Chapter Twenty-Two
In which Kai is punished for his sexy afternoon with a deeply unwelcome revelation.
Kai…
Is it considered stalking if she’s my wife?
I’m standing at the foot of my bride’s bed. I’d like to say this is the first time I’ve slipped in here to check on her in the middle of the night, but that’s a lie.
There’s something about Luna at rest that is mesmerizing. When she’s asleep, all the armor she assembles around herself during the day is gone and she’s at peace, relaxed, and sprawled out over the mattress.
Her nipple is peeking out from her loose tank top and it’s taking all my considerable self-control not to suck on it. Her breasts are gorgeous, fitting perfectly in my hands and her skin is like silk. I can see a couple of bruises already forming from this afternoon, one on her shoulder and another on her inner thigh. Even as rough as I was, she held onto me, lifting her hips to get my tongue deeper inside her.
My cock’s been hard enough to knock a hole in the wall for the last two hours, and watching her sleep isn’t helping. When I’d asked her to come to my bed, there was a flash of something in her expression before she refused me, something like hurt or wounded pride.
Was she embarrassed that I went down on her today? My bride has clearly been in a dry spell, she came the first time after just a little finger-play, and I enjoyed every minute of it.
Pushing the heel of my hand down on my erection, I groan silently. The taste of her… I could feast on that perfect little pussy every day and still want more. Her phone is charging on the bedside table, and I pick it up, scrolling through the pictures she took today.
The iPhone is an older one without all the fancy camera lenses the new ones have, but her eye is good; a pristine shot of the village as the lights came on at dusk, several of the waves, the shots are so clear that I almost feel the boat rocking under us again.
There are several of me.
Interesting, I hadn’t noticed her looking my way. One where I’m coiling some rope on the deck with the sunset behind me. Another where I’m laughing at the antics of two greedy seagulls fighting over the same fish. The one that makes me pause is a selfie of Luna with me in the background, putting together dinner.
Her smile is soft.
I’m seconds away from crawling under the quilt and putting my mouth on her again when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Quickly replacing her phone and exiting her room, I take the call.
“Aye, Chieftain?”
Uncle Cormac’s Facetiming me and his expression is strange, I see Da sitting behind him, also uncharacteristically grave.
“I need ya to come by the office, your father and I have some important information.”
Heading up to the top floor of MacTavish International, I realize it’s been less than a week since the helicopter landed on the roof of our office building and Luna became mine.
Most of my uncles and aunts keep an office here in MI, but the 25th floor is meant for majesty and grandeur, designed to intimidate visitors and highlight the MacTavish level of power here in the UK. Nearly all the exterior walls are glass, with sumptuous offices, everything designed in dark wood and metal.
Uncle Cormac’s office is, of course, the most awe-inspiring, with a massive desk in the center of the room, a full bar alongside one wall, and a comfortable seating area with a working fireplace in the other. The floors are dark, polished wood. Easier to remove blood stains. Carpeting is forbidden on most of the building's floors, it has the potential to hold traces of (possibly) highly incriminating DNA.
“Son, sit down.” Da holds out a glass with three fingers of Uncle Cormac’s prized Macallan Rare Cask Black single malt scotch.
“Are we celebrating, then?” I ask because the two of them don’t look that happy.
“We ran an extended background check on your new bride,” Cormac says. “You know how good Georges is with deleted and redacted documents. He said he found what he called ‘a loose thread’ and he pulled on it.”
“Aye?”
“Ya know about her parent’s death when she was twelve.”
“The poor lass ending up with her Aunt Martha, not a warm or loving woman,” I agree.
“Her last name isn’t Jones,” Cormac says, “it’s Harris. Her parents, Tom and Patricia left California when they discovered she was pregnant. Patricia’s father is Collin Harris, fourth in command and head enforcer for the Harris Mafia.”
Sitting back with a sigh, I gulp down half my glass. It is an ungentlemanly way to treat such a grand and ancient vintage, but I need it. “This canna be possible.”
“It is possible,” Da says heavily. “She is his granddaughter.”
“I dinna need you to tell me the implications of this,” I say. “I’m thinking Collin is not aware of Luna’s existence?”
“He knew that his daughter was pregnant, and it sounds like he allowed her and her husband to leave California and assume a new identity, though there’s no record of them being in contact again. He may not be aware of their deaths,” Cormac says.
“I see no reason to change that.” I’m feeling a huge surge of protectiveness for Luna. If her parents left, there was likely a good reason.
“Well, about that…”
Fecking hell, our mighty Chieftain is tapping his fingers on his desk, which means he’s plotting.
“Aye?” I ask suspiciously.
“The reach of the Harris Mafia has grown over the last twenty years, they control most of Southern California’s illegal shipping activity, and they’ve made significant progress into Arizona and down into Mexico.” He and Da both shift closer to me. “We have many powerful allies, but aligning with the Harris Mafia… It opens the western half of the States to us. With the Aristocrats still shopping that nerve gas and ammunition, they could be invaluable to us.”
“Are we all using Lachlan’s nickname for these arseholes?” Da asks.
“Ya must admit that it suits ‘em,” Uncle Cormac says.
Bolting to my feet, I walk to the furthest corner of the office, staring out the window. I know what they want me to agree to. If I were in their place, I’d want the same.
“No. I canna do this to Luna. If her parents ran, leading Collin back to their daughter is wrong.” Me, worrying about right and wrong. “There’s a line to be drawn here.”
“I understand your reaction, son. But have ya considered that your bride might want to know she has a family?” Da’s sympathetic, I can tell. But he’s still one of the heads of the MacTavish Mafia, and he will look after the clan’s fortunes first.
Finishing the last of my drink, I head for the bar to make another one. Looking out the window as I sip it this time, I can see their reflections. Serious, maybe a wee bit concerned. But they’re fighting their eagerness for a powerful new ally. “Have you contacted Collin already?”
“We believe the first move should come from you as her husband. He’ll be highly motivated to help us find Richard Armstrong and crush this new threat,” Cormac says.
Briefly, I hate them both. “You are absolutely sure of this?” I set my glass down a little too hard, watching a crack streak through the thick crystal.
“Aye. there’s no doubt.” Cormac holds up a folder with an 8x11 photo at the top of a pile of paperwork.
Collin Harris bears a striking resemblance to his granddaughter, the shape of his face, and they both have distinctive blue eyes, flecked with gold. This feels like a betrayal. Luna will immediately believe that I hurried her into this marriage for the potential alliance.
“Give me some time to get closer to Luna and earn her trust,” I say, wanting to bargain for a few days without this discovery hanging over our heads.
“I understand why you’re hesitant,” Da says. “I know this could strain your marriage, though it might strengthen it, too. But we have bigger issues at play. The bidding for this nerve gas formula is attracting some huge players in the crime world. Several of them will not hesitate to use this gas without concerning themselves with how many thousands of innocents they’ll kill.”
“We have several other families on alert,” Cormac continues, “The Corporation in London, the Doyle Mob in Belfast. Maksim Morozov contacted me from St. Petersburg. He’s concerned that a rival Bratva out of Moscow is bidding for the formula.”
Unreasonably, I’m furious with Georges. Fecking little suck-up. Overachieving walloper. “I’m going to stab Georges - your tech genius - in the throat next time I see him, fair warning.”
Cracking my neck, I head for the lift without the courtesy of a goodbye.
Walloper - Scottish slang for a complete idiot