Chapter 48
COLE
Eight hours. I sleep eight full hours. I don’t wake till noon.
Kate is in the kitchen when I stumble upstairs. From the creased mark of sheets on her cheek, she hasn’t been up much longer than I. But she’s found a pair of clean yoga pants, and she’s wearing one of my black silk T-shirts.
Her hair is twisted into a messy knot as she glares at the coffee machine. I start to reach across her, to twist the appropriate dials, but she swats my hand away. “Wait,” she says.
I wait.
She selects the proper grind for the coffee.
She chooses the strength of the brew. She designates the water temperature and adjusts the lever for how many cups she wants to make.
She pours whole beans into the hopper and positions the carafe under the spout.
Her finger hovers over the bright green button as she reviews every one of her settings.
Finally, she starts the machine.
Neither of us says a word as it works.
When the carafe is full, she takes two mugs from the cupboard. She pours for me first, then for herself. She hands mine over like she’s submitting a dissertation for her doctorate.
We drink at the same time. The coffee is perfect. And the smile that spreads over her face is everything I’ve ever wished for, everything I’ve ever dreamed could be mine.
Opening the refrigerator, I take out a pair of clementines. I peel each with a quick twist of my thumb. When I open the trashcan to throw away the peels, I see a sleek leather case sitting on top of broken eggshells.
“What’s this?” I ask, picking up the container.
“Garbage,” Kate says. It takes her a moment to meet my gaze.
I slide open the zipper, revealing a neat row of scalpels inside. She takes the case from my hands, seals it again, and buries it deeper in the trash. “I never should have bought a replacement.”
“I’m glad you’re ready to get rid of it now.”
I pass her a clementine. We eat the fruit in comfortable silence.
“Do you know where Nilsson is?” I finally ask.
“He’s settling everyone across the street.”
“Any news about Tarasov?”
“I haven’t checked yet.”
We carry our mugs into my office. It only takes a moment to find the headlines. They’re blaring from every major newspaper, from websites around the world.
Russian Mobster Found Dead at BWI
FBI Mum on Mobster Murder
Baltimore Flight Delays as Kingpin Death Investigated
Russian Runway Rat
Photos tell the gruesome story. Nikolai Tarasov sprawls beneath a paper towel dispenser in a public restroom.
His staring eyes gape at the ceiling. His clothes are filthy and ragged.
A fist-size bruise darkens his cheek beside his broken nose.
His mangled hands are ziptied in front of him.
A dark spray of blood on the wall shows the path of the bullet that tore through his brain.
A dead rat dangles from his lips.
I wait for Kate to look up from the graphic display. “His own men got him,” I say.
She nods, just once. It’s everything he deserved. It can never be enough.
Squaring her shoulders, she says, “I have to see Granny now. I have to tell her what happened last night, in Canton.”
“Do you want me there with you?”
“Always,” she says.
She laces her fingers between mine and we head across the street.
Thank you for reading Tamed Enemy!