Chapter 18
KATE
Iwait until ten before I place my phone call to Fiona Moran. It’s a Saturday morning, and I don’t have any idea how late she usually sleeps. I want to make my best impression, though. If I wait any longer, she might conclude my reaching out is a mere afterthought.
She answers pleasantly enough: “Fiona Moran.”
“This is Kate Lynch.” I hesitate just a moment. “I’m ringing from Lone Wolf Enterprises.”
“I know who you are.” Her answer is prompt, but I can’t begin to read her tone. She’s queen of Boston’s Irish mob. I expect her to have an accent thicker than my own, but she doesn’t. I’m grateful I didn’t start this convo with the chummy Irish greeting I considered using—what’s the craic?
I clear my throat. “I’m certain you’re aware of the recent news stories about Lone Wolf.”
“About your husband.” Again, her tone is completely opaque.
“About Cole Wolf.”
“And you’re calling to tell me it’s all a pack of dirty lies,” she says.
“I’m calling to tell you that your account remains one of Lone Wolf’s highest priorities. We are ready to assist with any business matters you require. I’m prepared to work for you day or night, without delay.”
I thought about my words before I picked up my mobile. I wanted to be professional—accommodating but not desperate. I’m afraid I’ve only managed to sound like a robot or some poorly programmed AI agent.
“We very much appreciate your business,” I add.
Fiona laughs. “Jesus,” she says. “Who did Cole piss off this time?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know Trap threw him out of the Diamond Ring last month; I was one of the first people he called. But judging from the news stories flooding my phone yesterday and today, this is a hell of a lot worse than that.”
I want to tell her. She runs an Irish clan. Even if she’s never gone head-to-head against the bratva, she knows what it’s like to scrabble for territory, fighting tooth and nail over every feckin’ inch.
But Fiona Moran is my client. And Tarasov’s betrayal isn’t my story to tell.
“That doesn’t matter,” I finally say. “What matters is the fact that nothing has changed for the Old Colony Crew. Lone Wolf is still here to help you.”
It’s her turn to pause. “I understand that,” she ultimately says. “And I appreciate your calling.”
I clutch my phone a little tighter. This is a strange new world for me—making business calls, searching for the perfect words to say. It’s a million times easier to shove spanners in the works, upsetting the professional plans of others. I’m not sure how to end the call.
“Well, then,” I say. “I’ll let you get back to your weekend.”
“I’ll do that.” But before I can end the call, she says, “Kate?”
“Yes?”
“Tell Cole I haven’t forgotten our arrangement. My marker’s still good. If he needs me, he can reach out anytime.”
“I’ll tell him,” I say.
“Good. I hope you get the feckin’ gobshites that did this to him.”
The Irish slang sounds foreign on her lips, like she’s reading some complicated dish listed on a menu. I wouldn’t use gobshites there; I’d say shitehawks, but that’s purely a matter of choice. But I say, “I hope so too.”
As I slip my mobile into my pocket, I hear noise in the kitchen. Breagha’s offering to help Anna turn out Saturday brunch, and Anna’s saying my sister can put on another pot of coffee.
I’m perfectly capable of setting the table. And breaking a few eggs, if Anna’s planning to cook them. When Cole comes down to eat, I’ll give him Fiona’s message.
That’s the best I can do to help. For now.
Granny doesn’t make it downstairs for brunch.
I know I shouldn’t worry. If she were safely stashed across the road, I’d have no idea when she woke, what she ate, or whether she had a decent night’s sleep.
She’s not a complete invalid. Mrs. Watson takes weekends off—although that currently means she’s reading romance novels in her room upstairs.
But Granny isn’t living across the road. She’s living here. And if she manages to come down from her room, no matter how late, I want to be present to help her.
I fetch my laptop from my office and settle on a high stool at the kitchen worktop to continue tracking down publicly available information about crypto ledgers. The websites will help Cole train Viktor to do our dirty work. My diligence is finally rewarded at nearly half past two.
“My!” Granny says, entering the kitchen. “You need a trail of breadcrumbs to find your way around this house.”
“You get used to it,” I say, hopping off my stool. “Anna’s left fresh-baked cinnamon rolls in the oven. And there’s a bowl of cut fruit in the fridge. The peaches are incredible.”
“I’ll start with a spot of caffeine,” Granny says, heading toward my nemesis, the coffee maker.
“You won’t get that to work,” I say, reaching for a mug from the cabinet. “But there’s half a cup left in my carafe. And I can text Nilsson—”
“Text a man on a Saturday, so he can brew a cup of coffee?” Granny chides.
“You don’t understand. I’ve never seen a more—”
But Granny has. Or else she makes a lucky guess.
Several of them, because the coffee beans start grinding without a deafening mechanical shriek.
And the water starts flowing directly into the glass carafe instead of spraying across the counter.
And the pot sits silently on the heating element instead of hissing as if it’s about to melt its way to China.
The coffee stops a precise half inch from the top of the pot instead of overflowing onto the floor.
“Ready to warm your cup, a chroí?” Granny asks.
I accept a refill without grace, grumbling as I fetch the cream and sugar she’s sure to want. While I’m the fridge, I get the fruit bowl too, and a pot of tangy French yogurt. Granny skips too many meals, left to her own devices.
I can hardly expect her to hitch up on one of the high stools. Instead, I carry the food into the dining room and seat her at the head of the table.
I wait until she’s eaten half a peach before I say, “I spoke with Mam yesterday.”
Her lips twist as if the fruit’s gone sour. “What did Orla have to say?”
“Nothing much. I wanted her to intercede with Nikolai Tarasov, but she was getting ready for an interview about Cole and the indictment. She wanted me to understand how difficult I’ve made her life.”
“I suspect neither of you convinced the other?”
“It’s like she’s hypnotized, Granny. Like Tarasov’s turned her into a puppet.”
My grandmother purses her lips. “The pakhan isn’t the first man to pull her strings.”
“She thinks he’s going to marry her.”
“She already has a husband,” Granny says tartly.
“I’m worried. I’m afraid Da’s not safe there.”
Granny sighs. “My Barry made his bed years ago.”
“But he never expected Nikolai Tarasov to crawl beneath the sheets.”
Granny stares across the table, as if the view of the brick drive through the windows is the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen in her life. I didn’t mean to push her when I started this conversation, but I realize I have to try again.
“How would I do it?” I ask. “If I want to reach Robbie Malloy?”
“We don’t need the likes of him.”
“I know you think that. But do you have his number? Or email? Any way for me to reach out?”
Granny’s neck barely swivels as she shakes her head. “The last time I saw Robbie Malloy, he was washing blood off his knuckles. He killed a man with his bare fists after the yoke whistled at his sister.”
“I need to talk to him.” After yesterday’s disaster of a conversation with Mam, it’s no longer a choice.
Granny sighs. She’s still not convinced.
I reach out and cover her hand with mine. “Da needs me to talk to him.”
My grandmother’s eyes start to gleam. Her throat works, as if she’s forgotten how to swallow. Her fingers tremble under mine.
“Please,” I say.
“You can write to him. The old way, pen and paper. Send it by post to the Forge and Anchor.”
“Thank you.” I mean the words, more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life. I pray I won’t regret them in the end.