Leith: A Dark Scottish Mafia Romance: (Mountain Men) Read online

  “Come again?” Mac says, furrowing his brow as he looks at me. He’s the youngest of the brothers but older than the girls. Mac has my mother’s bright blue eyes, his hair as dark black as hers was when she was younger. He leans back, his feet up on the dash, watching me, his large frame at rest but imbued with latent power. He’s got my father’s breadth of shoulders, his arms as big as tree trunks.

  “Need a fucking guard dog,” I say, louder this time. “With more people populating the city, we’re liable to have visitors more often than we’d like.”

  Tate laughs out loud from the back. The middle brother, he’s quieter than the rest, but being the second oldest in the family means he’s taken on a good deal of responsibility. He has the occasional melancholy side since our eldest brother’s passing. Pragmatic and intelligent, he’d do well as Clan Bookkeeper or Secretary if he didn’t have the responsibility of a leadership role. As such, though, he’s the Chief, and second in command.

  “Leith, you’re out of your fucking mind,” Tate says, leaning on the seat to speak to me. “There’ve been, what—two people who’ve come anywhere near us since the fucking summer?”

  “Two people too many,” I mutter, ignoring the way the rest of them laugh.

  “Jaysus, Leith,” Clyde, our head enforcer mutters in his thick northern brogue. He’s a massive, burly lad of twenty-two, still wet behind the ears with a scant beard, but he and Mac are a veritable force to be reckoned with. “You act as if the two people who’ve come’ll fuckin’ threaten us.”

  “Alright, enough,” I mutter. I don’t care if these men are my brothers, my father never allowed backtalk and I won’t either. “I want a fucking guard dog, and we’ll have one by this time next week.”

  They’re all quiet for a minute. I’m new to the role of Clan Captain, and they’re new to the expectations of obedience and deference. Though I was second in command until recently, the Captain commands far more than the Chief does, and they know within Clan law they have no choice but to do what they’re told.

  “Alright, then,” Clyde says. “A dog it is. You know I’ve no real objection. I fucking love a good dog.”

  “Aye, same,” Tate mutters. “Now can you tell us, Cap’n, why we’re heading to the Cathedral?”

  “Aye.” I draw in a breath, mentally preparing for what lies ahead. “Keenan McCarthy contacted Dad today.”

  “Why Dad? Doesn’t he know you’re Captain now?”

  “Likely not.”

  “I’ll be sure he does,” Tate says firmly from the back. He’s the most loyal of our group, and I feel a surge of gratefulness. “He ought not be going straight to Dad anymore, but you.”

  “’Twill take a wee bit of time before the Clans recognize new leadership. But just the same, I’d appreciate that, Tate.”

  “Aye,” he mutters, then everyone goes quiet, waiting for me to fill them in.

  “McCarthy’s hacker discovered that fucking Aitkens was responsible for fuckin’ up our deal in Inverness last month.”

  The men mutter curses and grunts. Doesn’t matter which Aitkens it was. They’re all our sworn enemies. Though our Clan is reclusive and quiet, preferring anonymity, we conduct a good deal of business from Inverness to Edinburgh, between townsfolk, politicians, and our Clan allies. Occasionally we even work an arms trade with the McCarthys in Ireland.

  “But worse, they’re responsible for the vandalism in the Cathedral and the attack on Father MacGowen. Planning a second attack tonight.”

  “No fucking way,” Mac says, shaking his head. Every fucking Clan from here to the coast knows the Cathedral is sacred ground, but the Aitkens especially are aware that MacGowen is our Clan chaplain.

  “Why?”

  I shake my head. “Who knows, but not only is it a power move, I suspect foul play as well. You know some of the chalices and the like are worth a good sum.”

  “Right.”

  Even though I’m in the driver’s seat, I can feel the men behind me sitting up straighter. Mac cracks his knuckles, Tate’s muttering to himself, and Clyde’s large bulk is taut like a bowstring.

  “We’ll fuck ‘em up good,” Clyde mutters.

  “Aye, we will. But we’ll do so anonymously.”

  “What?” Mac says, outraged. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I am not.” They fall into silence, some of them silently fuming.

  Tate speaks up quietly. “Not showing our faces is a sign of weakness, Leith.”

  I shake my head. “They deserve to be punished for what they did, but I want them guessing who it is. I want them looking over their shoulders when they go to bed at night. I want them afraid for their women and children. I want them questioning every fucking dirty move they make.”

  We drive into the city in silence. Darkness has settled with the finality of evening, only moonlight illuminating the road before us.

  “I’ll not back down or show cowardice, you know that,” I tell my men. “But sometimes stealth is the better choice.”

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Cairstina

  I stare out my window at the moonlight sky, and for a brief moment, imagine myself sitting atop the large, glowing orb. I’d dangle my feet, reaching for the stars with one hand while anchoring myself with the other. Once I got a handful of stars, I’d swing right back up to the moon, nestling the stars in my lap and looking at each one in wonder. They’re all unique, you see, just like people, no two stars alike.

  I’m yanked out of my reverie with the crash of a door. I sit up in bed, gasping, my journal and pen falling to the floor. Shite. I try not to make noise when my brother comes home.

  “Where the fuck is she?” Oh no. Oh no. He knows, then. He’s found out already. I toss off my blanket and look about for my shoes. If I hadn’t let my damn imagination take me away again, I’d have kept track of the time and realized my brother would be back from work at any moment.

  I’d have already hidden until he got drunk off his arse and forgot about me.

  Dammit.

  “Where do you think she is?” my mother mutters in her oily, high-pitched voice. “In her fuckin’ bed being useless as always.”

  Her words don’t hurt me like they used to. Now it’s more like a scratch on a scabbed wound. Still painful, but not as much.

  I shove my mobile in my pocket, find one shoe, scrambling for the second, as his heavy boots come up the stairs. I find it just as he reaches the landing, shove them on my feet, and as the door to my room bursts open, I make my move.

  I duck his swinging fist, using the element of surprise to my advantage. He’s clumsy when he’s drunk, and if it’s anywhere near past midday, he’s drunk.

  “Fucking useless whore!” he roars. I’m halfway to the stairs when he grabs me by the hair. I open my mouth as if to scream, but as always, no sound comes. I thrash my hands at him, but it’s too late. He’s dragged me back to him and hauled me up in front of him.

  “Think you can get away?” he says, his face contorted in fury so he looks like a rabid dog. I bat at his hands, but I can’t get away from him. Even when he’s drunk, he’s a damn man, and stronger than I am by mere biology.

  There was a time Dougal and I were allies, but that was long, long ago. So long ago, it might as well be another universe. By the time he was ten, he’d learned from my father’s vicious blows and wicked strop that beating people weaker than you was a means to an end. Make others fear you, and you can have anything you want.

  “Why’d you do it?” he asks, yanking my hair so hard it feels as if he’s pulling it out. Tears blur my vision.

  My mother laughs humorously. “As if she’ll answer you.”

  “Why!” he bellows. I know exactly what he’s talking about, though even I could speak, I wouldn’t tell him why I pilfered money from the broken jar in the kitchen. What he doesn’t know is that I do it every week. I have a stash under my mattress, along with the money I’ve earned from my photographs, and by this time next month, I’l
l have enough to leave here for good.

  This time, I took a risk, though. Instead of the typical pound, I took a tenner. Goddammit it I couldn’t help myself, though, I’m that close to freedom.

  I can’t get a proper job. No one will hire the sister of Dougal Reilly, and even if I got a job, my brother would steal my money.

  Holding my hair with one hand, he drags me back in the room and slams the door.

  “Show me,” he orders, his eyes narrowed to furious slits. There was a time when he was a handsome man, with my father’s square jaw and even features, but now malice and alcohol have muddied his features. Now he’s nothing but a demon to me.

  I shake my head, and without warning, he rears back and backhands me. My jaw snaps and I taste blood. I stand up straight, not bowing to his assault. Not now. Not ever. I run my tongue along my teeth to make sure none have loosened and swallow the blood and bile.

  “Where is it?” he says, rearing back to strike me again, but this time I duck his blow and come up swinging myself. I knee him straight between the legs, catching him in the fucking bollox. He howls in rage and lashes out at me, but he’s clumsy, and by the time he tries to hit me again, I’m already halfway down the stairs.

  His hands between his legs as he screams at me, “Run, then! You’ll have to come home! And when you do, you’ll fucking regret it.” He’s too lazy to give me chase. But a howl and cry make me almost slow my run. Bailey. He kicked my dog Bailey again. I’d have rather taken his blows myself. I blink, tears rolling down my cheeks. Why do bullies have to abuse those too weak to defend themselves? I should teach that dog of mine to fucking bite him.

  I run until I get to the Cathedral. The one place in all of Inverness I feel safe. For a wee while, anyway.

  He’s right about one thing. I’ll have to go home eventually, as I’ve no other place to go. I have no friends but Father MacGowen, and the only family I have are back at the house. If I plan it right, though, I’ll get home tonight after my brother’s passed out and I’ll escape his fury. My mother will still be up, but she prefers to pretend I don’t exist. It’s the better of the two options anyway.

  I crouch against the stone wall of the church and breathe in deeply. Mmm. Incense. It’s one of my favorite smells on earth, though I’m not sure why. I must have some pleasant memory from my childhood or something, but the imaginative me likes to pretend there’s a bigger reason. Perhaps I was a priestess in a former life, or a cloistered nun in the quiet sanctuary of a monastery. I close my eyes and breathe the incense in, briefly imagining it brings healing properties.

  I open my eyes, and realize for the first time how dark it is outside. The incense isn’t from mass, then, but from earlier. A funeral, perhaps? I look over my shoulder and note there’s a light on in the church. I shiver with cold. I ran out of my house with my mobile and shoes but no jacket, and it’s a chilly evening in town. My thin jumper does little to protect me from the icy wind.

  I walk to the steps of the Cathedral, and marvel at each one. I like to imagine each step was set in place by an Angel, one of the majestic beings. Perhaps Michael the Archangel himself laid the final stone when the church was built. I can almost see him, with his majestic wings, formidable sword, and terrible, beautiful scowl. I know logically the sword is used to fight for the greater good, to cast demons into hell. But I like to imagine sometimes he’d use that sword to fight in my defense.

  I walk carefully up each step, enjoying my brief time of peace and quiet before I have to return back home. The scent of incense grows stronger as I ascend, my worn shoes noiseless on the stone steps. My heart does a little flip in my chest. The door’s ajar.

  I nudge the door open so slowly, it doesn’t make a sound. I slip through the open space. I’m small and slight, and used to moving quietly. To being unseen. I imagine I’m a ghost, haunting this church, in search of her long-lost lover. Does he come here to weep for love of me, as he recounts my untimely death? I imagine Father MacGowen, his arms over the shoulder of my lover, speaking words of comfort and peace in his time of loss.

  When I was a wee girl, back when I had the gift of speech, my mother would berate me for my imaginative ways. “You’ll accomplish nothing in life pretending everything away,” she’d say, waving her hand at me and sometimes shaking me if she caught me in a daydream when I had a chore to do. Little does she know now how rich my inner life is. She has no power over my silent imaginings. No one does.

  I walk with head bowed low, down the center aisle of the church, my hands clasped as if in prayer. I don’t know how to pray, though. No one’s ever taught me. I imagine it has something to do with high words and flowery details, and I’m good at that. I mutter my favorite line from Julius Caesar under my breath, "Cowards die many times before their deaths;

  The valiant never taste of death but once.”

  I’m so caught up in mourning the pretend loss of my own life, tears actually blind my vision.

  I kneel on one of the kneelers before the altar, and lift my face heavenward. I breathe in the cleansing smell of the church—that unique blend of incense, candle wax, and wood polish. I exhale in contentment, and pull out my mobile.

  I swipe it on and go to the camera. I’ve never used it as a phone. I certainly have no one to call or text. It’s a hand-me-down from one of Father MacGowen’s friends, who upgraded my phone and said he liked the pictures I took. I marvel at its capabilities.

  The altar’s still adorned with faded poinsettias from Christmas, though that was weeks ago. I forgot how long the Christmas season lasts in the church, but the Catholics don’t like to pack things up on December twenty-sixth. This weekend is probably the last weekend of Christmas or some such thing, I forget how they name it all.

  I kneel on one knee before the altar, amazed that the vibrant red flowers have lasted this long. I lift my phone, zoom in on the camera, and hold my breath as one of the flower petals falls to the ground. I click the button that makes a shutter sound, and glee fills me when I realize I caught it. It’s perfect, metaphorical and symbolic, the end of a season.

  I get lost in the moment, snapping pictures of the altar. Moonlight filters in from above, and it glints the edge of the golden tabernacle, shining like a beacon in the darkness of the church. I take picture after picture. The shadows beneath the statues, looming like omens from above. Melted wax on the side of the candle, a symbol of our mortality. The greenery around the altar, a sign of life eternal.

  A door opens, and I start, shaking myself for once again getting so caught up in my mind that I didn’t pay attention to details. I turn, looking for a place to hide, when Father MacGowen enters the church. He’s a young man, just around forty-years old, the youngest chaplain that’s ever resided at the Cathedral. Tall and thin with wire-rimmed glasses, he’s studious and quiet.

  If I could, I’d say something to him to alert him, but I’ve been cursed into silence.

  He doesn’t see me at first but walks toward the altar, his keys in hand. I watch as he kneels, makes the sign of the cross, then when he stands, his eyes meet mine.

  “Oh, hello there, Cairstina,” he says with a warm smile. “Gave me a wee bit of a startle, lass. I didn’t know you were there.”

  I nod in greeting, and I hope he knows I’m sorry for scaring him. His eyes go first to my phone, and he smiles.

  “Taking pictures of the flowers? Good timing, as they’ll be cleared away by the weekend.” I smile at him, wishing he knew how badly I wish I could speak to him. He’s the only one who understands me.

  He steps closer to me, when the moonlight shifts, falling right on my cheek. He gasps.

  “Oh, my,” he says sorrowfully, reaching a hand out to me. “Who did this to you?” At first, I don’t remember what he’s talking about, then quickly realize with shame that my brother left a mark. A swollen lip, perhaps, a reddened cheek. For a brief moment in time, I’d disassociated myself with that girl, so much so I’d forgotten the altercation before I came.

  If I
could speak, I’d ask Father MacGowen not to ask questions. If I could speak, I’d gently push him away and change the subject. Instead, when he reaches for me, I turn away from him. He pauses before speaking again.

  “I see, lass,” he says quietly. “I won’t ask any questions.” He doesn’t finish the sentiment. I couldn’t answer him if I wanted to.

  “Well, now, it’s a good job you’re here since I could use a bit of help closing up for the night, you know, and I—” His words are cut off by a slamming sound, and heavy footsteps entering.

  “Get down, Cairstina,” he says quickly, nearly shoving me behind the altar before he steps out into the open. His face is grim, as if he knows exactly what to expect. My heart thunders as my knees hit the rough burgundy carpet behind the altar.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Father MacGowen, show your bloody face!” an angry snarl of a voice declares. What an idiot. The priest just stepped right in front of the altar bravely, the call to have him come out completely unnecessary.

  “Who’s that?” Father asks. I can’t see a thing from where I am, but can only hear them. I begin to tremble as the heavy footsteps draw closer. How many are there? “Is that you, Alaster Aitken? Why come in here all forceful-like, when we can have a pleasant discussion?”

  But I can hear the thread of fear in his voice. Rumor has it these were the men that hurt him last month. No one knows why, only that he was found bloodied and bruised in the sanctuary. Some suspect it’s a warning to the citizens of Inverness, though none of us know exactly what the details are. My brother mentioned it could be the men of the north, but I know that isn’t true. I’m one of the few that knows Father MacGowen is allies with the men of the north. I may be the only one.

  “Now, gentleman,” Father MacGowen begins, and I suspect he’s only stalling because of me. He wants me to get away, but the distance from here to the sanctuary is too far for me to go unnoticed. “Honestly, you shouldn’t come here into a house of God with violent intents.”