Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fran
My heart soars as I watch Tate and Islan hold each other. Islan openly cries, but Tate swipes a hand across his eyes, then looks at Kane with fierce determination.
“Where is he?”
“In holding with a colleague of mine,” Kane says. “Give me a phone and I’ll make a few calls. I’ll have him brought here.”
Tate blinks as if waking from a dream, and Islan reaches into her back pocket.
“Here,” she says, shaking her head at Kane. “This is why you wanted to come to Ireland, isn’t it? You wouldn’t tell me bloody anything except the Welsh were on the move.”
“Didn’t want to plant false hope,” he says, as Tate comes over and unfastens the bonds that hold him. He stands over him, meaty arms folded over his chest. He still doesn’t trust him, and hell, I don’t blame him.
I squeeze one of his arms. “You’re adorable, you know that?”
He rolls his eyes, as Kane makes a call. “Adorable wasn’t exactly the look I was going for just now.”
Kane mutters under his breath, “Not the first thing on my mind, either.” Then someone answers the call on the other end, and Kane speaks rapidly, but it isn’t English this time. I can’t place the language, but it’s rapid and guttural. Islan is the only one that doesn’t look surprised.
From my research, I know that Interpol represents just shy of two hundred different countries. Could be anything.
The morning moves so quickly, I can hardly keep up.
I’m busy making notes and documenting everything I can for Kane.
I reach out to my contacts, and Islan sits with Kane as he makes his moves.
We’ve moved out of the blasted interrogation room—seriously, shudder—and upstairs to an office.
Maeve comes in, bearing a tray of tea, sandwiches, fruit, and little slabs of cake.
Islan and I eat heartily, but Tate paces back and forth, back and forth.
I expect him to call Leith, but he doesn’t.
“Need to see for myself first,” he says. “I don’t want to alarm anyone, put anyone through more than what they have.”
“They never found his body,” Islan says, swallowing a large bite of her sandwich. “But the investigator said they had every reason to believe he’d been killed in the accident.”
Kane nods. “Was paid to tell you that.” He sits, brooding, in the corner of the office, and every once in a while I catch him and Tate in a silent battle of wills, like each of them is silently declaring, come at me, bro.
Men.
“About that,” Kane finally says, talking to Islan but keeping his eyes on Tate.
He’s well aware of what Tate is capable of.
When he speaks, it’s still jarring hearing his American accent.
“The accident was initially a setup from the Welsh. I know because I was already stationed with them when Tavish supposedly died. But this year, he was taken into custody by Interpol.”
“What did the Welsh do to him?” she asks in a whisper.
He shakes his head. “Probably best you don’t know.”
She glares at him. Aye, that look is familiar. “Don’t you get on your high horse and decide I’m too delicate a fuckin’ flower to know what happened to my bloody brother.”
He grins at her, and nods. “Ah, right. Forgot myself there for a minute.”
“Tell me.”
He looks to Tate, who still glares at him. “The Welsh interrogated. Blackmailed. Seems your father owed them money?”
“Doesn’t bloody owe them fuckin’ anything anymore,” Tate mutters.
“Aye,” Kane says. “They tried to get information out of him, but it was useless, you see.”
“Why?” Islan asks.
“He sustained head trauma. Had amnesia. Didn’t bloody know who he even was at first.”
“And you know all this how?”
He sighs. “I’ve followed his case for the past year. I’ve asked everyone I know. My associates believed him affiliated with the Welsh for a time, and they apprehended him.”
“And why was he brought here, to Ireland?” Tate asks.
Kane turns to him. “I knew you were here, and Islan was. And I couldn’t blow my cover.” He frowns.
“And you didn’t tell me!” Islan looks at him in surprise, her eyes wide. I can’t quite read her expression. Is she angry, or shocked? Maybe both.
“Islan, I was fully immersed into the Welsh by then and couldn’t risk either of us being exposed.”
It’s then that I realize the enormous risks he took, how dangerous this has all been for him.
“Tate, lay off,” I tell him. “He’s risked everything to keep Islan safe and bring Tavish back to you.”
“Risked everything,” Tate mutters. “Easy for you to say, when the bloke isn’t bangin’ your bloody sister—”
Islan winces, a rarity for her. “Good luck with that,” she says to me. “Honest to God, the crassness.”
I grin at Tate. I love everything about him.
We hear footsteps, talking and laughter and back slapping. Tate looks to Islan. She rises wordlessly and takes his hand.
A moment later, the door opens, and a tall, thin bloke who looks so much like Leith it’s unnerving, walks into the room. He’s a bit ragged and battle-worn, but he has the vibrant Cowen Clan eyes and the lithe, strong physique they all bear.
He looks about the room, as if stunned, like he’s just woken from a dream.
He looks to Tate, then Islan.
“Tate?” He looks to Islan next. “Islan?”
Tate’s got him in a bear hug, and Tavish extends an arm to Islan. My throat feels tight, my eyes blurry with tears. We’ve somehow rolled back time.
The Cowen family’s whole again.
The sun’s almost fully set, small fingers of gold and orange and rust on the horizon.
I felt a bit out of place down there, during the reunion.
Tate called the rest of the family, and there was a right good reunion, though virtually.
I quietly took my leave when Flora came on.
Would break anyone’s heart to see and hear the raw pain when she saw her son, as if the years of mourning and grief spilled out of her all at once in a brutal, but necessary, cleansing.
I went up to the room and sat in one of the chairs, letting dusk settle around me. Planning my future.
The books are gone. I know that now, and I know it’s for the best. And it makes me sad when I think about it. Of course, if I had it to do over, I never would’ve used their family as inspiration to begin with.
But I love them. I love them all so much, and it was so tempting to write more and more stories of love and redemption about them. The paychecks didn’t hurt.
I know now it was far too risky, too dangerous for any of them. I owe so much to them for the havoc I’ve caused.
The door opens, and Tate looms in the doorway.
“Didn’t know you’d come up here, lassie,” he says quietly.
I nodded. “Aye. Didn’t want to be in the way.”
“You wouldn’t be in the way.”
I shrug. “Maybe not, but I felt you all deserved the reunion.”
He comes to me, settles beside me on the sofa, then drags me onto his lap. I nestle my head on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I say, still carrying the burden of guilt for what I did to them.
“None of that, now, Fran,” he says, running his fingers through my hair.
“What’s done is done. And aye, we blamed you for quite a bit, but it seems rival mafia are far more to blame than anything.
Interpol would’ve nicked us regardless of anything you did.
And now you’ve gotten us immunity with them, haven’t you? ”
I nod. “Suppose.”
“Not to mention the fact that you actually helped reunite us with the brother we thought dead.”
I shrug. “Kane would have—”
“Kane? No, lassie. Kane’s primary obligation was his job and saving his arse. You’re the one that brought this all together in the end.”
I let him hold me, my head tucked up against his chest. I breathe in the clean scent of fresh linen and the mild musk that’s all him. I close my eyes. God, but it feels good to be held after all this.
“I’ve come to a decision,” I tell him.
“Aye?”
I nod. “Aye. You know the Clan Chronicles have all been pulled from publication.”
He’s quiet, before he nods. “About that—”
I shake my head. “Nope. They will not be republished. No way José.”
He smiles. “Go on.”
“So what I’ve decided is this.” I look him straight in the eyes. “It’s time I wrote Russian mafia romance.”
He blinks. “Bratva?”
“Bratva.”
He’s laughing as he flips me over, my belly across his knees as he gives my arse a good, hard slap. He punctuates each syllable with a solid wallop.
“In. Corr. I. Gi. Ble.”
The rushed vows we took under duress are soon but a distant memory. We return to Scotland, but this time, we’re triumphant. Tavish is with us, and it amazes me how easily they all pick up again, almost right where they left off.
Tavish, like his brothers, is witty but stern, protective but fierce. He’s aged, but he’s still clearly the eldest.
Tate fills him in while we fly back, telling him everything that’s happened in his absence.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Last I remember, the girls were in primary school and Mac was just learning the ropes. Now they’re all grown up and he’s bloody married.”
Tate snorts. “And Dad was Clan Captain.”
Tavish sobers. “Aye.”
There’s a haunted look in his eyes as we return home. I’ve studied Clan hierarchy enough to know Leith is only first in command because his dad’s health made him defer his authority, and because Tavish, the rightful head, was gone.
What happens now? Will the entire hierarchical structure crumble?
No one talks about it, but I know it’s at the forefront of everyone’s mind.
Tate holds my hand as they talk, and it does my heart good to hear them. They rehash so many memories, both good and bad. Though Tavish isn’t my brother, I’m thrilled to have him back as well. I knew him when I was a child.
“And you two,” Tavish says, when we’re only minutes away from landing. “Tell me how this came about, eh? Fran, last I remember of you, you were a knock-kneed little lassie with a penchant for mischief.”
Tate tweaks my nose, the wanker.
“Some things never change,” he says.
We fill him in, telling him the most important bits. Tate leaves out everything about the novels, but he needs to know.
So I tell him. Everything. “They’re pulled from publication now,” I say, but I know that doesn’t make any of this right anymore.
Tavish strokes his stubbled chin thoughtfully, his eyes haunted.
“I know about the Clan Chronicles.”
I blink in surprise.
“What?”
“Aye,” he says. “And I want to thank you. I came across the books only a few months ago. Someone left one in a waiting room, and I picked it up. Thought I’d handed in my bloke card, reading romance, but the books are bloody good.”
“Thank you.” I feel my cheeks flush pink.
Tavish read my books?
“Aye, lassie,” he says, sobering as we prepare to land. “And I have to thank you. They felt so real, so familiar. It was reading all those books that helped trigger my memories, because I felt like I was home.”
Tate kisses my temple. “Now, love,” he whispers in my ear. “Now do you feel forgiven?”
When we land, there’s a veritable parade of people waiting for us. Bram and Flora Cowen, Paisley and Nan, Leith, Cairstina and their wee bairn, Mac and Bryn. There are tears and backslaps and laughter and groans.
The Cowen family is back together.
“Tempted to write a damn finale,” I say to Paisley.
She only gives me a wink. “Seems you already did.”