Chapter 2 #2
The drill continues across town, out to the airport, and onto the jet Da chartered for our trip north.
Breagha, of course, has her cards memorized before we fly over Philadelphia.
I just study the clouds below us, wondering what the Red Cap Raiders are saying, if they’re still slagging me in the chat, if I’ll even have a team to return to.
Mam shoots me filthy looks, but she decides not to start another fight.
The plane touches down, and we’re met by a driver standing beside a limousine even longer than the one in Baltimore. I get in first, so I can slouch in the backward-facing seat, my eyes barely clearing the bottom of the window.
There’s more traffic than there should be for the last Saturday in March. It takes us over an hour to get to the church. Breagha’s eyes go wide as we slip into a pew just as the ceremony begins. I can practically hear her reciting all of Mam’s facts and figures on the men around us.
The wedding goes exactly as expected. Everyone stands and everyone sits and most of us kneel at the appropriate times.
The bride, Fiona, doesn’t look like the fierce queen I thought I’d see.
She’s wearing a white dress with lace over her shoulders and a bow across her arse.
I expected a warrior princess, but she looks like a little girl.
Her groom, though, seems to like what he sees.
He almost forgets to recite his vows, despite the priest’s prompting.
Breagha sighs at that proof of true love. Mam dabs her desert-dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. Da studies the pews around us like he’s sizing up an enemy army.
It seems like hours later before we Lynches are back in the limo and heading to the reception. Mam takes advantage of the traffic to deal out her bachelor flashcards again. Breagha recites the statistics for each target perfectly, then passes her cards to me.
I rip each one in half.
The reception is held at a huge clapboard house that fills a city block. Men in tuxes guard the door, and both sides of the street are filled with luxury cars. Our limo lets us off directly in front.
Inside, efficient waiters hand each of us a glass of champagne as we step over the threshold. I down mine in three quick gulps.
“Katie!” Mam hisses, which is a feat, because that hated nickname doesn’t have an S. Ignoring her, I collect another glass and make my way to a far corner before she can sink her nails into my arm.
This time, I sip my champagne as I study the crowd.
I hate that I can recognize some of Mam’s eligible bachelors—there’s the Clan Chief from New Orleans and the Quartermaster from Chicago.
I watch Breagha make the rounds, allowing Da to introduce her.
My sister’s smile is perfect. She has a way of looking up through her eyelashes that invites men to step closer. She even blushes on cue.
I shake my head. I will never be as good at that game as Breagha is, so I don’t see any reason to try. I don’t want what she wants. My sole goal is to make the Red Cap Raiders a success.
Feeling like a scientist studying some isolated tribe in the heart of the rainforest, I look around. There’s the groom, at the far end of the room. He’s talking to three other men, all of them big, all of them solid, all of them looking like they’re used to being in charge wherever they go.
One of the men is Braiden Kelly, the General of the Grand Irish Union. He’s Da’s boss, in charge of all the Irish mob captains in the country. Kelly is confident. Relaxed.
The man to his left scowls like he just caught a whiff of bad meat before he reaches into his pocket to fish out a phone. Glaring at the screen, he steps back to take his call.
The guy with his back to me turns to place his empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. I blink, because I can’t believe he’s here, in the middle of a mob wedding. Not today. Not when he just ruined the biggest online mission of my life.
I recognize the shitehawk from articles in Wired, from The Wall Street Journal and MIT Technology Review. He’s Cole Wolf. Lone Wolf Enterprises, in the flesh.
My feet move without my giving them permission. I swipe a full glass of champagne from a surprised waiter, forcing him to shift his weight quickly to keep from losing the entire tray.
“Hey, arsehole!” I call, wedging my way into the tight knot of men.
All four of them look surprised. Braiden Kelly glances around the room, like he’s trying to spot whoever let me out of my cage. “Kate Lynch,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
I had no idea the General of the Grand Irish Union knew my name. Another time, another place, and I’d wonder if he keeps his own feckin’ deck of cards: Troublesome Daughters of Clan Captains.
But right here, right now, I don’t give a flying fuck about Kelly. “I wasn’t talking to you,” I tell him before I zero in on my target.
I’m vaguely aware of the room falling silent behind me. A tiny voice at the base of my skull whispers that no one insults the General like that. But I don’t care. I’m on a mission. There’s no stopping me now.
Glaring at Cole Wolf, I say, “You.”
His face doesn’t give a hint of emotion. His hands hang by his sides, perfectly still. Only his eyes move, like he’s some sort of hunter. They’re dark brown, almost black, flecked with tiny bits of gold.
Something inside me flickers when I’m pinned by that predatory gaze. I’m like a doe, skewered by headlights in the night. Part of me wants to sprint to freedom. Part of me can’t remember how to breathe.
Fuck that shite.
Slowly, carefully, Cole Wolf extends a hand for me to shake. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” he says.
I don’t want to touch his hand. I don’t want to be polite. I don’t want to stand here pretending he hasn’t endangered the only thing in the world I’m good at, the only thing I love.
So I say, “Not a pleasure, you goddamn overreaching fuckwad.” And I toss my champagne in his face.