Recently, though, he resigned his position as Clan Captain, and passed the proverbial baton to me. He said it was time, that he’d put in his dues. I think it had more to do with his failing health than anything.
My younger brother Tate took over as Chief, and Mac became Warlord, the head of the enforcers, though rank is only known among the Clan. We men of the north take our anonymity seriously. No one but our own, as well as other Clans, know who we are or what we do, and we aim to keep it that way.
“A drink, son?” I shake my head. I never drink this early in the day. What is it that’s on his mind?
I do take a seat, though. “No, thanks, Dad. Everything alright?’
He sobers, leaning on his elbows, and puts his fingers together. “Got a call just now from McCarthy Clan Chief Keenan McCarthy.”
I nod. I met Keenan last year when we took the rare venture to the south to help Mary. It was the furthest I’d ever been from my home in the mountains.
“Oh?”
“Aye. And he’s got a man on his payroll who’s a hacker. Knows the ins and outs of communication and the like.”
I chuckle. “Of course he does.” The McCarthy Clan is large and prosperous, their strength in numbers and skills nearly unrivaled by any other mob I know of.
“McCarthy says they got caught in the crosshairs of communication, and infiltrated correspondence that said Mingus Fucking Aitkens alluded to being responsible for interference with the deal we made in Inverness last month.”
I bristle.
“Did they?”
Dad nods. “And furthermore, according to McCarthy, Aitken’s men were responsible for the devastation in the Cathedral and the attack on Father MacGowen. McCarthy’s sources say they’re planning a second attack this evening.”
I curse under my breath, keenly aware that I just chastised Paisley for doing the very same not ten minutes ago.
“Were they?”
“Aye.” He shakes his head, his thick northern accent coming out when he’s agitated. “Ah dinae ken, son, the fucking bastards. Reckon they think they’ll get a wee bit of leverage if they take that tact, hmm? Aitkens fancies himself the fucking Lord of Inverness and Laird of all.”
I nod. “Aye, sir. He does. So you reckon we should pay them a visit, then?”
“No question. Take your brothers and enforcers. Prepare to intervene when they attack the church. There’s no need for bloodshed, though a proper beating may be necessary.”
“Hope I get the fucking chance.” I get to my feet and head for the door, eager to prepare my men, when my father’s voice stops me.
“You’d wait for a fucking chance?”
My hand freezes on the doorknob, my anger resurfacing like a tidal wave. Of all the bloody cheek—
“Leith.”
I exhale a ragged breath before I turn to look at him. “Aye?”
There’s challenge in his eyes, a reminder that I’ll never be his first-born son, that I’ll never rule the way he fucking did.
“Remember, the Cowen men don’t ever harm the interior of the church. Somewhere outside will suit thee well.”
Like I need the fucking reminder.
“Aye.”
He can’t give me direct orders per our strict hierarchy, but as former Clan Captain, he has sway. As my father, he has even more.
He’s given me instructions to harm our rivals, to make them hurt, but the heavens themselves will wage war if we harm the church.
I shut the door behind me, and nearly collide with Mum. Her hair’s gone white in recent years, cut short, but her eyes are still vivid bright blue. Despite her small stature and age, she’s smart as a whip and clever to boot. She’s slender and youthful, dresses in simple leggings and tops, and would fit in easily with the much younger crowd of women in Inverness.
“Everything alright, son?” Her eyes cut to my father’s study door. If anyone’s keenly aware of the tension between us it’s Mum.
“Aye. We’ve a job to do. Dad’s got news from the south that impacts us.”
I don’t give her details, and she doesn’t ask questions, but she walks with me. I’m mentally preparing to leave and drive into Inverness to kick Aitkens arse. I haven’t driven off this mountain in fucking weeks.
“A word, son?”
“Aye.” I don’t have much patience, as time is of the essence here.
“I came across Paisley a short while ago. She was crying, Leith.”
I roll my eyes but don’t reply. I make a sort of grunting sound as I shoot a text to my brothers.
Need to run an errand in town. Will fill you in on the way. Retribution in store. Be here in ten minutes.
Their responses are prompt.
On my way.
Be there straight away.
Yes, sir.
I look up at Mum, who’s patiently waiting, her hands folded in front of her and a soft smile on her lips.
“Aye. What about Paisley?”
“Leith, she’s more sensitive than Islan, you know that.” It’s true. Islan’s a veritable fireball.