Chapter Thirty-One
In which we learn there is a human version of the gadfly that is even worse than the insect one.
Scarlett…
I am so caffeinated that my skin is vibrating.
Wallace urged me several times to take a nap on the very comfortable couch, but I couldn't. It feels like we’re in suspended animation, his father lying motionless in his ocean of blinking medical equipment. Then, Wallace and Alec will discover some new outrage and time speeds up again.
“They hit our legitimate businesses?” Wallace snarls, gripping the table hard enough that I hear the wood creak.
“They firebombed the Medusa Club and destroyed a high-end clothing shop we just opened on Sloane Street in Chelsea,” Alec confirms grimly.
“Whoever this is has no problem with risking innocents, nor attracting unwanted attention from Scotland Yard. So far, the inspectors we have in our pocket are holding off so that we can take care of our own problems. But if this gets worse, there’s bound to be a few politicians we haven’t paid off who’ll raise a stink. ”
“I’m always happy to pay a visit to the first one to open their fucking mouth,” Wallace says. There’s an eagerness in his tone that chills me.
There’s a loud ‘ding!’ on the laptop and I jump half a foot. Definitely, too much caffeine.
“It’s Xenia. She put the image together.”
The picture I’d seen pulled from the security camera was terrible, fuzzy, and hard to recognize anything.
This masterpiece is crystal clear. The construction site is empty of people on the level where the girder is dangling, except for the construction worker on the girder, he’s swarthy-looking, wearing an ill-fitting hard hat and yes…
“You were right, Scarlett. Well done,” Alec says. “It’s a long-range sniper rifle modified with the shorter barrel.”
Wallace points to the next image, a closeup of the man’s arm. “Recognize the tattoo?”
“Fuck!” Alec says, but he says it in a posh British accent, so it sounds elegant.
“What are we seeing?” I ask.
“The tattoo. He’s working with the Krasniqi mob, they’re an Albanian crime family,” Wallace explains. “They’re a fecking nightmare.”
“The Gadfly,” Alec says. “I can’t believe he took this job.”
“Gadfly?” I’m confused. “Like the insect that exists only to bite animals and people?”
“Exactly. The human - well, subhuman - version of the gadfly is a person who irritates or instigates,” Wallace says.
“This useless feck makes a fortune off doing the dirty work, the destructive, shitty attacks, keeping the target busy cleaning up the mayhem while his client does the real damage behind the scenes.”
“The Gadfly,” I nod. “He sounds like one of those bargain basement villains, like the Temu version of the Joker.”
They both look at me blankly. Everyone here is too rich for Temu, I guess.
“He signed his death warrant when he shot my father,” Wallace says. He sounds completely emotionless. “I’m going to kill every man in his mob. I’ll burn down everything he has to bone and ash. This motherfucker will be the cautionary tale of the decade.”
Staring at my husband’s remote expression, I believe him.
“I’m going to be busy for the next few weeks.”
We’re in the back of an armored Maserati SUV, and Wallace is staring out the window.
“Because you’re hunting down that Albanian scumbag?”
“That, and managing the family business,” he says. “The attack on my father is going to spook clients. I’ll need to make it very clear that it is business as usual.”
“What can I do?”
He gives me a quick, impersonal smile that tells me my offer of help to him is about as useful as when I offered it to his mother: as in, not at all.
He’s busy sending off rapid-fire texts as the SUV turns onto a beautiful tree-lined street.
The houses here are clearly well over a hundred years old, the street is still paved with cobblestones.
A tall, black iron gate opens majestically, and as we drive in, there’s a weird disappointment I can’t explain.
The house is certainly beautiful, white stone, several balconies look out onto the street, and the door is a glossy black.
It looks like it should have a starring role in Downton Abbey.
The front is filled with overflowing pots of flowers, braving the October chill, and the maple trees have a riot of gold and red leaves.
It’s perfect. And cold. Nothing like Wallace’s stone house in Edinburgh.
“Have you had this place long?”
Wallace helps me out of the car, still texting with one thumb. “I bought it when I went to Cambridge,” he says. “It was a good investment.”
“Oh.”
The front door suddenly swings open and I stifle a yelp. There’s a tall, pale man in a grey suit and tie, giving a slight bow.
“Welcome home, Mr. MacTavish-Taylor,” he intones.
“Thank you, James,” Wallace barely looks up from his phone. “This is my wife, Scarlett MacTavish-Taylor. I expect her comfort to be your priority over the next few weeks.”
If possible, Jeeves? James looks even more despondent. “Of course, Sir. Madam.”
Gio steps up behind me, putting our bags in the black and white tiled hall, where James views them with the same enthusiasm one would reserve for roadkill.
“I’ll take these up to the master bedroom,” he says sadly.
“He’s a ray of sunshine, eh?” Gio murmurs to me. I stifle a giggle because I wouldn’t want to hurt James’ feelings and also, because there’s something about this house that doesn’t inspire laughter.
Wallace straightens his jacket and leans over, kissing my cheek. “I have to leave for a couple of meetings. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He’s clicking his lighter again. On and off.
“You haven’t slept in thirty-six hours,” I say quietly, holding on to his jacket. “Could you get some rest first?”
He shakes his head, his attention already back on his phone. “I’m afraid not. Ask James for anything you need. I have a chef come in and stock the fridge every other day.”
As the front door shuts behind him, I realize he kissed me on the cheek. Like a maiden aunt. He’s never not kissed me like he was barely keeping himself from devouring me.
Turning awkwardly, I follow James up the stairs.
My phone’s vibrating insistently against my stomach, and I realize I fell asleep on top of it. The streetlights are shining in the big windows and checking my phone, I realize it’s 2am, and Wallace isn’t back yet.
“Hello?”
“You sound groggy as hell,” Morgan says. “Or are you just shitfaced? Shitfaced sounds like more fun.”
“I wish.” Rolling over with a groan, I force myself to sit up. “You got my text about Wallace’s dad?”
“Yep. I’m guessing it was a rival mafia or something?”
“It’s complicated.” I walk into the bathroom and wince at my reflection. “What I’ve gathered is that his father was shot by The Gadfly, but he’s not the real villain. There’s somebody behind the scenes doing the real dirty work.”
“Wait. Fly Guy-”
“Gadfly. You know those horrible little bitey flies? He’s like that. The distraction.”
“Shooting someone as powerful as Alastair Taylor sounds suicidal,” she says doubtfully. “How’s Wallace taking this?”
“He’s almost unrecognizable,” I admit. “He put on an expensive suit and turned into someone else. I’m not even sure where he is right now. He’s got one foot into revenge mode and the other into propping up the company’s image.”
“He’s got to come home at some point,” she says. “You can sink your claws into him then and thaw through that first layer of asshole around him. Do you want a spell bag? I can send you a couple of things. There’s a gris gris bag that-”
“Let me try getting him to talk to me first.”
She sounds a bit sulky. “My way is faster.”
“Tell me about you. Any more creepy visitors to the spellshop?”
“None. Unless you count some of my regulars,” she laughs. “I’m safe, you have enough to worry about.”
We talk for a while until I can barely keep my eyes open and we say goodbye.. How is Wallace handling this? What business meetings does he have at 3am?
Wandering downstairs, I find a meal in the fridge- risotto with crab in cream sauce and wolf it down, walking around the kitchen. It’s crammed with high-end stainless-steel appliances and an espresso machine so complicated that I can’t find an ‘on’ switch or even where the espresso would come out.
The oven and fancy stovetop look promising, but when I look for the basics in the pantry like flour, sugar and the like, there aren’t any. Does his chef even cook here?
I’m going to wait up for Wallace. There’s a stack of artfully arranged wood in the fireplace, just like at home, and it blazes to life with a single flick of the lighter. I warm my hands with a deep sigh. This is the closest I’ve felt to Wallace since we came here.
“What are you doing down here?”
I wake to my husband’s warm hand on my shoulder. “I was waiting for you to come home. What time is it?”
He checks his watch. “It’s almost six. I’ll take you up to bed.”
I grab his tie. “Only if you’re getting in that bed with me.” There’s hesitation there and I take advantage of it. “Please? You’ve got a lot to do and it’ll help your focus to get some sleep.”
“For a couple of hours,” Wallace nods reluctantly.
We get maybe three hours of sleep before all hell breaks loose again.