Triplet Babies for the Scottish Mafia Boss by Rosalie Rose

4

Malcom

Irelease a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and lower the pistol. The hit was an easy one—a man who had an illicit affair with his brother’s wife.

The domestic hits always feel dirtier than the criminal ones, but I don’t turn down any jobs. That’s how I’ve built an empire from dust. That’s how my name—not my real one, of course—became a household one.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey and sit in one of the fine leather chairs propped around the man’s parlor. His place is nice. Seaside, with a view. Far enough no one would hear a gunshot, but I screwed on a silencer anyway. Clean. That’s what Sampson always calls me. And I’ve worked hard to live up to that reputation.

The dead man’s body is bent at an undignified angle. I clocked him dead-on, because he asked to see my face before he died. There was no recognition in his eyes, of course. No one knows me. I am a ghost.

I drink, turning my gaze toward the window. It’s nearly dawn, and the hills are illuminated in faint gradations, the sea visible between them. A slice of obsidian.

For a moment I wonder about this man, and this house of his, and this life he was living before I ended it for hard cash and a bulletproof reputation. Did he love it here? Was he happy?

Was the woman worth it?

The front door bangs open.

I’m on my feet in an instant, moving brisk and silent toward the entryway, pistol raised—

“Hello, brother.”

I turn neatly, not lowering my gun when I find my brother Clarence at the end of the barrel. He looks like me, but rougher. He’s taller, bulkier, and his beard is dusted with white. There are lines under his eyes and around his mouth. His irises are a stormy gray where mine are green—but I feel like when I look at him, I’m seeing my future.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I bite out, kicking the front door closed. “Someone could have seen you.”

“Relax, Malcom. Jesus. Always so worked up about something.” Clarence moves through the kitchen, grabbing a handful of grapes off the dining room table. He disappears behind the dividing wall, and I don’t move until he reappears in the parlor. “Oof. Right between the eyes.” With a gloved finger, he tips up the dead man’s chin.

An inexplicable black rage spreads through me. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Clarence smiles, popping another grape in his mouth and flopping into the chair. He picks up the whiskey I poured and throws it back in one easy slug. “Damn. Good stuff.” He studies the glass, then me. Smiles. “You know this isn’t going to work out the way you think it is, right, baby brother?”

I grit my teeth and force myself to lower the gun, sinking into a chair across from Clarence. “You’re wrong.”

“When Dad died and Sampson took us in, he all but called me his son.”

I try to look calm. Sampson Gladwell—the beloved and lethal head of the Scottish mafia—went way back with mine and Clarence’s father. But when Dad and Sampson’s son were killed in the same shootout, suddenly the line of succession was blown open. It’s been five years, and ever since, Clarence has been angling for the position. It’s true he was once Sampson’s indisputable pick—but times have changed.

“That was a long time ago,” I remind my brother.

“Sampson is being diplomatic at best, little brother. He would never name some street-level lone wolf hitman to succeed him. You don’t have the credit. You don’t have the experience. You don’t have the alliances.” Clarence leans back, looking proud of himself. His eyes flick to the window.

I follow his gaze. Outside, a small fleet of junky cars, hulking shadows inside. He did me the favor of driving inconspicuous beaters, but still, dragging his little gang of meathead misfits out here just to send a message? It’s stupid, reckless, and personal.

But it also flexes just how easily Clarence can find me, even this far from home.

“Look.” He leans forward, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. He looks like Dad when he does that—old and formidable. “I may have gotten my hands a little dirty the last few years.”

I narrow my eyes. Clarence has gambled, fought, and killed with impunity. He’s gotten into bad drug games, messy arms deals, and even, supposedly, crossed paths with the DEA. He’s not fit for the mafia, much less to lead it. Sampson knows—and that’s why he tapped me too.

“But I’m still top pick, Malcom. You don’t have a shot in hell at taking over. So back the fuck out, and let this play out the way it was always meant to. Okay?” He pours himself another whiskey and drinks it in one gulp, replacing the glass too hard on the table. “If you don’t, the next time I see you, it won’t be a sweet little catch-up like this. Understand?”

He claps me on the shoulder as he passes.

“We have to have an heir,” I remind him, not looking up, even though I sense him stop on the threshold. “Sampson Gladwell knows the importance of family. You don’t have an heir, Clarence.”

“You don’t know that, little brother.”

I look at him sharply, and find his eyes glittering with cruel amusement.

“And anyway,” he adds, “last I checked, you don’t have one either.” He drums his fingers on the doorframe. “Think about what I said, kid.”

And with that, he’s gone. I watch the cars speed off onto the gravel road and disappear into the huddled hills. Dawn is alighting, and I have another job lined up in the city. I straighten my gloves, clean up any prints I might have left, and leave.

But my head is still spinning as I hit the highway. Clarence revealed two important things to me today.

One, he might have an heir up his sleeve—a kid somewhere, whose paternity he’s probably denied until now, when it might actually be worth something to him.

And two—he doesn’t know about Emma Rosen.

But it’s only a matter of time until he does.