Prologue
Brody
My hand snakes out, clasping the barber’s scrawny neck. “Watch the beard, or ye’ll be dying.”
“I’ve always paid special atten . . . Ye-yes, sir.” The ginger corrects his tone. He lowers his eyes to the stainless-steel bowl of shaving cream in his hands. I click my tongue, release his collar, and settle back in the old-school leather seat. The whole place is fashioned similar to where Da took my wee bràthair, Leith, and me when we grew up in the Highlands. Linoleum checked floors, chrome, and a sign that looks like half of a wee candy cane. But I’m not chasing nostalgia, and this ain’t nae fecking social session. This is about me.
Me and me beard.
One could say I love my beard about as much as I love my mam, my six bràthairs, my da, and my clan. My fingers curl around the chrome finish of the armrest, and I’m telling myself to enjoy the self-care time. I work hard, toss my weight around, threaten, murder, I’ve earned this wee slice of heaven. Don’t think of her. My cock twitches at the thought of Justice. She’s a natural dark beauty, full-figured, rounded hips, and sweet, round cheeks, above and below. Perfect for corruption.
There’s a slight tremor in the barber’s hand while he slathers shaving cream. I live for the earthy scent of this stuff: coriander, eucalyptus, peppermint. At first inhale, I usually relax.
Not today.
The barber admits, “You’re a bit testy—more than usual.”
I pin him with the look. Talk over. As the cool cream edges the perimeter of my beard, I close my eyes and contemplate the truth. I’m nae sunshine and daisies. But this? Justice did this to me. God made women from the rib of man, not the other way around. Her unwillingness to abide by that rule has made me a cold-blooded arsehole.
I force myself to focus on the straight razor traveling the edge of my jaw, lining up my beard. In my line of work, one must never let down his guard. From appearances, my bulky muscles have relaxed. However, though sightless, I’m vigilant.
I focus again on the progress. Best to think of that then Justice anyway. The sharp shear lowers onto my skin, drags over my vein, travels, then lifts again.
At a break in the routine, I peel my eyes just so and gauge the barber’s location. He’s at my right, but I could’ve sworn he was closer to my left. Someone else’s here.
Another lad’s behind me, and that makes him a dead motherfecker. In a mighty jerk, my head slams backward.
The stranger gasps in surprise.
A garrote, meant for my fecking throat, misses its mark. The sharp wire bites through my white shirt, slicing along my chest. Not what the arsehole was aiming for. I lift my arms, grip the man’s scrawny neck, and wrench him over the left side of my shoulder. He’s nae wee lad, but I’m a big motherfecker.
A bad motherfecker.
A mad motherfecker.
My so-called assailant tumbles to the ground. I anchor a hand at the counter and the other on the armrest. My boot clobbers down. I stomp the man’s spine, his neck, and give him a swift kick up the arse. Reaching down, I grip his collar and glare at the bloody pulp. “Who the feck do ye work for?”
Red-stained teeth grit out, “Ki-kiss my—”
My knuckles slaughter his mouth. The sharp jolts of pain are a subtle reminder that I was pissed moments ago. The focus of my wrath was Justice Flowers.
My gaze sweeps toward a soft trembling movement to the left. The barber I’ve trusted for five years still has the straight razor in his hand. The light reflects across the foreboding blade.
I open my palm. “May I?”
He gestures to the razor.
“Aye.”
When he hands it over, I pay tribute to Justice by saying a quick, gritted “thank you.”
She’d be proud.
Fisting the handle, I reach down and point the blade at the lad. “They call me the Surgeon. The Glasgow smile’s my specialty.” My hard eyes glower into him. “Ye’re deid. Ye can die with that dog face. Or we give ye a brilliant grin, aye?”
Fear glints his eyes.
I press the knife-edge to his jaw, leaving a clean, taunting gash. “Ya know, I’m being honest here. I’ve this way with me hands. Cutting lads comes deid natural to me. Wit’s it gonna be? Who are ye?”