Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
ava
I have minutes, I think. Minutes between the phone call Mikey’s making and me getting grabbed by Seamus.
But I want to see what’s going on. I need to see why the fuck the Murphys are meeting with Romanov in his Upper West Side townhouse.
I know Seamus called and told Mikey to take me home, but I threatened Mikey with finding my own way to this townhouse with or without him.
So he took me, and yeah, he’s calling Seamus.
Called, rather.
There’s a tiny, gated green space next door to the townhouse, and it’s easy enough for me to use it as a way to climb the tree that will help me scale the wall and jump into the tiny back courtyard. From there, I can—
Someone grabs me and I topple from the tree before I can execute my grand plan.
“Fuck, Seamus, don’t be so rough,” I say. Then my brow furrows. Those hands aren’t his. Neither is the pine and wood scent of the man who jumped me.
I struggle, but whoever it is has me locked against him, and he slams me into the tree, the rough bark scraping against my skin.
“Quiet,” the man growls.
I try to push him away, fighting harder, kicking out as far as my legs will go.
He stomps on my calf, sending dizzying pain spiraling up through me, my leg deadened from the force.
“If you don’t behave, I’ll let the cartel eat you. They work girls into all kinds of situations and you’re pretty enough to serve on your back. The fucking Murphys need to die. They’re in the way. Kill them or let my people do it. Meet me at midnight outside your home. And yes, I know where it is.”
“I’m not killing anyone—”
“You’re not Pakhan yet, and if my boss has his way, you never will be, except in name only.”
I force my fear and fury down, twisting it to work for me. “I hate the Murphys, but they’re hard to kill. You know this, or you’d have done it.” I pause. “Who are you? Who’s your boss? I can make a deal. But not for one year.”
“Not good enough.”
My heart thumps hard as pain throbs through me. “There’s a will.”
“Which means,” he says, “there’s a way around it. I want the Murphys out of the way.”
“What’s your boss’s name?”
The man grunts, letting me go as he stumbles into me. I turn.
He staggers up, reaching for something in his coat as I glance up. Seamus. Of course it is. Holding a brick he’s pried loose from the edge of the flowerbed.
The man starts to run and I trip him as Seamus smacks him in the head, sending him down to the ground.
A shout goes up as a bullet whizzes past. I dive down. The man’s alive. He’s breathing. I only know that because I’m trying to get the gun he was reaching for.
A brick clatters and I bite down on my fear, then realize Seamus launched it into the air.
Thank God. Thank God Seamus isn’t dead.
There’s another man coming toward us fast, gun pointed out. I grab the downed man’s gun and line up the shot before pulling the trigger.
The gunman falls.
“Run, Ava.” Seamus doesn’t give me a choice as he grabs my hand, sweeping me up, and we run.
It’s not until I’m hauled upstairs and thrown at one of his brothers who drags me into the neat living room of Romanov’s townhouse that I give in to the shaking.
I look around. I don’t see Seamus. Romanov is there with two of his men. He glares. To my right is Callahan. He’s looking at me with interest.
“Before my brother gets back,” he says, “do you want to tell us who that was?”
I open my mouth to answer but Romanov cuts me off. “I told you there’s trouble and it’s about the Volkov Bratva. What do you think that party at the club was about? Welcoming Ava? Word is out. An Irishman and an heir who isn’t full Russian in charge means it’s open season.”
“Does it?” Callahan asks. “If her bratva was huge and holding mega power and clout, maybe. But then again, all big organizations have enough protocols in place to take care of who comes next. Volkov was looking for a cousin or male relative. But it’s essentially hers.
And her husband’s. Her father’s lawyer, the one who handles all relevant documentation, says so. Unless you know different?”
Callahan narrows his eyes at Romanov. “And the Irishman in question is my brother. We’re not to be underestimated or screwed with.
No one should dare ever fault our part in it, nor the fact with Ava here at the official helm in twelve months’ time, the bratva’s current business will run just as smoothly as it does now.
“Am I missing something?” He pins Romanov down with a stare. “You still haven’t told us why you were seen with the cartel or the man with the scar. Hank, wasn’t it?”
He’s good, and even though I know I should be furious at what he said, for some reason, I’m not.
If Seamus said it, my temper would flare. But his brother?
I don’t hate him like I do Seamus. Do I trust him? No. I don’t trust anyone, not really, but…
I turn and study Romanov.
There’s a vibrancy to him, but not a pleasant one. He looks ready to combust from the heat making perspiration pebble on his forehead, and he pours himself a drink using small, jerky movements.
He’s nervous.
Or guilty.
“I already told you it’s not the cartel alone,” Romanov says. “Now everyone who wants clean smuggling wants an in with Volkov. I’m not saying the entirety of New York’s organized crime syndicate is wanting in, but those who turned up have an interest. They’re watching. Like I said—”
“A girl and an Irishman mean it might be up for grabs.” But the expression on Callahan’s face is implacable. “And this Hank?”
“Your brother mentioned that name at my mansion.” Romanov takes a deep swallow. “Since then, I’ve heard it again. But only linked to the Lev group, which it seems has changed, according to word on the street. It’s more—”
“International?” Callahan asks as his brother, Torin, comes in from another room with another one of Romanov’s men.
“One way of putting it,” Romanov says.
Torin looks at me but speaks to Iosif. “I think Hank’s a code name. Any thoughts?”
He shakes his head.
My chest is so tight with a tangle of emotions. Fear and hate, they’re the main two.
“Since when did the cartel want to use Russian routes? Work with the Italians? I remember Dad saying they stick to themselves. What kind of deal do you have with the cartel?” I ask.
He glowers. “I don’t have a deal with them. I met with them to tell them I have no control over you or the Volkov Bratva. They know I’ve used your shipping routes and they want girls moved. Fast. Without a trace. Guns, too. Drugs. I told them no.”
“The guy who grabbed her didn’t have a scar,” a voice says behind me. Tight, dark, full of anger. “Cleanup did the best they could with the man my dear wife here shot, but I’m sure there were witnesses. It’s broad daylight.”
“People around here know not to talk,” Romanov says.
Seamus is standing there, glaring, bristling with outrage in basketball shorts and a damp t-shirt.
I think I actually start to salivate. What the hell’s wrong with me?
“As I said, I didn’t meet anyone with a scar. If there was someone within the cartel like that, he didn’t come in. The talk was over and done within minutes. Yes, they wanted to know about working with me. I said no. Then they left.”
“Your wife’s right, Seamus,” Callahan says, eyes on Iosif. “The cartel is insular and doesn’t tend to work with others unless it’s something big and a way to take over.”
“See?” Iosif tosses back his drink, then pours another. “I warned you to leave the bratva be. You’ve got the cartel sniffing around now.”
Seamus walks over to me and hooks a hand around my upper arm. “Mikey’s outside, so I think I’ll take her home. I’ll see you there, Cal, Tor.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to say a thing, just drags me out, and I’m about ready to shoot him, except he took the gun.
And it amazes me I only notice it now. Not that I thought I was holding the gun the whole time, but in the melee of me shooting, us running, me being shoved at his brother, I never noticed him grab it.
Like the jewels.
Like my missing crest.
And I wonder…
“Get the fuck in the car.”
The door is open and he pushes me in.
From the front seat, Mikey won’t look at me, and Declan won’t stop staring. “You make Seamus so pissed off… it’s almost like love.”
“Bite your fucking tongue, eejit,” Seamus says. “Eyes front. Now.”
Declan salutes and does as he’s told, holding a streaming commentary for Mikey as we head to the West Village.
For long moments, Seamus stares out the window.
Finally, he looks at me. “You’re fucking lucky Mikey’s loyal.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“To me. To the Murphys,” he snaps, his bare leg pressing against the seat in front. “If he hadn’t called, what would that man who grabbed you have done?”
“Probably nothing.”
A bitter smile twists his mouth as he looks at me. “You knew him?”
“I’d have ended him.”
He laughs. It’s a cynical sound. “Oh, sure, you looked completely in control there.”
I huff out a breath, hating he’s right.
“So, you knew him?”
“No.” I look out the window, then at Seamus. “I honestly don’t know who he was.”
“You? Honest?” He studies me. “Why do I think you know more than you’re telling me?”
I breathe out, smooth my hands down the front of my jeans. The back of my leg hurts where the man stomped on it. “I really don’t. He just said he wanted you all out of the way. And then you appeared.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“He hinted at cartel ties,” I say.
“That makes even less sense.” Seamus frowns. “They don’t do that shit. If the cartel wanted you, they’d have you, or we’d know.”
He looks at me with suspicion.
“First last night, now this. What are you up to, Ava?”
All my senses bristle. “Nothing. You know what I want. That hasn’t changed. Greedy and coldly ambitious tends to be straightforward, doesn’t it? And I still despise you for getting in my way.”
Now there’s a touch of amusement to his features as he looks at me. “Since I’m helping you get that, shouldn’t the hate be morphing into begrudging indifference?”
“No. You’re too insufferable.”
“As are you, sweet thing.” Then he looks at the cloth bags in the car. “Bread? Vegetables?”
Heat suddenly hits and the memory of finding Mama’s cookbook floods. It was on the floor in the room, under the coffee table.
“You went to my apartment,” I say, “and took Mama’s cookbook.”
Now color floods his cheeks. “I went looking for clues, figuring I’d know them if I saw them. And the book looked… important to you.”
“It is.” I swallow. “Thank you.”
“The food?” He points to the bags.
“I thought… I’d—”
“Poison me?”
I snort. “Cook, you ass.”
“Poison.”
I narrow my eyes. “I can cook.”
“Fine, as long as you stay home, I’m fine. I’ll chain you to the kitchen if you like.”
“You can try. I’m not your prisoner.”
“If you say so.”
It’s like an uneasy truce that’s not a truce but more like a waiting. Because Seamus is waiting. For something to happen. For me to turn into an enemy from a nightmare or for my lies to surface.
But in this moment, I’m not lying.
When we get back, I take my groceries with me to the kitchen, and then, feeling grimy, I head to the bedroom. I need to get clean.
I shower, change into one of the dresses he made me choose, and then I go back to the kitchen to unpack my purchases. I put things away. The olive oil, the wine. The tins of imported tomatoes.
Each thing finds a place in an understocked kitchen. The fridge, which has juices, wine, and a can of Guinness, fills with food to be cooked.
The brothers’ voices float in the air as I rifle through the cookbook and search for something to make.
I flip through the worn pages, running my fingers over Mama’s handwritten notes, a lump forming in my throat. I decide on a pasta dish. Tomatoes, parmesan, garlic, basil. Simple with added rich chicken stock I bought from Eataly.
Soon I lose myself in the slow cooking down of the broth and the tomatoes in the sauteed garlic to make it thick and rich.
The cat and dog come to hang out, to see what’s up with the new scents in the air. Neither one is interested in begging, but they both enjoy a bit of parmesan.
And after a while, I’m warmed by their presence. I can kind of see why people have pets. I don’t feel alone with them here.
It’s not until the pressure seems to change and my senses start to prickle that I know Seamus has walked in.
I don’t turn as he comes up and leans on the counter. “Everyone else is out. I’m going to the garage.”
He doesn’t move.
I pick up the glass of white wine and pour some into the sauce. He steals a piece of the cheese and then the wineglass and doesn’t go anywhere at all.
“You don’t have a garage. This is Manhattan.”
He shifts a little closer, the scent of him sliding though the aroma of the sauce to wind around me. “I do. It’s where I keep my climbing wall and my motorbike.”
“And all the bodies?”
“No, that’s what the Hudson and shallow graves are for.”
I shoot him a look. I don’t think I like it when he’s charming; it’s an unhanded move to disarm me. As he leans on the counter, sipping my wine, looking utterly devastating, I can feel the layers of my self-protection dissolving.
Then he sticks a finger in the sauce, and I rap his hand with the wooden spoon.
Heat flares as he looks at me, and my stomach starts to twist and turn and flip.
“You want to watch that. I might take it the wrong way.”
He lifts the finger coated with sauce up and traces it over my lips.
“Or,” he adds, “maybe the right way.”
And he leans in and kisses me, licking the sauce from my lips.
“Delicious. I’ll take being poisoned if I get to eat like this.”
My clit throbs.
I don’t think he’s talking about the pasta sauce.
He takes the spoon and sets it down, and now my heart goes into overdrive, and that ache starts between my thighs. He backs me into the counter, and then he slides a hand up my side, resting it on my hip as he tracks licking kisses down the side of my throat.
“What did he want, sweet thing? I know he said something to you.”
I try to breathe in. Of course he doesn’t want me. He’s just trying to dismantle my defenses and get what he wants. “How do I know you didn’t sic him on me?”
“You don’t.” He wraps his other hand around my throat and eases my head back. “But it would be pretty fucking stupid to sic someone on you and then have you kill one of my men, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re capable of anything.”
“And I think you are,” he murmurs, kissing me soft and slow and sweet until I can’t think. “If I find out you’re lying to me and setting me and my brothers up, I’ll take you down, Ava. And hard.”
He steps back and away from me.
“I’m going to work on my bike, but yeah, I don’t trust you.”
“You think I trust you?” I ask. “I know you took my crest. Where is it?”
He looks at me for a long time. “Somewhere you won’t be able to find it. Remember what I just said.” Then he winks. “Call me when dinner’s ready.”
And then he turns and leaves.
“Asshole!” I throw the glass at him. It misses, shattering against the wall.
Fuck.