Chapter Nine
Michael…
The next morning…
“Y’know, for a man so eager to marry Sophie, it dinnae seem like you’re interested in being within two meters of her.”
I open one eye to see Duncan lounging in the chair across from the sofa I’m lying on, peeling an apple with a knife. “I’s that my fecking knife?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
“Aye, it was in your suit jacket pocket,” he says, continuing to create a perfect red spiral of peel.
“You’re using my one hundred and fifty year old dagger made of Damascus steel to shave your fecking fruit?” I growl. “Give it here, ye dobber.”
He tosses it to me, immediately splattering my Gucci dress shirt with juice and bits of apple. “I’d meant after ye cleaned it.”
“The stains are an improvement on that shirt,” he says, unrepentantly, “ye look like and smell like ye spent the night in a badger’s den. Have ye changed in the last thirty-six hours?”
“I’ve been busy.” Sitting up and swinging my feet onto the floor, I crack my neck. “Catastrophic security breach? Fallout with law enforcement and our Yakuza allies? Any o’ this ringing a bell for ye?”
“Who do ye think sat in Inspector Thompson’s office - a closet the size of the trunk of my car, mind - for six fecking hours?” he says irritably. “Yet I still took a shower and slept for a full three hours because I’m a hedonist like that.”
“Where are we at now…” I check my Patek Philippe watch. “At nine am?”
“The immediate security leak has been plugged, thanks to your sudden nuptials,” he says, “and may I add how wounded I am about not being invited? It sounded like a beautiful moment, a twining of two great houses, a-”
“If ye dinnae have anything else to report,” I cut him off, “I’ll be getting some coffee and then dumping the rest of the pot on your head.”
Entering my parent’s dining room, it dinnae look like anyone got a good night’s rest. My father is yawning into his fist and based on the burnt toast and blackened bacon, Mum tried her hand at cooking again. It looks like Cameron, Ethan, and Xenia spent the night as well.
“Ye looked better coming down after a three day rager,” Ethan says bluntly. “I’d know, I was there for some of them.”
“If everyone’s finished disparaging my handsome face,” I say, “maybe we should talk about the next move?”
“I still can’t accept that Martha would do this,” Mum says sadly.
“I still canna accept that our background check dinnae pick up her real identity when we hired her,” Da scowls.
“If I’d been here, I’d totally have caught it,” Xenia volunteers.
“Not the time, Xenia,” I snap.
She widens her big, blue eyes at us. “Too soon?”
We poached Xenia from a tech company in Connecticut several years ago and the woman is brighter than half our senior executives. Combined.
Unlike most hackers who seem to be fond of blue hair and ripped band t-shirts, she wears sweater sets and pearls like a New England matron.
She’s one of the most cunning human beings in the crime world, and I know she’s gotten offers to jump ship before.
Da keeps hiking her salary and an unlimited budget for all her gadgets.
He knows how to keep his employees happy.
“Fine,” she puts up her hands, “I’m just saying…”
No one has much of an appetite, and not just because Mum’s cooking is genuinely terrible. I text a suggestion to Miss Kevin to start looking for a new chef, now that Martha will no longer be allowed in the main house.
My fingers still on my mobile. Of all the petty betrayal we’ve dealt with, I know why this one is hitting us all the hardest. Martha was a fixture in the lives of my younger brothers and sister, growing up.
Her spectacular meals were the centerpiece of our family gatherings.
And Sophie, sweet Sophie, was indelibly etched in those memories, too.
Though perhaps not so sweet, Sophie, my wife. I still have no way of knowing whether she was part of her mother’s betrayal.
Rising quickly, I kiss Mum’s cheek. “I’ll be in the office if anyone needs me.”
She follows me out into the echoing marble hallway. “You should check on Sophie.”
“No need,” I say coldly. “Ian’s keeping an eye on her. I’ve got work to do here.”
“Sweetheart, you’re forgetting that I’m your mother.” She smooths my rumpled shirt. “I know very well that you would not have married Sophie simply out of mercy. You care for her, or you would not have done this.”
Tilting my head, I eye her thoughtfully. “Have ye already forgiven them, then?”
She gives me a sad smile. “I have.”
“How?” I dinnae understand her. “How can ye, so quickly? Knowing what it’s cost us?”
“Because if I were Martha, in that position of desperation and powerlessness? I would have likely done exactly the same thing.”