Chapter Twenty-Nine
In which Luna gets a good night’s sleep and Kai gets an ulcer.
Kai…
My palm is itching . That’s how much I want to spank my bride for leaving me with a non-stop stonner. I fucked her into unconsciousness and the minute she’s awake, she’s tempting me again? I’m lucky my dick dinna tear through my jeans.
Remembering our little exchange while we were being shot at just makes it worse. I chose that moment to admit that I got hard chasing her in the forest.
At that moment.
While they’re shooting at my bride.
Luna should have screamed her lungs out and instead, she said, “That’s hot.”
I had been lucky my cock left enough blood flowing to my brain to aim my Glock.
Luna finally succumbed to exhaustion after the adrenaline drop and me fucking her hard enough to imprint her DNA into the couch arm. She’s blissfully asleep, a little sticking plaster on her cheek from where I’d cleaned the cut and made sure there was no glass left in it from the shattered windshield.
My phone rings while I’m trying to decide between jerking off in the shower or lifting some weights to distract myself.
It’s Logan. “Brother, ya should come down to the warehouse.”
“What do ya know?”
“He’s one stubborn bastard,” he sighs. “We finally got him to talk. Michael and Da are here too. They wanna go over all the intel together,” he says.
“Intel? Are ya working for MI6?”
“Feck off,” Logan groans, “I got maybe three hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. I still have to hear Daddy Armstrong wailing and moaning. Why can’t we finish him off? Richard rejected two offers to swap the formula for his Da.”
“He’s still useful,” I say, “even if he’ll never walk again.” Uncle Lachlan does love his techniques. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Bring a case of beer!” Logan calls before I can disconnect. “This shite is thirsty work.”
“In other words, ya already drank everything with an alcohol content, including the paint thinner?”
He hangs up on me.
By the time I arrive at the warehouse where we keep these kinds of ‘guests,’ beer in hand, the mercenary is barely breathing.
Good. Just a spark of life left is all I need to work on this son of a bitch. He’s a mess, hanging from a hook in the ceiling, held up by the shackles on his wrists. One eye is swollen shut, and he’s missing most of his teeth, along with a few of his fingers.
“Nice work,” I compliment Logan. “Uncle Lachlan would be proud of ya.”
“Now you’re makin’ me blush,” he says, draining his first bottle of beer.
“Ach, my son finally shows up.” Da and Michael stroll into the room.
They’re both dressed in suits without a speck of blood or internal organs on them. “So, I’m guessing Logan did all the heavy lifting here?”
“I offered,” Michael says defensively, “he said he wanted to quote, ‘Refine his craft.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
“Rise and shine, arsehole.” Kicking him in the knee, I wait for him to open his eyes, groaning.
“Jus’ fuckin’ lemme die, you piece of shi…” he slurs.
“What’s that?” I hold my hand to my ear. “It’s hard to understand ya, mate, what with most of your teeth missing.”
His head lolls back, barely conscious.
“Ya tried to kill my wife,” I snarl. “I could have been more lenient if it had just been me. Ya fecked up. Who sent ya?”
“I tol…” A dribble of blood comes from the corner of his mouth.
“The shooters were under instructions to catch Luna and you and bring ya to the Aristocrats,” Da says, stepping in. “They’re obsessed with making ya suffer. But Armstrong’s not the one who sent them in.”
“Fecking Aristocrats, too delicate to get their hands dirty.” Michael spits at the man’s feet.
“Who hired ya?” I pat his cheek. Well, more of a punch with the full force of my weight behind it.
“The Mancin… Mancini Maf…” More blood spills down his chin, and I’m thinking we dinna have long.
This is not good news. The Mancini Mafia do the shite that’s below every other crime organization, the lowest of the low. If they got their hands on the nerve gas… I yank his head back by his bloody hair. “Did they win the bid for the formula?”
“Doan’ know,” he groans. “You guys…bonus to get the bi…” His head rolls back, his one good eye staring up at the cracked ceiling.
“That was quick,” Logan laments. “Ya think he’d have a stronger constitution. Fecking mercenaries.”
“Xenia and Georges have been livin’ on Red Bull and takeaway for the last three days, scrolling through the chatter on the dark web,” Da says. “It dinna look like the Mancini Mafia won the bid since they couldn’t produce you two, because that is now one of the conditions to win the bid for the nerve gas.”
“Those feckin’ Aristocrats are mighty sore losers,” Michael says. “Comes from being pampered little ghallas their whole life.”
“We’re no closer than we’ve been to finding Armstrong and that feckin’ formula.” I’m pacing the sticky concrete floor, running my hands through my hair. “Who do we have in Sicily that can snatch up someone in the Mancini Mafia and question them? Shite, the Toscano Mafia would likely do it for free. They hate the Mancinis.”
“Son, go home.” Da puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll get in touch with Don Giovanni Toscano. He’s just as concerned about this shite getting loose as we are.”
“I’ll stay. There are more families to contact, there must be a way to run a location sweep on-”
Da pulls me out into the corridor. “Hear me out. Our clan has faced worse than this. Ya can spend every waking moment tryin’ to stop it. However, I know life is short. The only thing I regret is not spending more time with your Mum. Go home to your wife. Take her out to dinner. Get to know each other.”
He’s lookin’ me over with an uncomfortable thoroughness. When I was a lad, it meant he knew exactly what mischief I’d been up to. “She dinna know MacTavishes marry for life yet, does she?”
“There hasn’t been a right time to bring this up, Da.”
“Nor the news about Collin Harris?” he persists.
I look away. “No.”
“Go. Spend time with Luna. Let her know she has ya, and she has our family.” He chuckles. “There’s not a soul in Scotland who can say no to ya when you’re at your most charming. It got ya out of more than one punishment as a bairn.”
“Eh, I still recall a long list of ‘em,” I grumble, but he’s right.
“I’ll call ya when we know more,” he says. “And we will. Georges and Xenia are very thorough.”
“Dinna talk about that dangleberry. I’m still of a mind to stab him.”
“Go!” Da calls, walking back down the hall. “And dinna ya get all stabby ‘till there’s a good reason for it.”
The sun is rising over the city as I drive away from the warehouse, and because the Universe decides it’s time to test me, Collin Feckin’ Harris calls.
“I want to meet my granddaughter, MacTavish.” The man may be in his late sixties, but he’s a fierce son of a bitch. As an enforcer, he dinna make a threat unless he intends to follow it through.
“At the wedding,” I repeat, the way I have the last four times he’s called. “We’ll schedule some time beforehand where you two can meet and talk.”
“I have yet to receive a wedding invitation,” he snaps. “When do you intend to set the date for this overblown nonsense?”
“We’re under a bit of a threat at the moment.” I’m trying to keep my temper, but I’m tired, and his demands are getting more aggressive with each phone call. “If you’re concerned about your granddaughter, you’ll have a care for her state of mind. She’s seen shite that would break a weaker person.”
“Her mother was like that.” His voice is warmer. “Patricia was a little thing, like Luna. But she was a scrapper, and she could punch above her weight class.”
Smiling a bit unwillingly, I admit, “That does sound like Luna.”
There’s a long sigh and silence, long enough that I’m thinking the call dropped.
“Call me tonight, MacTavish. Tell me you have a time scheduled to meet my granddaughter, or I’ll handle it myself.”
Ending the call without another word, I throw my phone onto the passenger seat. My window of opportunity to come clean with my bride is closing.
I still dinna know how to tell her. Once the words are said, I canna take them back. They’ll change everything she knows about herself. It could change everything she feels about us.
Ghalla - Scottish slang for a spoiled bitch
Dangleberry - Scottish slang for a piece of stool attached to a hairy bum.