“International Crime Police Investigation,” he says. “Someone’s betrayed us.”
Keenan sobers, and I can tell he carries the weight of Clan leadership on his shoulders. The interconnectedness of the Scottish and Irish has never been more apparent than it is now.
“Fran’s confessed to all,” Tate says. “And she’s come with me to help me investigate.”
Keenan asks about the next book, and I feel my cheeks color.
Megan squeezes my hand. “I love those books,” she whispers. “It will be alright.”
Tate continues. “I got word from Leith just as we landed, they’ve brought her ex in to question.”
I shudder, imagining what exactly that would look like.
“He still alive?” Keenan asks with the cold, calculating look of a man who’s not above taking a life if he feels it necessary.
Tate nods. “Aye. And you know why we’re here, Keenan. You’ve had dealings with the Welsh, and you’re a refuge while we question who we need to.”
Keenan nods.
Tate continues. “The Welsh blame us for Interpol’s interference. They’ve found a woman, cousin to a former housekeeper of ours. Name’s Blair.”
My stomach twists.
Aisla’s cousin.
“This is all my fault,” I whisper, and the room grows quiet.
But Tate will have none of it. “No, lassie,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t you. We’ve many enemies, and it seems as if one of our own—another of the Scottish mob—has turned us in. They got names from Blair and Aisla, but there’s more. Someone else. Someone in the know.”
“Who among us is your enemy?”
“Aitkens,” I say, my cheeks burning as all eyes come to me. I know I’ve spoken out of turn, that it isn’t my place to interrupt them like this, but I quickly stutter an explanation.
“He plays nice now that his daughter’s a Cowen, I know he does.” I push past the knot in my chest, since it all is crystal clear to me, and they need to know. “But he had Blair on his payroll.” They all stare at me. “No one would suspect a member of staff, so he had her be the go-between. She’s been traveling in and out of Paris with her cousin.” I look at Tate. “Aisla, your former housekeeper. Blair’s been blackmailed by Aitkens, I can prove it.”
“No need,” Tate says quietly. “I believe you.”
My stomach twists when I tell Tate everything. “In the next book that’s coming out, I… we get into great detail about the enemies of the main family, and it’s… probably pretty clear that the Aitkens are involved. If they took anything that I’ve written as gospel…”
Tate’s phone rings, a blast of noise in the quiet. I recognize Leith’s ringtone. He stares at it. Keenan nods.
“Hello?” He closes his eyes briefly. “Jesus.”
He continues talking, gathers what information he needs, then hangs up the phone.
“Leith says Bryn found Aisla and Blair earlier tonight. In town. At her shop.”
My stomach drops to my knees, and bile rises in my throat. My words feel thick, my mouth dry as I whisper, “Dead?”
He shakes his head. “No, but badly injured. It’s a warning.”
“Aye. Her father wanted Bryn to find them.”
He nods. Tate stares at me, unblinking, and I feel literally sick to my stomach.
One by one, step-by-step, Aitkens has been trying to get to the heart of destroying the Cowen Clan.
“He wants to be the most powerful in Scotland. He can’t stand knowing that the Cowen Clan is more widely respected, has more influence and sway.”
“Aye.” Tate’s voice rings out in the quiet of the room. My cheeks burn as all eyes are on me.
“Tate,” Keenan says, his voice a low rumble.
Tate looks at him, and the room goes quiet.
“You know what this means.”
“Aye,” Tate says in a hoarse whisper. He looks back at me. “It means you’re in danger, Fran. The greatest danger of your life. If Aitkens is on to you, using one of your informants… if he knows you’re the writer, he’ll try to find you next.”
“I’ll need someone to check on my flat, to see if there are any signs of breaking and entering…” My voice feels like it carries from another room, as if it’s not my own. I pinch the bridge of my nose, as Tate’s fingers fly over the screen of his phone. “I have to use the sources I know. I have to investigate more fully. I have to pull everything together, see what I can find.”
“We have people to do that,” Tate says, but I shake my head.
“They’ll suspect you. Me, they won’t suspect.” I sigh. “It’s how I’ve gotten as much information as I have.”
Keenan and Tate share a look, but my mind is already racing. Here in Ireland, we’re at the very hub of mob activity that triangulates here, and I’m not sure the others in this room even know that. The McCarthy Clan works the gun trade here at the coast, our Scottish men have work they do in Paris, and even the Welsh have connections that meet to discuss business in smaller European countries.