Page 12 of Ride the Whirlwind

“Do you know something I don't? What’s wrong at home? Are any of my children sick? Spitfire? Pater? Please, tell me, Doc!” Ardan brought his hands together in a pleading gesture, his voice broken.

The doctor let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “My closest friend and benefactor, the man who saved you and Brodie's life, has some big problems I'm not authorized to talk about. The presence of some strangers in his house, at this particular time, would arise the suspicions of his associates, and that's the last thing he needs.”

A moment of heavy silence followed the doctor's words, then Ardan slowly nodded. “Loyalty is a quality I value the most in people, so I understand. I'll wait for as long as it will be necessary. After all, I owe your friend my life.”

Doctor Douglas swallowed hard, avoiding his patient's innocent gaze. “Speaking of friends, Brodie will be here in a couple of minutes. You waking up and being coherent for more than five minutes is a special occasion that calls for celebration, so the two of you have a whole hour to catch up.”

The doctor left the room before Ardan got the chance to thank him; guilt was crushing him, and he couldn't stand to see how the man who fought so hard for his life fell for the lies he’d fed him with. However, the friendship Douglas had for Graeme didn't leave the doctor any other choice. If things would go downhill, he was determined to use Ardan MacNamara's reputation and influence in the Mafia to his friend's advantage.

Douglas MacNabb spent thirty-four of his forty-five years of his life in a world governed by its own rules, a world of bloodshed and brutality, but also of loyalty, honor, and lifelong friendships; the world of San Francisco Scottish gangsters. One of the things he learned from a very young age was the hierarchy, not only inside an organization, but also between different families.

At the top of the pyramid, although it didn't belong to the Mafia, was the Dragons' House, a crime-fighting multinational structure. All the men of honor interested in protecting their legal companies and territories from the brutal attempts of drug lords, weapons traffickers, and prostitution ring leaders to take control over their organizations wanted them as allies.

When he’d undressed Ardan of the uniform-like clothes he wore to clean his wounds and assess them better, Douglas saw the two rings hanging on the gold necklace around his patient's neck. One of them was a wedding band, but the other one, shaped as a dragon with ruby eyes, made the doctor gasp in shock as he took a closer look at it.

Power. Respect. Influence. The bearer of that ring had them all, and more, at his fingertips. He could stop a street war, like the one that threatened to break a couple of months earlier, or cause one. “Ardan MacNamara and the organization he represented were the kind of allies my friend Graeme needed,” Douglas said to himself.

For more than two decades, the man was the undisputed leader of all the San Francisco Scottish gangsters. He’d earned his associates' and subordinates' respect, ruling them with diplomacy, understanding, and wisdom, but also showing ruthlessness when the situation required. However, at fifty-five, Graeme decided it was time to retire and appointed his only son, Camlann, as his successor.

The problem was that most of his associates completely ignored the young man before his father's announcement and didn't hesitate to express their disapproval of the boss's choice. The indifference some of them showed to Camlann turned to hostility, making him avoid his father's partners.

Meanwhile, in his bedroom, unaware of his friend's thoughts, Graeme was getting ready for the meeting that was about to start in about an hour. The man studied his image reflected in the huge mirror, his deep-blue eyes narrowing dangerously. Those opposing him better beware, he had enough of their attitude and was tired of playing nice without getting anything in return.

Graeme expected the confrontation to be heated, bitter even, but he was going to make sure Camlann would get the position that was rightfully his, no matter what means he would have to use. With that thought in mind, the man left the bedroom, going into his office where a neat stack of documents was waiting on the desk.

“Mallory Stark”—the lawyer he met during his last visit to New York City—“was damn good at what he was doing,” Graeme said to himself as he looked once more through the papers. Everything was clearly specified, there was no way any of them could attack his decision in court. The man sighed, wishing things wouldn't have to go so far.

Camlann was a capable leader who could make the organization bigger, stronger, and more respected than it ever was, but those people didn't give him the slightest chance to prove himself, and now they were going to suffer the consequences.

CHAPTER 10

“Thank you for coming in such great numbers. I'm happy to see my word still means something to you. I'd be even happier if you would approve my choices, too, but I guess even I can't have everything I want.” Graeme smiled; his voice saddened a bit.

“You are the boss. It’s our duty to answer your call, but we can't jeopardize the future of this organization by putting that young man in charge. He is not made for the job, doesn't have the necessary qualities, and doesn't know how to talk to the people. With all due respect, boss, the one you want as your successor is a scared bunny, and there's no place for scared bunnies here.”

“Lawrence MacCabe. Rich, handsome, with a charming personality, proud father of two sons...should I continue? I'm sure most of our partners would be thrilled to support you as my successor because you possess all the qualities of a leader. All, except one: you are not from my bloodline. If I think better, you are also too impulsive for a leader.”

“You’re right, boss,” George McIntyre, another of Graeme's important associates spoke up. “Lawrence is also too young at twenty-nine, and your candidate is even younger. The future leader has to be a mature, experienced man, not a kid without credibility and reputation.”

“Camlann. This is my son's name, and I would appreciate you using it when talking about him. And for gods' sake, good people, no one objected when I became the leader of the organization at only twenty-two with no one to guide and advise me.” Graeme's voice was still neutral and low, but he felt the anger rising inside him.

“Those were different times, and you had a different upbringing,” McIntyre replied. “Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against...Camlann spending all day in your library among mountains of books, but the place of a leader is among his people. You were at your father's side since you were only seven, unlike him, who...”

“I got the idea.” Graeme smiled tiredly. “You don't want my son as your boss, and nothing I'll say can convince you to change your mind. I'll retire as planned, and I'll approve your choice of successor, whoever he would be. Before that, there is one more thing I'll do. Take a look at this.” The man gently pushed a folder from the pile he brought with him.

His associates got the message, left their seats, returned shortly after with a folder in their hands, and started to examine its content. “But...but boss, this is...you can't do something like that to us, this is...” Lawrence MacCabe stuttered, his eyes wide in surprise.

“A business proposition.” Graeme smiled. “I said countless times that I plan to retire, and I meant every word. I've come to that point in life where I don't want to worry over merges, acquisitions, contracts, and so on. I’ve already been in touch with the accounting department. They will do an exact calculation of the amount you owe me as a compensation.”

“And what about the future of the company? All those new projects we started and the investment opportunities...” Timothy Fitzgerald, one of the newest associates, intervened in a shaky voice.

“Sorry, kid, not my business anymore. Ask your partners here. They voted my family out of the company. By the way, some of the ideas that put big money in their pockets belonged to the one who spends the whole day in the library among mountains of books.”

“Who's Camlann's mother? You obstinately refused to share this information with our fathers and us, and that's the main reason why we are against you appointing him as your successor. What if his male relatives, whoever they are, will barge in here one day, claiming a piece of the big cake for themselves?” George McIntyre's words made the other men nod and murmur in approval.

“She was the only woman I ever loved,” Graeme answered in a melancholic voice. “She belonged to a prominent Scottish gangster family from Chicago and ran away from home at eighteen to avoid an arranged marriage. I took her in and...” The man briefly paused, then continued, tears pooling in his eyes. “She found out I was a gangster, too, and discovered she was pregnant, so she ran away.”

The men in the conference room sighed in defeat: they had no valid reason to oppose Graeme appointing Camlann as his successor. The boss already showed them the results of the DNA test proving the young man was his son, and, although the matter of his mother's identity was still tangled, at least she belonged to a Scottish Mafia family.

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