Chapter Seven

Sophie…

“It’s because we’re Mafia, isn’t it?”

Maisie wails accusingly. “We don’t get Father Christmas like other kids! We get K- K- Krampus!”

“No! No, lass.”

I hug her. “These are bad men. Krampus isn’t real, but they’re just as mean and ugly as he is, aye?” I cross my eyes, making a snarling face and she sniffs before giving a little giggle. Maisie and Jack are only nine, and bairns in the clan are usually protected from the ugly side of the MacTavish empire. But only so much could be kept from such clever little ones.

Mafia or not, who could have planned for this? We’re holed up in the great room, and the scene could not feel more bizarre. There’s a blaze dancing merrily in the fireplace and the towering Christmas tree is brilliant with hundreds of white lights and glistening ornaments.

And outside, there’s a bunch of psychopaths dressed as Krampus. With guns.

Gunmen dressed up as Krampus on Christmas Eve? I dinna ken how this happened, but the bastards have a twisted sense of humor.

There are three floor-to-ceiling sets of French doors leading to the front terrace, fortunately, they’re all equipped with heavy wooden shutters. Cormac and Duncan slam them closed and bolt them.

“They’re in the house?”

Bonnie’s face is sheet-white. “Does that mean all the guards are… are they dead?” I know she’s thinkin’ of Ian, her sweetheart and head of security here.

“We don’t know.”

Mala squeezes Bonnie’s shoulder. “None of the guards are answering their comms and the Wi-Fi is out. Since we can’t use our phones, they must be blocking the signal. Thankfully, there are half a dozen alarms that have already been tripped that are not tied to the house system. Help is on the way.”

I meet her gaze and we both look through the cracks in the heavy wooden shutters. The roar of the wind is as loud as if the windows were wide open and the snow is already thick on the ground. I dinna ken how anyone could make it through the storm.

“If the Krampus… Krampus’s… ses… Krampi… those bast- those guys are outside, that could work in our favor. Maybe they’ll all freeze,”

I say, “how could they survive that storm?”

“Unless they’re already inside,”

Duncan says grimly.

“Who has a weapon?”

Michael looks around the room, as if a surface-to-air missile might suddenly appear.

“Me.”

Catriona holds up a pistol.

“Got my throwing knives,”

Duncan offers.

“Speaking o’ knives, I wish I could get back into the kitchen,”

Ma says wistfully. “I could arm us all with the sharpest knives in Scotland.”

“Aye,”

Michael nods. “That meat cleaver of yours could decapitate a bull moose with a single swing.”

Ma’s eyes glisten like this is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to her.

It probably is. The woman loves her knives.

“Wait!”

Mala scrabbles through the presents under the massive tree.

“Are we openin’ the presents now?”

Jack’s little brow furrows.

“No, love.”

Mala rips open a box with a big red bow. “I got your father a new SIG Sauer for Christmas-”

“The P210?”

Cormac is already pawing through the presents like a bear after a honeycomb.

“Yeah, baby,”

she gives him a quick kiss, which is seeming a wee bit unprecedented for the moment, but maybe they’re used to full-scale invasions on major holidays. “It took me three months to find this beauty.”

“Tha gaol agam ort, I love you!”

He seizes her face in his hands, kissing her soundly while their kiddos groan loudly.

“Da, Mum, you’re remembering those armed arseholes outside?”

Michael says sharply.

“Oh, aye.”

With another quick kiss, they rip open more boxes, ribbons and tinsel flying.

With a sigh, Caitriona kneels down to help. “Oh, my god!”

She drops an opened box on the floor and the contents spill out.

A vibrator.

And a dildo. It’s pink with purple swirls.

Handcuffs.

A… I don’t know what that silver thing is but Cormac seizes it and the box, stuffing the contents back inside.

“Were ya gonna open that on Christmas mornin’?”

Caitriona shrieks.

“No!”

Mala snaps, “Your father and I have our own… you know what? Never mind! Keep looking for the damn gun!”

“Got it!”

Duncan triumphantly holds up the SIG Sauer. “Wait, where are the bullets?”

“They’re here,”

Mala’s shoving packages aside, burrowing under the tree. “I wrapped them separately. I think it was silver paper? Maybe gold?”

“Did anyone else buy a gun for Christmas?”

Michael says, dragging a heavy wooden sideboard over to one of the French doors leading to the terrace. I hurry over to grab one end and groan as we heft it up over the table already wedged there. “What about ya, darlin’? Did ya get me a rocket launcher, maybe? A case of grenades?”

Blushing profusely, I glance over at the tree. There is a little package there for him that I’d slipped in with the other gifts. “I fear nothin’ that can explode, though that would have been far more useful, aye?”

He pauses from shoving the sideboard. “Ya got me a present, Sophie?”

Damn him! His voice deepened and there’s this sexy, almost menacing little gleam in his eye.

“Well, it’s just…”

I’m floundering, so when the first bullet shatters the glass and thuds against the shutters, I’m almost grateful.

“Found the bullets!”

Mala rips open the box, handing Cormac an ammo clip.

Michael slides open a narrow panel in one of the shutters. “Cat, give me your gun.”

For the first time that I can remember, she dinna argue with him, slapping her pistol in his hand. “There’s six that I can see, and they’re still wearing those feckin’ Krampus masks.” Sliding the barrel of the gun out the opening, he fires. “Five.”

More bullets thud against the windows and Mala tears through the carnage of gift wrap and ribbons. “There’s another gun in here. Sweetheart, didn’t you get that vintage Kalashnikov for Cameron?”

Cormac’s at one of the other windows, firing his Christmas present with quick, precise shots. “I dinna wrap it yet. It’s-”

“-In the study,”

she sighs. Pulling a fireplace poker out of the stand by the fireplace, she hands it to my mother. “Olivia, get behind the couch with Bonnie. Take Jack and Maisie.” Her lips tighten. “If anyone gets through…”

“No one will,”

Ma says, gripping the poker.

“Sophie,”

Mala turns to me, “go to Michael, keep him supplied with ammunition.”

“Aye, a’course.”

Taking the heavy wooden box of bullets, I scurry over to Michael, who holds out his hand for another clip. Outside, the rat-tat-tat of a semi-automatic is even louder than the storm and I flinch when a scatter of bullets hammers against the wood over the doors.

“Dinna worry, love.”

Michael’s still shooting, eyes fixed on the men outside. “No one’s gettin’ in here.”

My hand freezes halfway to handing him another ammo clip.

Did he call me love? He did.

“Focus, Sophie!”

“Aye, sorry.”

Giving him the clip, I eye the dwindling supply in the box. “How many do ya see now?”

“They’re gettin’ back up, the bastards.”

He looks over at his parents. “Da, they’re wearing bulletproof vests, aim for the head.”

“Or the knees,”

Mala says, handing Cormac more bullets.

“We’re running out.”

I’m trying to keep my voice low, though between the blizzard of bullets and snow, I dinna know why I bother. This time, Michael spares me a glance.

“It’ll be enough.”