Chapter 35
KATE
Three weeks of chaos.
Three weeks of construction dust, delivery failures, fights with building management, and despairing that the con will ever get off the ground.
Three weeks of pushing my new recruits in Ariadne’s Daughters, discovering how they work together, watching them build a distribution network with a type of cooperation and creativity my Red Cap Raiders could never have imagined.
Through it all, Cole is an absolute rock, staying late and arriving early, capturing most of his meager four hours of sleep in the back of a car driven by Jacobson.
Every time Megan enters our fifth-floor office suite, the air seems lighter.
She has an eye for detail I can only dream of matching.
Her Marriott suite fills with clothing racks from the city’s various thrift shops.
She works tirelessly to decorate cubicles, adding stickers to computer casings, hanging extra sweaters on coat hooks, shoving worn-out shoes beneath desks…
all the little things that make the space come alive.
She tracks down a wig for herself and hideous false teeth, dark contact lenses, and a wardrobe that makes her look like a color-blind mouse with a fetish for stretch polyester. She’s ready to play our receptionist.
With Ariadne’s Daughters, I begin dry runs for distributing footage of Tarasov’s eventual collapse.
They have no idea what we’ll be sending out, but we build live feeds, tapping into dozens of social media sites.
We create memes and track their spread over the internet.
Using Cole’s money, we buy attention from the most prominent influencers in the world, reserving time on podcasts, on videos, even on audio, focusing on English- and Russian-language sites.
We hack into bot networks, harnessing dumb machines to broadcast our message.
Finally, it’s Saturday night. We launch the con tomorrow, taking Tarasov into custody.
I arrive home after dinner. Mrs. Watson and Granny are sitting in the upstairs parlor, watching something on TV. Taking one look at my face, Mrs. Watson says to my grandmother, “I need to wash my hair. I’ll be back in half an hour to help you get to bed.”
I wait until she’s left the room before I sit on the floor at Granny’s feet. “Does anyone still do that anymore?” I ask. “Set aside specific time to wash their hair?”
“She’s good at her job, a chroí. She probably knows a dozen ways to give her patients some privacy.”
I glance at the table beside Granny’s chair. In addition to her knitting, I see both her rescue inhalers. “Bad day today?” I ask.
“I’ve had worse.”
Granny reaches out to pull my hair back from my shoulders. The August night is humid, and my curls billows around my head like a halo. I lean against her knees and let her finger-comb the tangles. “What do you think Breagha is doing right now?” I ask.
“I don’t have any idea what time it is in Indonesia. But I suspect she’s having a grand time with her young fella.”
I fiddle with the rug I’m sitting on, brushing the nap all in one direction, then in another. “I wish we could have been there when she married.”
“We’ll throw a big party for her when all of this is over.”
All of this. As always, Granny sees so much more than she mentions. I start to trace the patterns in the rug, flowers and leaves and paisleys. “Breagha’s always loved a party.”
Granny divides my hair into three equal parts. “It’s you and Cole who deserve a party. The pair of you have been working like fiends.”
My finger skips over the silk rug. “A lot of client work came in at one time,” I lie.
“It’s odd client work you can’t do sitting at your computer. Here. At the house.”
I don’t answer because I don’t actually enjoy lying to my grandmother. Instead, I lean forward just a little, as if the design in the rug is worth all of my attention.
“Time flies, doesn’t it?” Granny asks, starting to plait my hair. “Who would’ve thought thirty days could go by so fast?”
I freeze. I don’t brush the carpet. I don’t trace the pattern. I try to remember what I’ve said to Granny about the task force, the con.
“But it’s not thirty yet, is it?” she asks, as if I haven’t turned to stone. “You have until Wednesday for that. Four more days, before your marriage is ended.”
I whirl quickly, yanking my half-braided braid free. “How do you know about that?”
Granny’s lips purse. “Helen heard from Anna who learned it from Nilsson.”
“Nilsson!” I’m so shocked the man has a human capacity for gossip that I choke on his name.
Granny tuts and pulls me back into place at her feet.
I remember this position. This is how we spent long hours in our cottage in County Donegal.
It was always easier to talk when I didn’t need to watch Granny’s face, when I could stare at the wall or the fire or the dark screen of the telly and pretend no one was listening to the horrors I needed to share.
This time, though, Granny speaks first. “You love him.”
“I do.”
“And he loves you.”
“He does.”
“But you filed the petition.”
“There’s no other way.”
Her fingers stall at the tips of my braid. “You could leave before Wednesday.”
We could do. Leave Granny. Leave America. Hide somewhere—in the Middle East maybe, or on an island in the South Pacific. If we choose a place without extradition, Cole and I could live like kings for the rest of our lives. He’d never have to worry about paying off the IRS.
But Tarasov’s another story. He’d send out his thieves, and eventually he would find us. He’d drag us back to his web—or show up in person—just to prove he could. Cole and I would never, ever be safe.
Besides… “I don’t want to leave you,” I say.
She makes an old-fashioned sound, something like, “Pshaw.” And then she says, “I’m an old woman. I won’t be here forever. And you shouldn’t be here now. Not with the bratva sniffing around.”
My grandmother knows far more than I thought she did. But she was a mob princess herself, decades before Mam and Da ever thought of bringing me into the world. She’s watched and she’s listened and she’s studied the Canton Crew for decades.
When I turn to face her, my braid twitches like a cat’s tail. I take her hands in mine and say, “Cole and I have a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Something that can make us all safe. You. Cole and me. Breagha. Even Da.”
I don’t say Mam. I’m not sure there’s any way my mother can ever be safe again, not if we succeed in taking down Nikolai Tarasov.
“That doesn’t sound easy,” Granny says.
“It isn’t,” I say. “It’s dangerous. If we make a mistake…”
If we make a mistake, Tarasov escapes. And once the divorce decree becomes final on Wednesday, he comes after me with everything he has. He’ll use all his men. Deploy the weapons his mob sell to Russia. He won’t care how many bodies he leaves in his wake, so long as he has mine at the end.
Not even Sawgrass can defend against that.
Granny brushes the backs of her fingers against my cheek. “But you think you have a good chance.”
“I do. Cole does too. We think we can do this together.”
“Then I think you can do it too. Because if there’s one thing I know about you, a chroí, it’s that you aren’t afraid to do the hard work to get whatever you desire.”
I lean my head against her knee. She rests her hand on my smooth, orderly braid. I close my eyes and think as loudly as I can: Thank you, Granny. I love you.
We’re still sitting like that when Mrs. Watson bustles in. Her hair looks exactly as it did when she left. “Ready for a wash-up?” she asks Granny. “And then to bed?”
Granny sighs. I take her hand and kiss her palm. She closes her fingers the way she did when I was a child, keeping my kiss from flying away.
“Goodnight, Granny,” I say, forcing myself to stand. “Goodnight, Mrs. Watson.”
“Sleep well,” Granny says. “I’ll likely still be sleeping when you leave in the morning. But I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
It’s hard to swallow, but I manage a nod.
I find Cole sitting in his office, frowning at his computer. “Come to bed,” I say from the doorway.”
He shakes his head. “Too many things to review.”
Collapsing in one of the chairs across from his desk, I say, “There isn’t anything left to check.”
“A con this size, there’s always something. We pulled this thing together too fast. We haven’t considered all the options.”
“Options for what?” I try to sound reasonable.
“Picking up Tarasov, for one thing. There are too many variables out of our control.”
“He goes to evening service at St. Basil every Sunday. The Sawgrass team have been practicing for the past week. They were experts at this before we ever brought them in.”
“What if he takes a different route? We’ve only had him under observation for three weeks.”
“You’ve only had him under observation for three weeks. I lived through the Dogfight. The Canton Crew tracked every move that shitehawk made for years.”
Tarasov never misses church. Da always said that was the fecker’s biggest weakness. But every time Da tried to exploit it, his plan fell apart because Canton men weren’t disciplined enough to follow through. Sawgrass, though, can manage.
As if he’s reading my mind, Cole says, “Tarasov could have another mole inside Sawgrass. He could be tracking everything we’ve set up.”
“After the way Best handled Collins? Besides, Best is driving the lead car himself.” He told us that’s the least he can do, after Brooklyn. I’m inclined to agree.
Cole shakes his head. “The interrogators have to be fast on their feet. If Tarasov gets even a hint the guy asking questions isn’t a lifelong expert on organized crime, he won’t say a fucking word.”
“That’s why I’ve spent the past fortnight training Richardson and Bennett. They know their roles, inside out. At this point, they know more about the bratva than most pakhans.”
“We should have gone with someone who’s lived this shit.”
“I’ve lived this shit. And I’ll be coaching Richardson and Bennett, in their ears the entire time.”
Rebecca Richardson and Corey Bennett make the perfect team.
They’re both ex-FBI, so they already speak the same language.
Richardson is young enough to be Bennett’s daughter.
She’ll play good cop, a woman Tarasov will think he can manipulate.
Bennett will be the hard-nosed bad cop. The pair of them have been quick studies.
Cole and I have debated this point more than any other. We couldn’t use anyone I know from the Canton Crew. Even if we could identify a man we were certain Mam hasn’t corrupted, we can’t risk Tarasov recognizing anyone from Baltimore.
That’s also why we can’t go with any of the mobsters Cole has learned to trust over the years. Braiden Kelly, the Philadelphia captain. His wife and Clan Chief, Samantha Mott. Connor Boyle from New York. They’ve all been on the front page of newspapers.
“Tarasov could get his hands on you.”
There. Finally. That’s the real fear, the one Cole can’t shake. And I know how to answer, because I’ve been terrified of the exact same thing.
“He can’t,” I say. “He’ll be chained to a feckin’ table.
And I’ll be hidden behind a two-way mirror.
Tarasov isn’t some movie supervillain. He can’t read minds.
He can’t see through walls. He’s a self-important mob boss with an over-inflated sense of his own power.
But when we’re through, he’ll have a target on his back so large and so bright it will be visible from the moon. ”
When Cole goes back to frowning at his screen, I rise from my chair and circle to his side of the desk. Placing my arms around his neck, I kiss his temple, beside his ear. “Come to bed,” I say again.
“Soon.”
My arguing won’t get him upstairs any faster. So I kiss his lips, then make my way to our bedroom. I clean my teeth. I undo the braid Granny made, then brush my hair. I turn back the sheets on Cole’s side of the bed. I slip out of my clothes, taking the time to return them to their proper drawers.
Collecting my mobile from the nightstand, I climb into bed. I have to scroll down to reach the number I need. All my calls over the past four weeks have been devoted to the task force.
“Fiona Moran,” she answers, sounding like a businesswoman, even though it’s late on a Saturday night.
“Kate Lynch,” I confirm.
She waits.
“When this is over,” I finally say. “If something goes wrong… If I’m not able…”
I take a deep breath. Hold it until my vision starts to turn red. Exhale.
And then I can finally say the words. “My da has the brain of a toddler. My mam’s turned traitor to the Russians.
My sister’s not part of this; she never has been.
I’ve done all I can to reach Robbie Malloy in Donegal.
If this doesn’t end the way we want it to, will you see that Malloy takes over Clan Lynch? ”
“I’ll call him,” she says. “But he’s a strange one, Malloy. I can’t promise he’ll want to clean up whatever mess is left in Baltimore. Especially if your plan falls apart.”
“That’s all I ask. Let him know. Let there be a chance Baltimore doesn’t fall to the bratva.”
“I’ll do it,” she says.
I thank her and end the call. After that, there’s nothing left to do but turn out the light and wait for morning.