Chapter Three
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 people coming 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 of Blues 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 her long 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’s never 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.
“Do you need any backup?” Dad’s trying for casual but I can hear it, the concern.
“From the titan of industry who’s taking the family fortunes in an entirely legitimate direction?” I grin. “I don’t think this is the time to soil your good name, Sir.”
“It doesn’t mean that I don’t miss it,” he says, a bit of nostalgia in his tone. “What havoc your Uncle Alec and I used to wreak…”
“You know Mum is going to kill you if you tell me any more stories. She complains that you give me too many good ideas.”
“Good ideas?” he laughs. “All of them?”
“Every single one,” I agree, “especially the one where you two were in Madrid and-”
“Ah, ah!” he tsk’s disapprovingly. “If you really want to hear shite that’ll turn your hair white, ask your mother about the trouble her side of the family’s gotten me into.”
“That I believe.” I’m at the other side of Boston Common and the Four Seasons is just ahead of me, lights blazing into the twilight. “I need to go, Dad. There’s some planning to be done.”
“No one better for it than my son,” he says. I can hear the pride in his voice, even now, after all the disappointment I’ve surely caused him. “Be safe… Wallace?”
“Yes?”
“Call your mother, would you? If she finds out I spoke to you and she didn’t, she’ll give me the silent treatment.” He chuckles ruefully. “Her ability to hold a grudge is unparalleled. I think you get that from her.”
“It’s one of her finer qualities, so I’m honored.”
Three tech bro types are strolling shoulder to shoulder down the sidewalk, forcing everyone to step around them, including a college student struggling with a heavy backpack who nearly falls off her bike. Planting my feet, I stand in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at them.
For a moment, it looks like their privilege and multiple beers from some bougie nearby club will give them enough courage to challenge me. Then, their heads drop and they all step off into the gutter to pass by. It rained last night and their Gucci loafers are instantly covered with mud.
“Did I lose you?”
“Sorry, Dad. Still here. I’ll call her, I promise.” The tech bros scamper down the street, trying to scrape the crap off their shoes.
“Take care, son. Let me know if you need anything.”
“You as well.”
Putting my phone in my jacket, I walk into the lobby of the Four Seasons. The club is to my left, it’s dark, and quieter than usual, so I head in that direction.
The wall behind the bar is lined with lit shelves giving a warm amber glow, displaying hundreds of bottles of top-shelf liquor.
There are four couples seated in the recessed booths, a handful of businesspeople winding down from the day, and one corner filled with girls with sparkly dresses and red, flushed faces.
Aside from the front entrance, there’s a door behind the bar and the emergency exit in the south corner. Windows are too high to use for an escape.
As I seat myself, there’s a chorus of shrill giggles behind me, and the blond bartender barely controls his eyeroll before he smiles at me. “What can I get you?”
Nodding toward the bottle of Macallan 25-year-old single malt, “A glass of that.”
“Coming up.” He taps his knuckles on the quartz bar top. There’s another flurry of giggles from the table full of girls and demands for more champagne.
“Let me guess, a bachelorette party?” I give him a wry smile as he hands me my scotch.
“They told me that this was their first stop on a legendary bar crawl,” he sighs. “That was two hours ago. My goal at this point is to get them drunk enough to be able to pour them into an Uber and away from here.” I chuckle and he gives me a nod. “I’m Carl.”
“Michael,” I say. I use fake id whenever I’m working, of course, but I enjoy using my cousin’s name and information, just to feck with him.
“Hi. If we’re making introductions, let me jump in. I’m Maria.”
It’s one of the girls from the drunken gaggle in the corner.
She’s a pretty lass, black hair, brown eyes, and a dress that’s riding up, showing half of her arse.
Her glassy eyes explain why she was brave enough to approach me.
She puts up a hand, fingers twitching like she wants to grab my arm, but I narrow my eyes slightly, and she pulls back.
“Um, you should join us at our table,” she soldiers on with more alcohol than common sense. “We need some masculine energy at this point.”
My gaze travels from her to the table, where the girls are staring avidly. The bride-to-be, according to the sash hanging crookedly across her chest, licks her lips.
Maria’s pretty enough, with full breasts and her wet, inviting mouth. But even if she weren’t drunk off her arse, it’s not safe. The flame’s burning steadily inside me, staying low for now. When it ignites, so will I, and any semblance of self-control or normal human behavior will be gone from me.
This is not the time for me to be around other people.
“No, darling,” I say, the maddening itch of the flame crawling up my spine. “You should go back to your friends.”
Carl’s smarter than she is. In his line of work, he’s seen plenty of the best and worst of humanity and he knows when things are going sideways. He’s looking serious now. “Ma’am, if you want to go back to your table, I’ll bring you another round. On the house.”
Maria’s hand is sliding toward mine on the bar. “Or, you and I can take off together. You’re gorgeous. I love your eyes.”
I know what she's seeing. I'm 6'4, I inherited my father's height and broad shoulders. My eyes are a pale amber and girls love my blond hair, long enough to curl a bit. But that's just the exterior.
She’s not looking close enough because she’s not running away.
I lean just an inch closer. “Maria. Pretty girl with no sense of self-preservation. Go back to your friends.”
The lass sees it then. The madness dancing in my eyes sinks through her alcohol haze and she steps back hastily, almost stumbling on those high heels and hurries back to her disappointed friends.
Carl releases a slow breath. Pulling a stack of cash from my wallet, I slide it over. “This should get them drunk enough to send them home in liquid form and something for your trouble.”
“Thanks, Michael.” He gives me a relieved grin. “Have a good night.”
The bar is nearly silent as I leave, aside from the nervous whispers from the bridal party in the corner.
Back in my room, I strip down for a shower, trying to wash the feel of every encounter I had that day off me.
Afterward, I run the lass with the cat’s photo through my image recognition database.
The program comes up with several dozen possibilities, narrows it down to Boston, then pulls a Massachusetts driver’s license photo.
It’s nae flattering, this one. The lass is looking impatient, hair up in a messy ponytail and those lush lips tight. The terrible image still can’t hide how bonnie she is.
“Scarlett Banner,” I murmur. “Twenty-two, 5”10, 150 pounds, and an organ donor. Robert Banner’s daughter.”
Pulling up her social media accounts, I see she’s not particularly active. Smart girl. Her father would have told her not to give out information about herself. A few pictures from the beach on a sunny day, more of that cat with the spiteful glare. None from home.
“Ah. This is where you spend your free time, sweetheart.”
Scrolling back to last fall, there’s several pictures from the Halloween festival in Salem, colorful images of costumes mixed with shadowy, grim edifices of old buildings filled with the dark history of the witch trials. Now, I can see parts of Salem in the background of most of the pictures since.
Scarlett’s life isn’t spent in that expensive house on Beacon Hill, and knowing who her father left her with when he died, I canna blame her.