.
Richard shoves it down the back of his pants. “I’m going to wipe my ass with your family. Because that’s all you are, just shit.”
“Don’t… ” It’s the faintest whisper from Luna, and two tears make their way down her cheeks.
Richard leans forward with a grin. “You may be nothing but gutter trash, but you managed to whore your way into a mafia family, well done.” He’s repeatedly sniffing, and that grin looks like it's been manufactured by a mountain of cocaine.
“You fucked with the wrong families, MacTavish. Do you think being Scottish Mafia protects you from true aristocrats like us? When this first batch of nerve gas is ready to go, we’ll show our buyers just how effective it is by dropping it right in the center of the MacTavish estate. Enjoy the very short rest of your life.”
The video ends, and the room is utterly silent. It’s always a toss-up to see which one of my hot-blooded cousins will explode first.
Uncle Lachlan beats them to it. “Tongue ma fartbox, ya feckin’ walloper! Does that dodgy prick think he can threaten the MacTavish Clan? That lavvy-heided wankstain !”
“Well, that’s a clusterbourach , ” sighs Da, running his hand through his hair.
All eyes turn to the Chieftain. Uncle Cormac still looks perfectly relaxed, his finger running along his lower lip. “I’m assuming ya already had Georges and Xenia scan the text for a location or any background on the video that could help us identify where he is?”
“I did, and they couldn’t,” I admit.
Luna is frozen in horror in her seat, staring at the darkened TV.
Uncle Cormac’s attention shifts to Lachlan. “I know you’ve been chatting with our guest. Have ya discovered anything useful?”
“Armstrong started in on the screaming seconds after gettin’ acquainted with my power drill,” Lachlan says sourly. “He came up with a couple of possible locations after I bored a hole through his knee. The leads both turned up empty, though Duncan says thank you for his evening at a sex club in Naples.”
Leaping out of her chair, Luna races out of the room and I follow her to the bathroom off the kitchen, where she’s boaking up last night’s dinner.
Pulling her hair back, I hold it until she’s finished.
“Oh, god,” she gasps, “I’m so sorry. Please go away. This is disgusting. Why do I keep throwing up around you?”
“Ya think this is disgusting? Disgusting was Michael, after downing twenty-five shots to celebrate his 25th birthday,” I say, wetting a cloth and wiping her face. She’s too weak from purging all the food in her body – and possibly some small intestine - to fight me on it. “There were buckets of the stuff. Buckets.”
Bending over the toilet, the poor lass lets loose again. Maybe I’m not cut out for comforting traumatized women. I might have to call my sister.
Tongue ma fartbox, ya feckin’ walloper! - Scottish slang for “Lick my ass, you fucking dick.”
That lavvy-heided wankstain! - Scottish slang for “You toilet-headed cumsplat.”
Clusterbourach - Scottish slang for a clusterfuck
Boaking - Scottish slang for vomiting