Triplet Babies for the Scottish Mafia Boss by Rosalie Rose

8

Malcom

“It isn’t what I imagined for myself.” I admit this as I cross to the car. Pete follows, loading in my bags. I resist the urge to turn and look up at the old, ivy-crawled stone walls of her room. “My father would be disappointed.”

“Your father was a man who knew when there was no room for compromise.” Pete says this with his usual softness, closing the door once my luggage is in. “Malcom, Sampson is a good man. He always has been, despite the things he’s had to do.”

I nod, jaw clenching as I face the sea, and Blicktenner, a series of blunt spires against the horizon.

“The world makes rough men of the best,” Pete says. “When Sampson lost his son, he lost his way. He’ll never appoint someone like him—someone without a line, someone without a future or a legacy. Perhaps it’s cruel it must happen this way. But Clarence is the only other man he’d appoint, and he knows your brother is, deep down, a monster.”

I grit my teeth. Pete is right. Sampson isn’t the stoic, clear-eyed ruler he once was. His judgement is whiskey-drowned and clouded by residual grief. Samuel’s death broke him, and mourning made him blind to reason. What would my best friend think if he knew what had become of his father? If he knew the cruel measures I’ve had to go to to convince Sampson I’m worthy of the mafia crown?

I remind myself then that for almost an entire lifetime, I’ve made my living by killing. I am a stone man. A statue. Made of marble and lies.

So why, then, do I feel I’ve also lost my way?

“She doesn’t deserve this,” I say, almost under my breath.

Pete averts his eyes. “She is a good woman. A very good woman.”

“Yes.”

“Make her understand, Malcom. Tell her the truth of the situation. Clarence would turn a decent syndicate into anarchy. Even if Sampson refuses to acknowledge this, it’s true. Your brother is not who he once was either. And his rule would only lead the mafia to danger.”

I nod. “I know. I knew this would be difficult. Knowing doesn’t make any of it any easier.”

Pete opens my door and I climb in. I’m about to close it, but stop myself. It takes me a moment to formulate the words. “I want her to feel free. She nearly died for that last night. She would have died to escape me.”

“But she didn’t, sir.”

“No.” And it’s a miracle. A miracle she let me save her. A miracle she asked me to. Is there some part of her that doesn’t want to resist? Does some part of her remember me as I was so many years ago? Could affection bloom where force and brutality have made barren ground? “Make her feel free, Pete. Make this place feel safe. Like a home. Like a dream.”

“I will do what I can to help her feel this way.”

“I don’t want Rosehill to seem like a new life for her. I want it to be one.”

Pete studies me. “Yes, sir.”

I sense there’s more he wants to say. “I have to go. I’ll be back by the end of the week. And Pete—if I need more hands on deck, I’ll get them.”

“I failed you once. It won’t happen again, sir.”

I almost smile at his sincerity. I know he means what he says. “Make her happy.”

“Yes, sir.”

And with that, I back down the drive and hit the road. I watch Rosehill shrink in the rearview, until the huddled hills have hidden it from view.

* * *

She was a gardener.

Emma gardens.

I look down at her body, splayed almost elegantly on the bedroom floor in death. She was older, but still quite pretty, with long blonde curls and eyes like honey. Who wanted her dead, I wonder? I check my phone, where a bank balance update awaits. I lift my brows. Someone very wealthy, apparently. Who was she to them? A friend? A lover? Family?

It doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.

I replace my gun in its holster, stepping over the woman’s body, careful to avoid the puddle of purple-red spreading from the back of her skull, across a very nice Persian rug. She didn’t deserve to die this way, whoever she was. But she didn’t see it coming, and the death was instant. A small mercy at a very high price point.

My phone vibrates as I make my way downstairs. Night presses against the windows, and I don’t turn on any lights as I pause in the kitchen. The number on my screen is marked as unknown—for a horrifying second, I wonder if it has to do with Emma. Fear lances through me. Is she OK? Did she run again? Is this the cops calling? A distant neighbor whose door Emma reached in panic?

“Hello?”

“Hey, little brother.”

Cold spills down my spine. I lean against the counter, where a half-glass of white wine sits forgotten. “What the fuck do you want, Clarence?”

“Easy, man! Jesus. You get so worked up these days. Back when we were younger, I swear, it was almost impossible to ruffle those feathers.”

I clench my fists. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to swing by the fresh crime scene. I always love that feeling, you know, walking through a newly-empty house, blood still wet on the floor…”

He says nothing for a moment, but this time I don’t play along.

“All right, all right,” Clarence laughs, “look, I’m out of office at the moment. But I thought I’d give you a heads-up—good old Sampson’s not doing so great. I heard he was coughing up blood and wound up in the hospital in Glasgow. I wanted to give you a chance to go say bye-bye, in case he’s, you know, on his way out.”

“Fuck you.” But my gut twists. Sampson can’t die—not yet. Not until I’ve secured an heir and his blessing. Not until I know he can die in peace, with me at the helm and my bloodline established. “You’re full of shit.”

“Yeah, say what you will, kid. Look, that’s not the only reason I called. I wanted to give you some peace of mind.”

What the hell is he talking about? Again, I bite back any response, forcing his hand.

“I’m over the channel at the moment. Gotta check on some family matters, if you know what I mean. But things are looking good. So before you go off fucking any womb that walks, I thought I’d dissuade you. I’ll be succeeding Sammy soon. I know he hoped you’d get a girl knocked up, but let’s be real, Malcom. Sampson isn’t going to last nine months. Much less however long it takes you to rope some girl into bearing your mafia-hitman spawn.”

Rage boils through me, but I bite it back. I can’t give him the satisfaction. “He’ll never name you,” I say coolly, even though it’s untrue. It’s all I can manage without losing my composure.

“Hey, we’ll see, right? Anyway. Gotta run. Always such a pleasure catching up though, little brother. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up before he can utter another word. A lead for another job has popped up on my phone, and right now, I could use the distraction. Besides, I know I need to give Emma space. She can’t bear it when I’m at Rosehill with her. So I’ll stay away while I can. Even if it’s just a while longer.

Because we are running out of time. And I don’t know how much longer I—or Sampson—can afford to wait.

All I can hope is that she has a change of heart—and soon.