Chapter 3 #2
Diran and Callum are retiring from their joint boss roles in September, when they turn sixty-five.
In preparation for that, the four cousins—Darian, Declan, Malcolm, and Chance—are vying for the position.
A few weeks ago, the twins announced that their successor must be either married, expecting an heir, or both.
So Darian has arranged for a contract marriage to Sorcha, Malcolm’s adoptive daughter.
Malcolm is marrying Moyra, and Chance is tying the knot with Isolde.
Only Declan has refused to take part in the rivalry, though I suspect if it comes down to just him and his brother, he may throw his hat in the ring.
The two brothers love competing with each other.
Diran’s lips twitch in the hint of a smile. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” He strides in and takes a seat in my meeting area. “I have a few things to discuss.”
Unfolding myself from my chair, I prowl over to the sideboard and pour us whiskies, handing him one.
I settle on the sofa opposite my boss, waiting for him to say more. In this business wasting words isn’t an option.
“D’you think Declan will try for boss?” he opens.
He knows how close I am to Declan, knows Declan wouldn’t want to offend his father by dismissing the position as anything less than enviable. For that reason he’s asking me rather than his son.
“If the others drop out of the running, Declan might give his brother some competition.” I take a sip of my drink. “You ken how they are.”
“Aye.” Diran turns his glass around thoughtfully. “Dec is content managing the legal businesses. He may not want anything more on his plate.” An insider’s smile tilts his lips. “Then again, Darian can’t get enough of the illegal concerns. Which is one reason he wants more power.”
Darian manages the illegal casinos and drug trafficking, while Declan oversees the clubs, hotels, restaurants, legal casinos, and front businesses, as well as The Diamond, a wildly successful fight club-casino.
Chance is in charge of all the enforcers, fixers, hitmen for hire, and captains, while his older brother Malcolm supplies the Syndicate with weapons.
Together, these four keep the Crew running as efficiently as a well-oiled machine.
“While we’re on the subject of the four underbosses, should we decrease the percentage Malcolm takes away?” Diran’s transparent eyes study me. “Currently he makes far more than any of us—eighty million a year. The captains have been grumbling about this.”
I flick up a brow. “They would. Most of them envy him and have idle tongues. But Malcolm works hard, and he has the most creative concepts of any of the underbosses. He should be rewarded for his enterprise.”
Diran nods, tilting his head. “Callum and me have also been debating getting rid of the illegal casinos and putting all that money into the legal businesses.”
I weigh the costs and benefits of this measure.
“Since obtaining a license isn’t a problem for the Crew, you might as well convert the illegal ones to legit concerns.
You’ll forfeit some of the proceeds from cockfighting and other outlawed activities, but you can double down on horse racing, boxing, and cards, all of which yield much more anyway. ”
“Awright. I myself was pushing for that.” He sets his glass on the table, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning forward.
“Now for the main matter.” He lowers his voice.
“A month ago a disaffected Syndicate captain, Dallis Leavy, persuaded another captain to show him a valuable list. Leavy somehow copied it and erased the original from our records. Then he turned the files over to the COPFS.”?5 Diran’s brow bunches.
“The list contains hundreds of lucrative contacts who have collaborated with the Syndicate in the past or would be willing to in the future, the most noteworthy being Evart Lowing, the multi-millionaire owner of Ener-Werx. Not only is this list invaluable to the Crew, but it’d be a liability to us and the contacts if the list were publicized.
Among the contacts are dealers, suppliers, middlemen, and construction companies.
The Lord Advocate claims the list is now public property and it’s his duty to use it to bring down the Syndicate and those who enable it.
Callum and me have done our utmost to convince the court to hand the list back, but they’re holding firm.
” Diran scrubs a hand over his scruff. “This is where you come in. You’ll argue our position against the Procurator Fiscal.
This case is make-or-break for the Crew, but I trust you and you alone to retrieve that list for us. ”
I shove a hand through my hair. “I’m representing the entire Syndicate?”
“Aye.” He fixes me with a shrewd gaze. “Without that list we can’t hope to expand into northern and Midlands England for a while yet.”
For months now the twins have set their sights on claiming Birmingham, Liverpool, and Manchester as ours. These cities together would bring in more revenue than all Scotland combined.
“Have you considered finding out where the court is storing the files and storming that location?”
A dissatisfied grunt rises in his throat.
“They’re in a safe somewhere, according to the Lord Advocate.
He claims they oughtn’t rightfully to be declared ours because we’ll use them for nefarious purposes.
If we tortured him for its location, it’d land us in hot water with the rest of the fucking COPFS.
We’re in a bind that can only be resolved at court.
” He pauses, taking me in. “Why, what’s the issue? ”
I lace my fingers together. “The Procurator Fiscal is going to maintain that only a legal entity can claim ownership of this property. Of course, I can argue the Crew is made up of individuals, all of whom are legal entities, and therefore their joining together is legal. But then I’m setting us all up to be subject to Scottish law, like a corporation.
This would establish a dangerous precedent.
My opponent will anticipate this and pounce on our reasoning. ”
“You’re saying they have us over a barrel?” Diran’s jaw ticks as he considers this problem. Then he squares his shoulders, leveling me with a resigned look. “I have the greatest confidence in you. Settle the matter however you can, but above all get back that list of contacts.”
I lean back in my seat. “Where’s Leavy now?”
Diran’s eye twitches, the telltale sign he’s annoyed. “We haven’t found the scumbag.”
“Is the court protecting him?” I muse.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. He knows we’d flay him alive if we got hold of him.
” He pushes to his feet. “Till then, we’re forced to play their game.
Not only do those contacts represent our chances in England, but having them back will spare us the enmity of all those people who stand to be exposed and have their reputation dragged through the mud. ”
“Can I put Manton and McCormick on my current cases so I can focus on the Lowing case?” I name it by the most influential contact on the list.
Diran waves a hand. “Wey aye.?6 Do whatever you need to do to win it.”
“I’ll file for us today.” I rise and see him to the door.
“And Leith”—Diran dips his head at me—“when you win this case, you’ll have a twenty million bonus.”
A half-smile curves my lips. “That’s very generous.”
“It’s the least we can offer. You’re giving the Crew its lifeline.” He saunters out, whistling The Marines’ Hymn from the States.
By my estimate, we’ll need the U.S. Marines to get us out of this mess.
I start jotting down ideas, leads to follow, people to contact, avenues to exhaust. It’s just the kind of problem that drew me to law.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and twenty million is a tidy incentive.
* * *
A few hours later I’m back at my bit, having filed as the Syndicate’s defense and obtained a court date five weeks from now, Monday July 15th. An alternative solution that occurred to me—that I claim the list as mine alone—was summarily rejected by the Lord Advocate, to whom I spoke before filing.
“In order for any individual in your organization to claim this list as his own, he would have to successfully recite every name on the list.” He peered at me over his thick spectacles. “First and last, inclusive.”
Obviously he thinks he’s on to a good means of bringing down the Syndicate, as he’s hoped to do his entire career. It’d be an excellent feather in his cap, possibly earning him a knighthood from the King.
I change into jeans and a T-shirt and go down to the kitchen, where Elsa, my cook, has left dinner on the hob. Cod wrapped in bacon with asparagus and hollandaise sauce.
Selecting a Vouvray from the wine fridge, I uncork it and serve myself a plate, taking it to the breakfast bar. The only thing that could make this dinner better is persecuting my future wife.
“Claude, call Iona.” I take a sip of wine and cut into my fish.
After a few rings she picks up, her tone put-upon. “Satan.”
A smirk finds my lips. “Flame. What are you doing?”
“Trying to forget I’m supposed to be fitted for a wedding dress tomorrow.”
“Are being fitted,” I correct.
“My schedule’s full?—”
“Clear it.” I carve an asparagus spear into bite-size pieces.
She huffs a sigh. “It’s Tuesday—my other weekly installment of Iona’s Bookish Rambles. I can’t cancel it.”
“What time?”
“Two.”
Her fitting is at 1 at Laverne’s, the most expensive dress shop in Glasgow.
“I’ll come online at 2 and make your excuses, fielding any questions.”
A gasp fills the line. “Holy shit. You’re serious?”
“Never more.” I refill my wine glass. “I’ll explain you’re my bride-to-be and couldn’t move your dress fitting.”
“Y-yes. I guess that could work,” she stumbles, no doubt realizing she’ll get millions of followers overnight by virtue of being engaged to me. “But this commits me to marrying you.”
“You already committed on Saturday,” I remind her coolly.
“How will I explain that one day I’m interviewing you as a celebrity and the next you’re my . . . fiancé?”
“Save that for your next live chat. Clear your schedule for Friday night as well.” I pop a piece of bacon in my mouth.
“What’s on Friday?”
“Our engagement party at Banyan.”
She sucks in a breath. “The Syndicate-owned restaurant in Cowcaddens?”
“Aye, and you’ll wear what I send you.” I haven’t picked anything out yet, but I want to fuck with her.
She scoffs. “You don’t even know my size.”
“Insulting my intelligence will get you nowhere. Obeying me will.”
“If it’s not to your graveside, I’m not interested,” she cracks.
You first, sweetheart.
My cock jerks in my trousers at her spirit. “Say that to my face, and I’ll do what I wanted to do when I first saw you.”
“What?”
I smile. “Put a collar on you.”
A sharp intake of breath tells me I’ve hit home. “As in . . . you wouldn’t.”
“Why not? You belong to me now.”
She huffs. “Hello, this is twenty twenty-four. You seem to think we’re in sixteen twenty-four.”
“I can do whatever I want with you, Flame, and the law will condone it.” My cock lengthens at the possibilities.
The law according to the Syndicate, which is a special law indeed. I.e., no law.
She seems to recognize this, as fraught silence weighs the line down.
Her voice comes out less certain. “You’re subject to rules too.”
“Am I now?” I take my wine over to the sofa and settle on it. “Name one.”
“You couldn’t—you couldn’t kill me. For example,” she husks.
“What makes you so sure?” I’m enjoying myself more than I have in a while.
“Well, there’s the Hague, for instance,” she falters.
The Hague. How cute.
“Under the category of crimes against humanity?” I suggest.
“Aye.”
“Let me suggest you not test that theory, Flame. You might find yourself on the wrong side of the afterlife, wondering where all your justice is.”
“You’d be a shite lawyer if you didn’t care about justice,” she argues with more assurance.
“Justice for whom, Iona?” I tip back my glass, wishing I were lapping up her arousal. “My Syndicate colleagues? Myself? You?”
“If you don’t have a conscience, I can’t do anything for you,” she concludes.
“Who gave you the idea I needed doing for?”
“Your last ten minutes of taunts?” she fires back.
A cruel chuckle tumbles from me. “Focus on pleasing me, and you’ll be fulfilling your main purpose from now on, Flame. I’ll call you tomorrow after the fitting.”
Waiting a long beat in case she has a comeback, I finally ring off, already bored with my solitary evening, which stretches before me like a nine-year-old’s summer holiday.
I’ll conduct initial research for the Lowing case. Time enough to devise more ways to fuck with my future wife’s head.
1?boner
2?knew
3?Nothing
4?raging mad
5?Crown Office and Procurator Fiscal Service. Procurator Fiscals are qualified solicitors who investigate and prosecute crime in Scotland.
6?Yes, of course