Chapter 13
KATE
Pyotr Tarasov. Here. In the stronghold of the Canton Crew.
This is the nightmare I’ve had ever since I was a child—the Bad Men breaking into my home.
I know what happens next. Tarasov peels off his skin to reveal the shiny, red flesh of a devil.
He unhinges his jaw, disclosing the bottomless cavern of his throat.
He swallows me whole as I plead with the rest of my horrified family to run, to escape, to hide. And then I wake in the dark, screaming.
But I’m not asleep. Tarasov is standing in the doorway, still wearing the skin of an ordinary, human man. And my family isn’t horrified.
Far from it.
Mam is smiling so wide her upper lip is twisted by her scar. Da is grunting a greeting as he chews his way through an entire Ireland of roast potatoes. And Breagha—sweet, innocent Breagha, the sister I tried so hard to save—is tilting her flushed cheek to receive the Russian’s kiss.
My lungs have been shrink-wrapped so it’s impossible to draw a full breath.
I wait for Da’s soldier to draw his gun, to plant its muzzle against Tarasov’s nape, to splatter us all with the demon’s blood.
But the runner looks bored, as if he’s accustomed to seeing bratva overrun the Canton Crew’s dining room.
I feel like I’ve shifted into an alternate timeline, one where the Bad Men never took me, where the Dogfight never happened, where I never trusted MaskedMarauder, and the bratva brigadier never tied me up in my own cold blue parlor.
I must be imagining everything I think happened—all the threats, all the betrayals.
In the real world, the actual Baltimore, the Lynch clan and the Tarasov bratva are trusted allies who sit down to a friendly Sunday Roast together, because that’s what friends and family do.
But Cole’s jaw is set like he’s transforming carbon to diamonds with his teeth. The golden flecks in his eyes are bright, and he doesn’t bother to blink. I can feel the tension strung through every muscle and tendon in his body. He’s ready to rip out Tarasov’s throat with his teeth if he has to.
“Breagha,” I croak, clutching my steak knife even tighter. Cole’s hand closes over my biceps, but I twitch away from his grasp. “Can we talk in the parlor?”
Mam smacks the flat of her hand against the table.
Her eyes are so narrow I can’t make out a hint of stony green.
“Katie! Is that any way to act when we have a guest?” As swift as her anger with me rises, it melts beneath a sugary laugh.
She holds up her fingers at an awkward angle, and I can’t tell if she’s inviting Tarasov to shake her hand or kiss it. “Pyotr, dear,” she says. “Welcome.”
“Mam,” I choke, as Tarasov’s lips brush my mother’s skin. Cole’s grip tightens on my arm.
Granny flinches as Tarasov moves behind her. Her face was pale before, but now she looks like bleached parchment.
Granny doesn’t know Tarasov bulled his way into the Georgetown mansion. But she remembers every filthy detail of what happened eighteen years ago. And she knows she had to take me to Ireland, after.
“Barry Aloysius Lynch,” Granny says, like she’s calling her son to task for skiving off class.
But Da looks to the runner at the door. “Torin,” he says. “Help my mother into the parlor. She’s looking a little peaked. A bit of a kip should be just the thing for her.”
Mam chimes in before Granny can say a word. “Yes, Mother Lynch. Go with Torin now. We’ll keep a plate warm for you, for when you’re feeling a little more rested.”
Torin rushes my grandmother from the room. My mother’s gloating smile feels like a dagger in my chest. Or maybe that’s the presence of the Russian gobshite looming over my sister.
“Breagha,” I say, hoping we can follow Granny.
“Katie…” Mam glares from her seat at the foot of the table.
Tarasov takes the chair between my sister and my father with a familiarity that proves this isn’t his first time in this house. “Ah, Katie…” he says, showing his teeth as he smiles. “How many years has it been?”
Sick floods the back of my throat. I haven’t called myself Katie since that monster took me to the Cold Room.
“My name is Kate,” I say through my teeth.
My wrists burn where Tarasov cut into them with his plastic zipties.
I set my jaw to keep from looking down, from checking to see if my scabs are somehow weeping fresh blood.
“Which makes you Cole Wolf,” Tarasov says with a toothy grin.
“As you well know,” Cole says, as if a granite wall found its voice. “You attended our wedding.”
Tarasov’s shrug belongs to a man without a care in the world. “I was not certain you would remember me. We did not have a chance to talk that day. You left before the reception.”
“I remember you,” Cole says, each word a perfect icicle.
Da raises the bottle of red wine that is breathing by his elbow. “Care for a glass, Pyotr?”
Tarasov offers his goblet. The cabernet looks like blood as Da pours. “To Breagha,” he says, gesturing to bring all of us into his toast. “My sweet Irish rose.”
Mam and Da and Pyotr drink. Breagha blushes again, apparently too flustered to take a sip.
I bring my glass to my lips, pretending to swallow. But as I return the goblet to the table, I flinch, pouring half my wine into my lap.
“Clumsy eejit!” Mam shouts.
“Breagha,” I say, fluffing my shirt with unconvincing dismay. “Can you—”
She’s already standing, coming around the table to mop at the wine with her napkin. “Oh, Kate,” she sighs. “Let’s get you something clean to change into…”
Cole stands as we leave the table. Da scowls. Tarasov wags a finger at me, saying, “Don’t take too long. I barely get to see my best girl as it is.”
Fighting the urge to vomit, I tug Breagha toward the door, toward the stairs, toward the sanctuary of her pink and white-lace bedroom on the second floor.
Sunshine streams in the window. A mirror hangs over her white student desk, with dozens of snaps of schoolmates tucked into the frame. Her bed is covered with a score or more of stuffed pandas, her favorite animal since she first saw them at the National Zoo, almost twenty years ago.
“Oh, Kate,” Breagha says once we’re safe. “That shirt will be ruined.” She turns toward her closet.
“Fuck the shirt,” I say.
“Kate—”
“Pyotr Tarasov is your boyfriend?”
“I know this must seem sudden. A few other men came by, right after your wedding. But Mam thinks… Da believes… Pyotr—”
“The shitehawk’s fucking bratva!”
“Keep your voice down,” Breagha murmurs, holding out a soft silk top. The neck is framed with lace and tiny embroidered flowers cap the sleeves. “I think this will fit,” she says.
“Did you hear me, Breagha? Pyotr Tarasov is his father’s brigadier.”
“Of course he is.” She pushes the top toward me, shaking the hanger a little with unusual impatience.
“And you’re okay with that?” My voice screeches into the stratosphere.
“Of course I am.”
I stare. “Are you honestly telling me you don’t remember?”
Breagha gives up trying to hand me the clean top. Her eyes glint like broken bottles as she settles her hands on her hips. “You think I don’t remember?”
“I—”
“I remember Larissa telling us it was time to leave the playground and to head for home.”
“The—”
“I remember saying I wanted one more ride on the slide.”
It wasn’t Breagha who wanted the slide. I wanted one last spin on the merry-go-round. She has it all wrong. She was only five years old. I try to explain: “You—”
“I remember the Bad Men coming out of the woods.”
“They—”
“I remember Larissa standing in front of us.”
“If—”
“I remember staying in that dark room for days and days and days. And I remember the sound of champagne corks when we finally got home. And I remember the weeks after—Mam sitting up with me because Larissa was gone, because Granny took you off to Ireland, because you got to go on a plane and to meet all Da’s family, to visit castles and to eat batch after batch of potato candy!
You got to do everything, and I was all alone! ”
“I didn’t—”
“I was all alone,” Breagha repeats, ratcheting her voice down.
“And you were still gone when I made my First Communion. And I had to confess to Father Dulaney that I killed all those men, the Canton Crew and the Tarasov bratva, everyone who died because Da went to war over us, and it was all my fault because I wanted one more ride on the slide.”
“Breagha, that wasn’t what—”
“Father Dulaney gave me one Hail Mary. One. And even though it was my First Communion, I knew one Hail Mary wasn’t enough. Those men died because of me!”
“They didn’t—”
“And they’ve kept dying, year after year. A gunfight here. A fire there. The bratva always pushing into Canton Crew territory, pushing us back, block by bloody block. The clan always losing.”
“We—”
“The night of your wedding, Mommy came into this room. She said I could start dating now. She said I could find the right man to marry. She said I could help the Crew, more than I’ve ever helped before.”
“You—”
“Shut up, Kate! For once in your entire life, just shut up. Mommy explained everything. The Canton Crew will finally, truly make peace with the Tarasov bratva when Pyotr and I marry. The clan will survive when I have children. They’ll have a different last name, but no one else will have to die. At last, I get to make things right.”
I’ve never heard my sister like this before—bristling with determination. Breagha is supposed to be the sweet one of us. The good girl. The obedient daughter.
Today, she sounds like a feckin’ military general.
In eighteen years, I never asked what she remembers about that day on the playground, about our time in the cinderblock bunker. She was only five years old. I went into the Cold Room with Tarasov so Breagha would never have to remember.
But she does. Or at least she remembers one fractured fragment of the actual true story. One splintered battle of that war. She remembers it was all her fault.
“Breagha,” I say, my voice as soft as I can make it so she won’t interrupt me again. “You can’t agree to this. Pyotr Tarasov is a Bad Man. He’s our enemy.”
She looks at me, her face perfectly calm. “Of course he is.” Her voice is full of pity, like I’m a grown-up who never learned to read. “You don’t make peace with your friends.”
She’s beautiful. She’s strong. She’s as determined as I’ve ever been about anything in my entire life.
And she’s completely, utterly wrong. Giving herself to Tarasov won’t solve a thing. Pyotr Tarasov will manipulate her, manipulate the Crew. He’ll destroy the clan forever.
I try one more time. “There are other men you can marry. Other alliances you can make.”
“Mommy says this is the one the Canton Crew needs now.”
“Fuck Mommy.” My tone is full of mocking.
“Oh, Kate,” Breagha says, laughing. Her arms tremble a little as she hugs me.
“That’s always your answer, isn’t it? Fuck Mommy.
Fuck Da. Fuck Cole Wolf.” She shoves the lace-lined top into my hands.
“But that’s not my answer. That’s never been my answer.
Pyotr Tarasov is my fella. And before the summer ends he’ll ask me to marry him.
I’ll say yes. And we’ll finally put the past behind us.
You, me, the entire Canton Crew. And the Tarasov bratva too. ”
She believes the words she’s saying. Nothing I can say will ever change her mind.
So I hug her back. And I take her stupid top. And I vow to find some way to keep that Russian bratva shitehawk from ruining my sister, the only good thing that ever came from Mam and Da and all their reckless scheming.