3. Tristan #2
Part of the reason it took so long is that the triggerman from Ren’s building had disappeared quickly, too quickly, after he failed to take out his target.
Cade isn’t a name I’ve ever heard in this city, and I’ve made it my job to know every shadowy corner here.
But the pieces start to fit together. Isolde turns up here a little more than three years ago, leaving England behind. The chances are high that Cade’s also British, something Ciaran has just confirmed.
“I’ve got a client,” I tell him truthfully. Ciaran and I have always had an understanding. We don’t bullshit one another when we call each other up like this.
“And they’ve made an enemy out of Cade?”
His voice lifts slightly, the disbelief strong enough to send shivers across my skin.
I pull my phone away from my ear slightly. The shower is still running.
“Based on your reaction you either think I’m fucked or my client is?”
Ciaran is silent as I study Isolde’s fridge. The stainless steel is covered in magnets and scraps of paper, one of which declares itself as ‘Isolde’s New York Bucket List’.
She’s crossed off going to Times Square and Chinatown. A ticket to the Radio Rockettes is held up by a magnet, proof she’s ticked it off her list.
The bucket list isn’t static either. Someone’s added ‘try every menu item at Fujimori’s.’ The most recent request says ‘help plan Lennie’s wedding.’ The middle Akatov daughter punctuated the appeal with a smiley face and multiple hearts.
Isolde has already gotten to work because two sample invitations hang on the fridge.
There’s a scrap of paper full of dad jokes that I know came from Abe and a business card with Bennie’s information.
My fingers skim a card with a delicate sketch of a flower on the front of it. The inside reads: Welcome to New York, Isolde!
It looks like the type of card that comes with flowers, but the writing doesn’t match any of her friends. Who wrote it?
“You’re used to things going your way, Trevino.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. Or what’s left since I tend to keep my hair shaved.
“Me?” Used to things going my way? “In what fucking world?”
Ciaran makes a scoffing noise. “Oh, come off it. It’s not just that you don’t like to lose.
You need everything just right and perfect.
Don’t think, I don’t remember all the hours I’ve watched you fucking meditate and then run off and hit a target that no man should possibly be able to fucking hit.
You’re an overthinker and an overachiever. ”
“Why are you making that sound like a bad thing?”
“Because sometimes a man loses and he can’t do shit about it.”
Ciaran calling me an overthinker and overachiever is the pot calling the kettle black. His words are tinged with a rough bitterness that has me frowning. Especially, since I’ve never known him to fail. But I know better than to pry, especially when I’m the one calling with a problem.
“You think I’m about to lose?”
“I think Cade is a fucking lunatic.” Ciaran’s voice is low but steady. Like he’s come up against the wall and he’s just telling it like it is.
I don’t like what he’s saying, though.
“Nobody in New York has fucking heard of him so how much of a lunatic are we talking about?”
“Cade’s father and uncle got into the business of selling weed to the aristocracy.
They used to go around wearing fucking tweed, the arseholes.
They did well for themselves. They still do.
They stick to weed and weed only. They’ve never touched anything harder.
It’s probably because of the tweed and because of their amazing ability to make people laugh, they’ve blended seamlessly into London.
Even the Stuart’s find them amusing and the Stuarts don’t like anyone. ”
The Stuarts have just been blown to hell, but I keep my mouth shut, waiting.
“Everything should be good. Until little Cade comes along. I don’t give a shit what people say about Elijah Zimin but there’s not a damn psycho that’s been carved out of hell by the devil like him.”
His words grow harder and harder, his voice deepening as he speaks.
“He’s got the gift of blending in; probably got that from his family. He’s just another one of the lads in a tracksuit, smoking a cigarette and playing video games. You’ll see him at the fights and he’ll smile politely at you. But when you cross him and he asks you for a meeting. . .”
The phone seems to shift, and Ciaran takes a breath.
“Cade called a guy up once, said he wanted to talk. It’s about a little thing. They’re only into weed after all. Guy gets there. Thinks they’ll have a drink, pat each other on the back and watch a bit of Arsenal later on. Only he gets there and finds his girl tied up.”
I already know where this is going, but I listen anyway, anger coiling inside my chest.
“Cade had already cut off one of her breasts. He makes the guy sit down and watch him slice the other one off. Bit by fucking bit she’s cut apart. After it’s done, Cade asks him if he’d like to watch the game, now that they’ve come to an understanding.”
“The Stuarts might find Cade’s family amusing, but that shit wouldn’t fly with them if it was one of their own meeting with him.”